Post-Post-Facebook World [aka “deets! deets!”]

 Post-Facebook [Poem One]

Things I Would’ve Posted on FB Last Month:

“It’s good I don’t drive. I’m lazy as fuck,

require what I can get from what little walking winter affords.”

 

“The whistle and the work are both unnecessary some days.

(Apparently its frowned on in real prison, also.)”

 

“Bathroom graffiti was better in mad magazine as a periodical

parody than what passes in this library.”

 

“I’ve either lost my mind or finished it or finally figured it out.  

If and when I get outta here, be forewarned. I’m ready for something new and dangerous. “

 

“Ha! Says the guy pouring gasoline from old school can over 1970s dressed mannequins to DJ BL3ND”

 ………………………………………

Fashion Nazi Zombie Nation

 

The only suits I own are used,

(I would just wear out the new

in a few all nighters anyway. )

 

Hiding in the forest with whiplash,

From what and what will be, what was

got lashed with a brick of whack.

 

But at least I felt like Rock n Roll.

 For half my life-

(half, you say I pissed away,)

-least it stretched over

and over.

 ……………………………………………………..

Quick (Film) Study

I was running through film forests and back grounds of the 80s one night.

(Mostly stuck on killer security robot genre, stuff like Chopping Mall.)

 

I would love to do a redux of this movie and make it a hundred times darker

and openly critical of consumerism.

 

What a terrible and altogether magnificent film. 

 

It would be great to own a farm and make horror movies.

Make a Zapatista Zombie flick. And something in the east about a Beothuks revolution.

I wish everything in my head was on film. I would be unstoppable. I would be Orson fucking Welles.

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

I no longer write poems

I make demands.

I scrape off, and in the dust

of this old machine of desert

I engrave sullen mercy filled eulogies.

 

And make another snake of time and fucking kill it too.

 

I use shit on walls and chalk on skin.

I cavort. I cringe.

 

Spewed  a few “You don’t know where I’ve been’s”, too!

Kissed a few on the lines, lips and between. Know wha’ mean?

Got Memento-deep messages

lain on my skin,

like dollar store band-aids,

that don’t even hurt when they rip.

Because I don’t bleed anymore.

Got Flow?  You Knows.

 

 

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