Rage

Poem for the Harvey Danger song, “Radio Silence”

I don’t know that I am anything
but a Frankenstein robot, poet model,
a heart made of sound bytes
and those parts of speech
from my better friends and loves.

I don’t know that I’m not doomed
to be like
“the lo-o-o-oonie up in Togus”

I’m afraid not of patterns in the
program or the walls, but the
Dead Literary floor that’s turned
your average neighborhood underground
into a snotty man’s hyper-ceiling.

I think it’s a little demeaning to
expect your audience to know what
you’ve been feeling when it’s
layered so heavy beneath
your “intensity” which I think
we can easily ascertain as just
some assumption of superior rank

in a non-existent illuminati
of time immemorial. You think you
have the prose of an aural aurora borealis?

Maybe so, but what’s its function aside
from your peers and a few couture critics?

I link my day to a page and afterwards,
scour with most basic set of senses,
my surroundings Are the next sentence,
line, next moment, next kiss, write, next,
dream, write wake next, sip cackle groan vent, next,
write, next.
and it just goes on like this.

If you like dj Bl3nd maybe
you’ll like my schizoid-script.

I beat the beat beaten until
Broke, and beaten, got out-spoken
and beat the silence back that beat him!

Let us beat the wool
with universal words
like Ya Basta!

And while the inner circle
of finely crafted naval gazing
fills in the required allotment
to be considered a kind of
crafty craftsmen,
help the others row the
Drunken Boat ashore.

“I get out of bed like Rimbaud,”

(Anything else you pay more)

The new words will be spoken
and will resound with a bored thud,

A Shock-Shock-Shock you
(Yeah-Yeah-Yeah)
when you see they’re just
the same primary colors’.

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That older poem that still rolls around the bottom of the drawer, making a crushed glasss sound.

Aphorisms for the Other Girls

 

So take, by the loose palms

these second hand

(had)

first class girls

and force the manic music of longing stop

for misery burdens all mercy

as mercy blisters it

back

to and fro

the palms

which cupped and rich

w/mercy and

w/misery

give, so that

we are gifted

and are

a gift

we give

to the other girls

end

 

Aphorism for the Other Girl

I cant remember

where I’ve seen

so long before

the hemn of your dresses

so long before

I had seen them

in their twirling offering ways

smother another man

But due now

to the hypnotism they infuse

I cannot recall

what I said I would do

if it were me you’d choose

as the next audience

to the next

undressing

you’ll throw me off

like a regret or accent

throw  me off

like the

other man.

 

Poem for the Other Girl

I threw

poetry stones

down the wells

of her eyes

open and wanton

then

waiting

to hear the bottom

drop

out

I threw my youth

in one great wine swoop

and a kiss deadly

a kiss made only

for cemeteries

and from the drunken mouth

which hatched it

I threw

and I never caught

or got

up

again

Then, waiting

with my dead poetry stones

neck in the water

I wished

for something else

to throw

down the wells

of her eyes.