there’s that moment
isn’t there
when the black of night
dilutes to blue
and you think
phew,
made it through
another one.
you allow yourself
a half-smile
as you put the knife
back in the drawer
and close it.
as if
you won’t be needing it again
tonight.
I hear they’ve cancelled Genghis Khan
from history,
presumably because of all the raping
and pillaging
and generally being a massive dick,
so they fudged the books,
deleted him out.
I get it, I really do,
they cancelled that one episode
of that one sitcom
where they took the piss out of black face
and racists
so now you have to watch it on your computer,
illegally,
if you want to see it
and grumble about all those Millennials
with their painless backs
and opinions.
I wonder what’s next,
will they cancel Hitler?
At least they’d be no more heroes to celebrate
and flags to wave
and the sales of red crosses
would plummet.
They could cancel Bill Hicks, I guess,
he was kinda homophobic
and really sexist
but he had some really special things to say too,
be a shame to lose out on all of that.
GG’s pretty much gone from history already
and no-ones interested in Ben Weasel anymore,
particularly since he punched that woman
and made excuses for himself rather than apologise.
Come to think of it,
I bet, of anyone, he’s really enraged about all of this,
which is comforting if nothing else,
I couldn’t think of a better person to be miserable
than that prick.
He probably sits in his ageing mothers basement,
spitting feathers,
and asking,
as I am now, (but probably for very different reasons)
exactly who “they” are
and exactly who “they” will choose next.
Marita touched my ‘Very Merry’
And that led to the poppin’ of a cherry.
Which was good…so good.
Now if God is love and Satan sin,
Whose idea was it that a bottle of gin
Should get me happy first, later sad,
An’ in the mornin’ make my head hurt bad?
You know, Jesus, he’s a friend of mine,
So’s his sidekick, Frankenstein.
We get together, change some water to wine,
Chitchat ’bout women fine.
Life can be good, like that Marita I had,
But sometimes life can drive you mad.
Is there an answer? Are we garbage in space?
No need to worry, it’s just the human race.
I dreamed you were on Jeopardy!
( our love’s in jeopardy, baby…. )
You got every single question
except
the one in which the answer was
emotion
Of course on Jeopardy,
the answer IS the question
and emotion, for You,
certainly is
I thought
this is the most real moment
I’ve ever seen on television
Then it caught fire
It wasn’t even plugged in
and I wasn’t even asleep
How the narcissist cured me
of my addiction to him
When I told him I knew
he was a cheater,
he replied:
‘Now baby, you know
I’m too lazy for that’
All I could think
in that moment
was how much
this creature’s shit
fucking bored me
A rush of anxiety overcame me
cause I just couldn’t wait
to get back home,
light candles
And masturbate to old videos
of Christian Slater
and put away my laundry
i died last night
swept away in some dirty shack,
dark sea storm
faces and places shipwrecked pasts
crashing into my night waves
i feel good when i go there
tonight
bottle of sweet red wine,
or king louie’s can-can oil
ma earth giving humanity sharp right hook
fog smacked world, fuck it
dr sargebait dropping medicine bombs
on pretty docile dolls,
sweet swab queencakes
eskimos laying out welcome mats
sea polar bears took a wrong turn
swig my way to the night burgundy shores
well-lit wharf rats,
fudge sundae carnivals
past the sword swallower’s den,
speed of night,
rebirth of a moment
a quasar
… ride
It’s the plague times, California’s on fire
and most everything you can name
has gone to shit.
Each day we wake to learn how easily
200 and some odd years of more
or less democracy can be dismantled
like a makeshift stage by a television
con man, his assemblage of toadies
and an indifferent population.
The days are are dreary, nebulous
and each the same.
But Jon comes by in his old car like some
broken saint and he takes us
to North Beach where the sidewalk cafes
are just opening again after months
of being shuttered.
We sit outside Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store
across from Washington Square Park
drinking wine and beer and the world
feels nearly right again.
The air is filled with good talk and laughter
as we look at the girls and shoot shit about the poets
and you can imagine the neighborhood
how it was back when Kerouac got dead
drunk in the alley that now bears his name
and Brautigan sat in the park with a jug
of wine and one of his pretty girlfriends.
It feels like the day after the end of a war
and the giant sky and the lazy sun
and the people alive beneath it all miracles
you thought you’d never see again
but in truth the war’s just gearing up
and the afternoon just a quick gift of light,
a tease to give us something to maybe
remember or fight for, and me and Jon
we’re like prisoners on a holiday sucking
it all in as best we can before everything
goes dark again.
boredom is always
a concern for me
too much time on
my hands leads to
endless thoughts
of death
drowning sorrows
in liquor
and dreams of pissing
on my father’s grave
i remember when
my imagination
still had a sense
of wonder
of course, i had
money and drugs
during those days
now i have neither
soon, i feel like they
will be taking me
behind the old
barn
and we all know
what happens
there
i can show up at your address
with a mask and duct tape
probably a crowbar to break in
and for my killing tool
i’d use my hands
but i don’t want to choke you
if i were gonna kill you i’d want
it to be that personal and that violent
but not so abrupt and
i’d like to be more raw
maybe i could stick my hands in your mouth
gripping both sets of teeth
and just push.
push with all my might till your jaw
separates and the skin tears
leaving your neck exposed
blood gushing everywhere
then i’d grab the tongue and pull
and pull until it snapped out
maybe explore the rest of your organs
i mean, the blood loss you’ve suffered
by this point your dead
but the rest of this isn’t about
shock factor or sexual release
it’s about exploration
a sense of wonder
to hold an appendix sack
in your palm.
all these little cogs
we’re comprised of
so very sensitive
and then i’ll put it all back together again
into a big mountain of pure carnage
i’m not an engineer
so i take many liberties
in this stage of conduct
and this
is the painting i made for us
I’ve always been afraid of clowns,
coulrophobia, I guess they call it.
In fact, I remember the first time
I saw a clown up close in person,
I wet my pants. Unfortunately,
this happened just yesterday
at a backyard birthday party
for my friends’ grandson.
When the rent-a-clown tried
to give me a comic hug, I lost
control of my bladder in fear.
The little kids all noticed and started
to laugh hysterically; they thought
it was part of the show. I started
them singing Happy Birthday,
covered my darkened crotch
with my baseball cap, and walked
hurriedly to my car, thankful
it was only piss that the goddamn clown
scared out of me. It could have been
a whole lot worse.
