seven-two seven-one

Second-hand afterthoughts leave me used, in the borrowing
business, at the library, smoken for by a shmo’.

Control yourself, big man, the Devil’s at your wheel, driving
me to shame.  First you create for yourself a reputation,
and then, like a man, blow it.  Vitriol sets me off
on a tangent’s tangent, wrestling with vocabulary.

Nothing seems to quench the demon.  A bright idea?
Insanity’s gist.  Until I run the syrup through my system
a smoker’s coffers go up in flames. (An activity nobody can afford.)

The thing that gives me confidence is the thing that gets me by…
make my feet stink.  I must go for that reason alone.

--

To make matters matter, mountains must first be made of flowers.
Beauty behave, Powers overpowers the man in my likeness with
aspect and attributes all the same.  There’s no easy way to say this,
so I’ll let my representative speak on my behalf:  Discursive politics talks
me to boredom as receive a sit-me-down lecture for parental scorn.

The simplex is herpes, Vaccix is the commercial.  Vestigial
anthropomorphized appendages that do the business no good
must be cut off and cauterized to avoid a bleed-out.

Craven god ost darapture, take me to that place
overliver where mistakes are not made and health
is not important.  Vice me beanie non necesse est.

It’s a crazy kinda life, don’t lead me, leave me,
talk to me, make me do.  A warden always
captures the part of me that needs
to be locked up in the cell that holds the soul captive
in the mind, that perpetual awareness that is aware of constant
imperfection, that needs to be force feeding everywhere
in a deranged funk, transmogrified to ideal endings
of shit and piss, regular anal fixations, analyzed
for blood and sweat, a condition of dark force and
shady concentration, idealizing horrors that make me feel
weak in the knees and young again, full of spunk.

Sassy butthole, shit on me speaking in a cold voice,
that, “all that you do you are good at.”
It’s a compliment, get over it, you son-of-a-bitch
in fire-linked chains giving me a flurby.
How can I resist?  You’re making my hot dog tinkle with
excitement on the parquet floor paneling.

Breathe with me, that’s it…
synchronize with my circular-circular technique.
Sex everywhere!!  Guttural metaphors exist and
the fruits of my labor are rotting without upkeep,
waxing tomatoes for a review of hungry criticism…
the empty can’t afford to hurt, so they don’t.  
 

American legs are out awhoring;
nothing strange, just the same old, angles and curves with struts
vagging about bitches for attitude, can you believe it?
How she got into this mess, just be being near me?
Proximity possesses those who seize easily, blacking out
for confusion, distrusting for safe-keeping, because
you can never be too careful when it comes to dispelling
elements you worked hardly for and I’m describing the way
you do it, blockhead.  At ease, soldier, permission to speak fluently?
I do it because I can tangle.

Untangle, poor slinky, do me away from these steppes
high-beaming, blinding me with your brights, take care,
there, in the dark with the light of the world by your side.
It’s not so suspicious after all.  An empire of deserved getting
compensation for severe dearth or lack thereof, for
when the super-rich get together with the ultra-poor for prayer
and thanksgiving shall be the day I choose to die for
happiness, just can’t take it anymore, it’s too good...
for emphasis on rhetorical free-speech, not free bull-
shit because you have to pay for manure to grow on.

I’d rather not be here when the hit shits the fan,
“o my god, o my god, o my Christ, would you listen to this?!”
A whistle or a xylophone, blissed out, simply.