longing desperately for something mucous to cling to
(while kicking the bucket where the acid foams.)
goons again ferreting me out
the lackey whose hickeys and nail-trails and bleeding rib rubs were self-inflicted
a crow plucked by strange hands
from the hat rack of whose fruit
whoso tastes retches and gags.
on the verge of falling prey to the motherfuckers’ grasp
a disruption at the brisk epicenter of my awful dream.
I had had short ejaculations whenever I awoke
I had yelled: Mom, mom, mother!
I had screamed: That’s it, that’s it, I’m dead, I’m dead!
legs of a prawn a cricket a cockroach a scorpion a spintrian crustacean
whose feelers he tweaks with the vaguest of notions
picking up and in depth
the splendidly jejune sonority of the shimmering night radio waves
he stops awestruck
riveted by the unbearable pedantry
that masks in vain
what nonetheless the thick fart-impregnated air is really pregnant of
the patent destiny of nothingness
that awaits the whole of the crew...
he can’t sort out the truth
from the slush
the spree of sly crimes signed by the escapees from the criminal asylum
echoes of ripe celluloid
the entire psychotic panorama maims his (the spintrian crustacean’s)
and my (how would one call it
his crustacean legs and my eyelashes interlaced
copulating having... intercourse...?
quit gloating at my astonishment I said.
no guns allowed
just fiddling with the money machine
walking leisurely along the alleys of the park at night
later reading at home
lithe or petrified
peonies shattered or were they incrusted crystals?
off-piste the enthralling pearls of meteorology
usher now the lewd wrecks of a hypnotic reproach
my featherbed where we the shmuck rot
on file the trial and tribulation
of that night
soon blotted out as were the preceding ones
where the gnomes and their wry satchels (of weak goo made)
fluted away vanished
leaving behind trails stern evocations
of the furbishments of the esthete whose thorn at the side
it is to flash the sizzle of past nights
splayed spliced in the conflicted high jinks of tonight.
everyone of the enjoyers and sufferers the same stand-in for myself
a remote cynical swaggering accountant (of grim mush made.)
of the armed bureaucrats knocking downstairs
or rather smashing the door
turned up to slaughter the soft maids of my dreams.
faintly linger the qualms
my accountability of the last crime looming as a monument of steel
grown from the ground up
as a baleful cenotaph
it is inhabited a mausoleum
vast where I’ll awake and vouch
to holler more sparsely...
the bulbul flees from my embrace
while a moistness spreads.
am I crying?
have I shitted myself?
aren’t you yet fed up to shack up
with the oozing corpses of who you were?
there’s no greater virtue than to yet be inosculated to yesterday
razed village where only the blabbering slavering idiot obdurately remains
inanely again sighing relief.
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
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