Meaty, Sandy Implants and Beaches
Some things no matter how often
you’ve seen them eaten
will never make you hungry:
The dead jellyfish
are popular with the sand today
and they lay there looking like breast implants
knocked out and washed up
by the waves which also
(in no contrived meticulousness I’m sure)
graze the asses of seagulls
with their foam rabid with excitement
and as if to say:
“I only place them there to tease you, move along.”
and so they do,
running like children
and bitching like mothers,
they move in further to the beach
finding the dead
unlucky bastards thrown out when the tide was higher
and they peck at the transparent meats
while some of their companions fly off
in search of parking lots
and french fries.
Airborn Rugburn
Drill yourself in deep
Or enter
through the eyesocket
‘cause I like the way your breath tastes
even when it goes
straight to the back of my throat
without warning
or inhalation.
Man the meat is red when you see it that way
Man the meat is red when you see it that way -
I’d passed it on the way out, on the way to my
mother’s house
and couldn’t believe that was the real color of blood,
I’d seen blood before,
I once dragged a stray in a sled back to my parents
house
and we took it inside and it walked all over the
place,
limping in misery, a three-legged dog, and it seemed
noble that way
but sad, my god so sad, and I wanted to cry for it
Instead I worried about the stench of blood on the
couches and carpet
in a house that already smelled like piss, cigarettes,
beer, and puke
and simply watched it that whole miserable night
limping in its blood
and agony, its noble blood and agony
And I never did cry for it…
There were no vets or animal hospitals open,
it was the middle of the night,
so we called the police and asked what the fuck we
were supposed to do
and an officer came out to shoot it,
but he brought with him some animal control lady who
said it would be just fine
but did nothing for it
and a few days later our newly aquired three-legged
dog was put to sleep
because it had gotten gangrene
The stench of its blood never left my heart, its
nobility, that fragile creature climbed
right on through my chest, lifted its leg (or pissed
through the missing), and claimed its territory
and its piss smelled better than its blood,
But I’d almost forgotten about that night until now as
I too must work the highways
and pretend not to notice,
And I like the other beasts of my species
spend more time thinking with my brain and genitals
than with my heart,
my blood red, piss-smelling heart.
I’d never seen the meat so red, I’d never seen a dog
with no skin
and I wondered what the fuck must have gotten it and
how far it had been dragged
but I was in a hurry so I didn’t wonder long,
I got to my mother’s,
received a wonderful welcome from my furry and much
alive dog
and off we set on the same path
and on the way we saw a cat, still alive and twitching
and I thought about what a sad day this was for
animals
When we passed that pile of meat again, neither one of
us knew what to say,
My mother asked “What the hell was that?”
I told her I thought it used to be a dog
Nothing else was said
But I now have a new color to associate with the
stench of blood.
The bones of a ghost ground up in time,
no marrow to suck on regardless
of hunger or thirst:
Hiccup up
a hairball if you will;
These words clog up
into drains
or dreams
and like a capsule dissolved
in an ulcerless stomach
there’s a powder inside
and it’s screaming for life,
for flesh,
and for water;
Soap bubbles up
on her sweet behind
and a predictable fit (so sorry,
it always does that)
sends goosepimples throughout
but I’ll trace them all
with wet thirsty fingers
and find it’s all soft like the center
of a lima bean
and I’ll convince myself that after
this moment I’ll never be
hungry
or thirsty again,
but then
showers don’t keep flesh vital
or nourished, or young
or even wet
and lima beans dry up
if you stick them too hard
and leave them lying around.
Jail, decompose
Jail, decompose
Grow nation
find
or nature fold:
Travellers(weary in nature)
distant-despised
to the punch of the joke
(wrapped in the half-wormlike
mute legs of growth)
Appearing behind her
Just
downwind
of
her breath
Unable
to
touch her
(but the smell of her skin
has given them hard-ons)
Unable
to
taste her
But
they’re
licking their lips
(imagined contractions
in her muscled vagina)
Propelling Repellants
Propelling Repellants
Restoring Proportion.
Some Old Jerk
By raw accident
I suppose it is
that this candy
crushed
and
falling
by and from
the fingers of gOD
Lands
upward inside
the aching belly of
THAT SOME OLD JERK
with syphilis
who supposed
he’d never
dipped his tongue
in something
that would rot his teeth.
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