Minerva Sitting on Your Face
Just as rather than mass, “megaton” is a unit of explosive power, I feel I might explode watching you pout over your whisky sour. Shawinigan is ‘inn’ again and I’m breathing from a canister of oxygen whilst pumping petrol in the third circle of hell with my arms ripped off and beating me about, curb the culprit, chasten the knave, rub that corticosteroid cream on his snout, I don’t know why you laughin’, jackrabbit captain, dagnabbit, I’ve seen the ultimate shape of things and it’s Minerva sitting on your face. I suppose you could say I haven’t so much as an inkling far as concerns the trials and tribulations of God’s lonely weakling and the ceiling of meaning, I’ll help you toss and upend the radius ‘cause frankly I was basically made for this, galoshes and gambling losses, the missing superposition upon us. Which one of you apron strings stuck his brass wand in the state of things?
Building a Barricade
There was a kid in school who said I looked like David Spade, so I took him to a field and killed him while it rained. I had grip tape on my skateboard so it tore skin and flesh when I swung the motherfucker which is what I liked to do best. I beat my chest, short selling has the potential for unlimited losses if the stock price rises instead of falling off of the roof and onto a awning, hitting the dirt like the perfect gymnast flirt, striking a pose in Aunt Ginger’s pantyhose, the disembodied nose consecrated in Gogol’s prose. Gonna make us a barricade just like grandma made in Vienna in 1848, never placating a single gallivanting first mate, never one to give a sucker an even break. How do we obliterate the nation state and replace it with something we don’t know how to create? Am I to be the creditor of the primogenitor and whatever else y’all got over there? He is me and the reverse and each of us a lie buried in the coconut cream pie. Papa don’t preach, gonorrhea ain’t no laughing matter. The barricade is a challenge to ascend but at the top there is a quaint little park bench and a coquettish crow-like lady who if you asked her she’d probably say maybe. I’m not anywhere in particular right at the moment, stalking the halls looking for an opponent.
Our Simian Architect
I used to have a rhesus macaque but the little bastard bit off my thumb and wouldn’t give it back, so I traded him with the circus and went into sanitation services, the monkey still there and catching up fast, he’s got cirrhosis of the liver now, the slightest inconvenience makes him growl and scowl, he’s looking for someone’s niece, looking to eviscerate somebody. He’s a very cute monkey this monkey, but good fucking riddance, he’s one to disembowel whom and whatever, he’s saying “red leather, yellow leather” stranded in the stalled elevator. Now is time to put this monkey to pasture. Was that a good capture? Of all the photographers I’m the most full of throwing stars. Duck, Jeepy. That one’s got your name on it. Look at it square on, Baby Krishna, bedazzled and unsettled in the fundamentals, on the lawn as the day is long, a lengthy string of pearls stretchers to hither and yon, the simian architect of our sweepstakes and side effects amalgamates the scalded primates everything which was but loose, every which way but loose, which is how the monkey damn well choose to have it anywho. You are carrying around the molecular bioterrorisms of everybody you ever fucked. I addressed the simian architect on your behalf and Maestro says “best of luck.” Feel me, I do not have a bug on me, Uncle Fudgesicle, I arrive before you nothing but spangles and angles and of course ankles with occult ornamentation, which I will use to hypnotic effect over by the abandoned Backgammon station. Everyday warfare is everyday but who cares? It is never fun to truly care and then get caught ever-so-unawares. I am reigning king of standing long jump, just watch my bizzle bizzle take off. One man and one gorilla versus all the rhesus monkeys I ever loved with all my heart and then had my heart fail to start, yes, these many monkeys, except vividly and nightmarishly drunk on communion wine. Where was I going with this? Hey, monkeys, chimpanzees, what the fuck? I sill see your silhouettes in the impenetrable vacuum of unlit potential. Speaking of which. Little Baby Krishna meet Little Baby Molotov. And everyone was happy because there weren’t no longer a problem to solve.
Beverly Tweaking
Periwinkle originated in Eurasia, I’m gonna make you a deal ain’t nobody ever made you and it ain’t as if I’ve previously maimed you or unnecessarily detained you, like they done with the son of God before they racked him up on the cross and went back to getting sloshed. I am the nightmare advocate. I don’t never see a nightmare that I don’t immediately wanna take its case, litigate, demonstrate the whole of my gumption to the magistrate. Beverly, knock-kneed, can spin the rig nattily in her denim finery, down at the winery, the Cossacks in boxes and sex fiends in the crosshairs, I’m gonna take a dump on the back porch of the Evening News Man and his child bride. Beverly tweaking, Beverly drug-seeking, a drug sniffing canine in reverse, her band used to tour in a hearse. Beverly listening to the Carter Family, the most companionable band in history, ‘cause it always makes her feel better. I have a solution for you, Beverly. Everything that’s ever been has been no more than a screen as you and I have plainly seen. Can we get more critters to see what we mean using the logic of the encounter at the heart of Anthropology? “Igneous rock.” “Ignis” is Latin for fire.
Turkey Farm
Welcome to my turkey farm, dove, love from above, and as a girl who got her radar love tough, it’s just the kind of place to squat and avoid harm, the farm, with the fences all guarded by gendarmes. You done gone and bought it in your silly, frilly bonnet, doggonit, the Scotsman’s daughter struggles for that anointed other shore, sure she’s bound to blow the show when she meets them at the castle door. Ahoy, to the ransacking parties I say have at her, and if knights on horseback come be sure to promptly scatter. To the trailer park, we embark in the dark from the turkey farm. Fiddling about in the back of a drug store Weegie triggered an alarm. Whenever we visit town we seem to have to bolt in a hurry just as cockroaches scurry and old matrons worry. And just how dirty were the dirty thirties, Walker Evans, with your microfibre hair towel jamboree and disbursement of the jump kick? Come drop me however quick, I plainly won’t let the lessons sit. Let’s be quick and drop a stick in the abyss. You one of them mangy motherfuckin’ Rothschilds? When it came to the turkey farm I always sort of felt that is was the best sort of place to hide Aphrodite’s love belt, all kinds of people must have felt as I have felt, waiting in the suction chamber for Franklin D. Roosevelt. I watched a dude hustle three card monte and then there were a hustler inside of me, and very rapidly two and then three. 10 kilograms of goddamn, Weegie, get me back to the infirmary amidst the gravestones. Put me down prone and alone so that I shall know what I have known from the cradle to the stone, my dear mama’s love the only love I suppose I’ve known. Oh well, at least I done killed thirty of them filthy Yankee such-and-such’s. I’ve been reading THE CARE MANIFESTO by The Care Collective, though it is mostly only my turkeys I love and to whom I give directives. And I know exactly what you’re thinking volkvolk. How does he manage to pay for all those sweaters? Why does he do interpretive dance outdoors in all weathers? Is this a fiend who ought to be exiled? To where, you pincushion clown with your frown upside-down? Nowhere wants me any more than here does, cous. All I know about what I want is it’s got curvaceous childbearing hips and is good at reading lips. I’m up in Tinder like “hope you like turkeys” and teetering over giggling ‘cause giggling is a thing again. THE CARE MANIFESTO says we need to care ‘across’ difference. I confess to hardly being able to understand all the resistance. I’ve got one-hundred-thousand nanobot micro-assassins chewing through my Lothario pasteboard scaffolding and paste sacks and jello snacks, rubbing Big Macs lasciviously all over the new slacks you sold to me. Ape up, partner, and go proper degenerate or by God there ain’t no end to it. In ten seconds we are going to pull on the emergency break of this motor vehicle you are right this minute driving at considerable speed and there just ain’t a sweet plain Jane thing your mewling ass can do about it.
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