Srsly

 

dam.

i wnt u so bd.

u wnt me?

wsh thr was

sumn bttr thn

txtin

‘u feel’n sexy?’

jus cuz

im lustn

srsly lustn

bt mor thn tht

i thnk im luvn,

n i no i no

‘no luv,’ n

i no i no

u dnt no

wut ur doin or

whr ur goin

bt dam…

i wnt u so bd.

n i no,

‘gtta b carefl,

u finna hrt me,’

which is k

rly lol,

thts k,

but u shuld no

im lustn

srsly lustn

n dam

u no wut?

im luvn 2

im srsly luvn

u 🙂

 

(With tech thickly in skull, the writer got to thinking, does real love survive this truncated nuWorld? Can lust be separate with all this instant gratification, this less-than-skin level dopamine addiction? Does real love break through from heart to brain to tips, from screen to screen, then screen to eyes to brain to heart?)

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Formicidae

Formicidae

no different than an ant
in love with the sterile and wingless,
whose pheromone touch persists
whispering with insistence,
“I miss you;”

no different than an ant
refusing bed with queen industry,
wandering out to see
all ants fatally
possessed and how, 
my,
how industry hive thrives.

to reach to touch: old news, so,
hard to warn, like,

“you,
with the oil escaping taction,
that forever-in-your-sights,
predatory piece of the wrong
social stomach 
is
gluttonizing your input!
fattening your data!
all wrong.
god can’t you tell? it’s
the hard stop summons, it’s
machine baiters, it’s
the end of touch to grow.”

answering, an ant becomes a crane
tethered to all but fleeting glow.
shrunken, black-eyes go
this way and that
this way and that.

if my skin touched your skin
and your skin touched mine
i’d know your oxytocin,
you my oxytocin

then we could purchase,
with good data,
where this fine world should end.

Good Man One: Gas Points

I wake hearing a big one’s rubber feets screaming smoke into the air,

Spit-coughing a warning call angry to the Greens. No better way to

crack the lids. Little eated one, director of the coffin nail lush gush

red herring shared there, gas points won proper. A tremendous union.

No thing more smart than this battle against the sorest loser: green hell.

“Green hell is all around,” our Good Man warns, “take back our air!”

And green hell is so much bigger than those sinful pukes coming out of the ground.

Big ones run their rubber feets on the blood of dead old beasts.

Everywhere everywhere always all days all nights goading great gas points

Towards the little ones’ breathers. Waiting for Scrape Day, great day.

1 million gas points on the Good Man’s Good Faith Wrist Watch™

Come Scrape Day means pay day, Travel Day, THE DREAM!

“If you dream it, you can do it!” our Good Man cheers.

Dream I had

Me and the smell

of my shit. I sit,

throned, defamed,

fusing with porcelain,

botched bionic blob.

Hurtin’ like a motherfucker

would, had they

licked a little

too much sour

atop the hour.

NOW

bowels all howls,

no cowl growl

but relief waves,

“Hellooo, beautiful.”

AND

when I peel myself

from such devices

I swear (!)

I hear a tear.

here to there;

nether to tether.

(how’s the weather?)

(pretty nice)

THEN

every body

is all ears;

leering peers,

sneers ‘n’ jeers.

Were I dog,

would this feel

SO

em-bare-assing?

Forced! Me!

good dog,

piddle a puddle.

Shit missile

aiming humans take

me on the beat,

affronting those we

meet; please

DO

excrete, excrete!

good dog,

I wipe myself.

hurried, worried

street-side porcelain

was not the

way for me but

the high way for

YOU.

Lines

There, that Stare there; guided eyes pop (after lock (to drop a me, a melting me,  a me, a me, a me)).

BAM! Contact like the moon-landing.

Stare lines up lines in foreground, middle-ground, background. Lines the open window’s top with the next building’s facade with the birds’s whistle opera to the lines besprinkled in her notebook. Oh, why? I doughnut know!

Lining the music-to-watch-the-world-go-by with the dance it takes to line ever-varying tree tops with raindrops streaking tireless across her ’02 Altima, she escapes. I imagine all this in black and white, a dog in the back seat.

R ‘n’ B heartbeat tugs me, the inch-of-antifreeze engine, up ‘n’ up.

We find tequila bouquet in the stairwell. Fresh-aired, dim-lighting courtyard is all lines, all around. Sidewalk delineations to the fresh-cut parallel to the mulch perpendicular to the roots reaching for our fickle shadows who cross them all, pressing on a vector helpless. I see the lines in her words. The lines designed by neurons, firing in that well-shaped, carefully-crafted —

— O! How I envy those neurons! Sustained by her thinks, her art, her creation; infinity treats. If I could hold but the tiniest puff of those thinks in the tiniest bit of these lungs for the tiniest splintering of time, I’d be punch-drunk and sustained, all the way down my line, doggedly craving a parallel, stumbling between now and then like a slam rescinded.

I’s

Eyes barking as a rainforest, fresh, for its name’s chorus, “rain forest. Rain Forest!”

Eyes raveling sectors of time by confusing vectors, by bolstering spectres.

Eyes settling, unsettling, earthen. Eyes with buds, sprouting for breath, for air sweeter than oxygen – symbiotic in its life-long half-life.

Eyes tasting joy reflect many flavors: one sprinkle curiosity; one dash sparkly perfect-sad; two beams adoration; one reminder from the damned; several reflection; two cups coco; one-hundred hours bird-song; a hug and a kiss on the cheek. (love by reserve only – up to Eyes)

Eyes breaching the facade (built to fall only if a pair, fresh as these, traversed the seas).  Eyes pouring over timeless wounds, patching because they can.

Eyes singing bubbly children’s melodies and old Irish folk songs. Iris’s pinpointing self-destructors and loathers, rearranging the makeup.

Eyes latching, climbing, rescuing, leaving.

Eyes

still seen

by all

the I’s.

Sonnet II

Vicarious, a breeze will thrill their hearts.
Sleepless limbs will touch, “A place for the birds
and nothing more!” (now tangled, ne’er apart)
they’ll swear with vacant, O! how vacant, words!
Behind spry spheres a happy moan will dance,
Its pulse… Desire; Futility… its bones.
A lone, salacious hunger fuels its stance.
Stop, they’ll try, but no soul known wilts by stones.
How close can four nefarious clouds be,
Thunder whispering, spreading Lightning’s lies?
Livid, a gust will with their hearts be free,
screaming for what were once the clearest skies.

They’d see, if not for cupid’s shrouding whips,
the torturous temerity of lips.