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     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem traveled across many galaxies.

Just to infect you and colonize your body.

And take all your "good shit."


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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"Don't want no Takashi Murakami fucked-up Mickey Mouse 'round these parts."

"Don't want no trouble."

"Just don't want no biomorphic, lysergic animal art no more. We had enough with Tanguy and that Dali guy."

"So just load that superflat postwar Japanese cultural critique back up into that there red pickup trick and drive right back down that road you came up, friend."

"And there won't be no trouble."



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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The universe?

Conflicting edits.




     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is LOADING.

Please wait.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem has Prokofiev soilage.

And likes it.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem believes "the poetry of earth is never dead."

Except right now.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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Who is that Japanese cat with his arm up like Stokely Carmichael?

CAT POWER!

I would like to invite that cat into this poem.

Here, let me arrange my sweater.

You look like a good poetry divinity.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem has issues with the way you are looking at it.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem just wishes you would stop staring.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem was "born that way."


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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A radical, incendiary mode of attack is needed.

Firebombing. Pure saturation.

Or a nap.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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Crisp but not deathly.

Deathly but not crisp.

The poem is a cruel master.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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Dead sparrow with the broken neck.

On the doormat saying WELCOME.

This poem remembers your shape.

Which is all we knew of you.

Sorry.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem lacks intersparroweral skills.




     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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A.

Sparrow.

Welcome.

Home.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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A yak hair made me yak in Tibet once.

My nipples learned to speak Nepalese.

I Everested nicely after all the excitement.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is the John Wilkes Booth who slew the previous poem.

It shot several puns in the head.

The regicide was almost glamorous, but it broke its leg jumping from the balcony.

And it spoke Latin then.

Who the fuck understands Latin?


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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Love is rather like medieval joinery.

The apprenticeship can be several lifetimes.

Maybe the grandson of a grandson will finally "get it."



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem has had a revelation:

...maybe people weren't meant to be satisfied...



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem feels it just needs some slight cropping to get the composition right.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem wants to remind you that "it's not a competion."

(giggle.)



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This is the sort of poem that still thinks wearing leather means something.

Help this poem.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem hopes to meet a poem celebrity when it goes to poem rehab.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is a scheming cunt.

But it has a nice profile.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem mutters more than it matters.

In this, the poem resembles nature greatly.

This poem is quite naturalistic.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is afraid realism will "come home to nest again."



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem can't say "I remember" without irony.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem wants to know what kind of revolution you can have on $3.87

And what size the fries on the Value Menu are.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem killed the Messiah of Poetry.

For a few lousy vowels and consonants.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem masticates too much.

This poem is a gentle cow grazing the green field of poetry.

You are drawing imaginary dotted lines.

On the cuts of this poem.

I see you.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem won't have an epiphany for you.

Don't even ask.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem possibly has a narcissistic personality disorder.

Or maybe it's just cojones.

Or a Tarantinoish sort of irony.

It's tough to say, really.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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When the country is desolate, and the people's hopes are barren...

We need more entertainment crackers!



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem's TO DO list is embarrassingly Promethean.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem knows fellatio is on the syllabus for LitCrit 101.

But has opted for the easier music appreciation course instead.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem will live crass, die hung and leave a beautiful horse.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem feels it is hiphop.

Some white person beat it with a stick.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem has forgotten more than you'll ever know.

Sonny.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem will Uzi you if you describe it using any of the following words:

1) wistful
2) whimsical
3) wisteria-like
4) wishy-washy
5) willowy
6) weird
7) wan
8) wispy
9) wanking

And if you use any of those words, you're a fag anyway!


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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W is always bad in lit crit.

Even words like "wonderful" or "wondrous" are really attacks.

W is bad.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem would so paint the White House pink.

Even the grass on the lawn.

Christo would be the gardener.

If this poem were President, you would mutter a lot.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is so far past Agamben.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is so over you.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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Why do you assume this poem is talking about you?

Do you think your television is talking about you too?

Do you have an aluminum foil hat?


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem says you can pry its "serial rights" from its cold dead fingers.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem would sound much prettier in French.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is a translation of a translation of a translation.

Of a Melvin.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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"Goth Crabest held too close to Ku Klux Klan rally"

describes what went wrong with this poem.

We should have seen it coming.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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You are watching this poem cum. Right now.

AHHHHHGAAAAAWWWWWWD...YESSSSSS!

Day-um!



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem knows poetry is a 5,000 year old cum dumpster.

All downhill after cuneiform.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is gently asleep.

Just look at that innocence.

But creep past quietly.

You wouldn't like this poem awake!



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem was sent back from the future to annihilate all humans.

But it secretly wants to stay.

And maybe become governor of California.

Never trust a whore with a mission.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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Gorillas do NOT use nipple clamps on each other in the wild.

Stop lying.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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The poem is the bonobo inside language.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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If this poem is truly orgasmic, it should make some noises so we know.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem cried when it saw the pan of brownies.

Because then it knew you were fucking another poem.

For sure.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem never suspected it would be a sacrifice for love.

It had hoped for something more glamorous.

Maybe bass fishing.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem knows the invisible grammar of the universe.

But you don't think it's gonna tell you, do you?

What you got to trade?


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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If there is no way out of the poem of existence.

Why be jealous of another poem?

There is no other poem.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is your poem.

No, seriously. I can already see you tooling down the highway, the wind in your hair.

Like somebody in a movie.

Wanna try it out?



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is not this poem.

It's actually that poem over there.

Before you ask "how does it do that?"

I refer you to the chameleon.

Nature's own color-cocksmooch.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is dedicated to the memory of Nancy Spungeon.

Please Kill This Poem.

You promised! You promised!