Five Poems

               


     My Life as a Movie Preview on IFC


Erotic governments usually suck...

        "Abandon us!"
         gay circus animals begged
         in a Nubile Trophy Room

Your Gimpish chutzpah
put snarls in tangible reality

     They do make Hallmark cards
     for buggered ballerinas, Shut Up!

        "A museum is just these gay apartments
            where art lives..."

    You degaussed your grammar

     so I left in sarcastic arabesques

     "You degaussed me,
        you bastard!"

     I snarled in the film noir
         version of this tale

     it was a bastardized version

     I clung to the rest of my Gimpish life










     A Setting


a fundamental servile leaf      you sought in nature
you sat beside me plunk Cycladic    I foraged   your extracirricular bandwagons
  muster your crenellations, who cares    Possession combs me
your immitagable gaze was all I wanted     wind-surds

over grasses supple magnetic fields    a ptarmigan in Noguchi's mind

your western river dollops stones into museum pieces









     Rome, A Gay Mobile Home


The mind's furniture hides
the smaller animals & their arias

A flowering oh maybe
light enswathes, what harbors

a pope's circles of conviction's
sudden infarction

Laughable death!
Look at the inebriated filaments

the arch defenders
classical figurative senses

eros defeats deploying
its usual brace of elves, antibodies

Nearly always I fall asleep
in your Museo Profano

Contrast is human, yes
under your narthex scale's

thumbnail, a gay slave
in a Michelangelo wife-beater

is judicial homosexuality
Please enjoy our homemade withheld orgasm

I don't dispute your entreaties
but I do say "Trumpery, grip my cock..."

This dormitory, a divinity's
truckle bed with marble rentboys

Art scorns history...soon enough:
"The Mapplethorpe Wing"

the divinity of Crisco
keeps pace with a lily's divinity

Liberate the gay slaves of the Vatican
who work long hours in stone

What strange projection
places me tonight between

the Father's legs







     Contempobonobo


A conformance reigned in the alleyways even...

Scraping was heard...

A violinist? Or just dying?

That rasp was uncertainty itself...

They sang a merry ditty: "...discursive, indeterminate, disembodiment..."

The mice of ambiguity--to our delight--sabotaged the Book of Rhetoric.

The presentist left the room permanently, indignant and pointless.

As children, we had all visited the Museum of Luminiferous Residuum.

Standard English
and Standard Sense
were introduced in the Conservatory

by some puffed-up Asshole

and quarreled fabulously, within minutes
planned a Duel

on the Fields of Superfluity, pistols at dawn.

Things were looking up.

Maybe they both perished of their terminal gayness

but we'll never knew. Due to Premonitions,
we had abandoned the narrative...

We were fascinated with Baronesss Consciousness,

that mess and her Wheedling,
how she shuffled
her Oxymoronic Lovers

between various folies a deux

that grew like coral reefs
into literary movements.

We paid obligatory visits
to her asylum church,

where she rhapsodized:

"Hypothetical civilizations
perished by soap bubble

and that was art!"

And then she joined the Dodo

in a permanent waltz.

Awesomeness, Dude!

We tittered
We tithed

We slathered
and slavered

after She died,

the Old Slag

but we still visited her rooms
with the gay prisms & kaleidoscopes on the windowsill.

She still had her name carved above the doorframe, after all.

And from her barren Dowager Room
we could still see those gay

Marching Fields of Superfluity

It was nothing much now
but a good place to get high
after class or fucking,

to pass the empty, sallow winter

and yet somehow even sitting there,
looking cute as Dejeuner Sur l'Herbe,

our assholes found it
a bit tendentious

         still...

       a bit debonair...











      The Centrosymmetric Ones



A vine is a tubular list
driving into the Wildwoods...

Such domestic intent
of the human akin

is worrisome, detaches

the enervating effect
of an artifical eye
which homes the gizmo...

I'm talking about flowers, dude.

Could it be poetry,

a sleepless, emulous thing?

Respectability has limits, you know,
and those limits clearly end
before we're near art,

so Shut the Fuck Up,

Wormwood, my angel,

my blogging Tristan.

Though I admit
that sometimes I envy

all those pseudo-minds,

You-Who-Are-Ensorceled

on your saccadic Ark.