#11 Loose Writings number 1

Artistic patricide

Death to all verse! My feet never touch the ground, I never walk more than a mile in a day until the words are all used up.

There are only so many terms for a man to use until you have to fall back on grunting like an animal.

I throw away your rhythem, meter, your symmetry and verse and rhymes.

Hand me your fucking lighter to burn up all the old dictionaries.

Oh muse! Take off your shoes and socks. Put those feet on the table, like I am of no concern for proper etiquette.

My spine is melting away. Oh please, take off those dirty clothes.

Please make this mortal plane now great again!

Blow your nose in the shower so the filth and the soap are all the same. That's poetry.

Oh death! Your phony performance disgusts me.

- - -

A poem about bodies

Your body processes everything it consumes. It is always consuming and always processing.

Everything that is consumed gets produced again but now it is touched by your stomach and your soul.

All the noise is produced by mouths and hands that clap, and it is consumed by ears as it is delivered by the air and telephones and wires.

It is produced again as memory of sayings past or as emotion in reaction. Anger love sadness hapiness jealousy lust contempt.

My body processes everything that it has consumed. It is always consuming and processing and consuming.

They say that some men have the sun produced in their ass. Philosophy isn't processing or producing but consumption.

As you consume your stomach grows and grows until you can fit a library in there. My stomach is no metaphore. It is all sacred flesh.

My stomach is what makes me a machine. It is all metal and goop and food that is now part of me until it is thrown out again.

Lips tongue throat neck stomach meltdown. It the end it will all be noise again.

I am not hip at all. My stomach is just a pleasure machine. I am no digital prostitue but a robotic shredder.

All the hair grows and it grows everywhere. Scalp face neck arms feet belly legs chest back hands cock. I am the total producer. Shave and you will consume again.

You walk and you talk but you don't ever say anything and you never get anywhere.

The fear and the lust fuel your bady and kill and rot it at the same damn time. All transgression in art is sexual but that doens't mean it's physcial. There is petroleum in your throat and it smells like sex.

- - -

A hollow fast-food restaurant

Mechanical terminals instead of cashiers. Artificial lights shine white and bright. They burn right through your eyelids.

Brightley-colored pandemonia. Your face melts into your nametag. Nobody poked the cyclops in the eye.

All the children would be screaming if there had been anybody here. Now it is just deserted and all the chairs are empty. The ceiling has a yellowish hue like that of a smokers house.

There is always the smell of the grease. Everything is warm and reeks of sweat and anoyence like it is the middle of august, but instead it is only march and summer is still far away, but it doesn't feel like it is.

Only the insane would work here for more than a day. But now the colonel is lying on the couch and all I can do is clap my hands and scream with the artificial joy that everyone feels flowing through their veins when they're acting pretentious.

- ð’ˆ—