Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Poetry

The boundary lines are marked by poles
with a silver ball on top every three hundred yards—
Oh silver ball, moon reflects sun like I reflect you—
Do not cross boundary lines—
Maintain the purity of your disease—
Deadly force is authorized
& the fiery revolving sword stands watch—

The world’s longest runway,
the acid-blotter cancer-water boys,
the famous black mailbox,
& oh, the chainsaw letters
with the pages glued together by jackalope semen—
Sells for ninety dollars per ounce in Tokyo—
Cut off those balls with a big white cat grin—
Crack that skull with the claw of a hammer—
Burst a blood vessel whenever possible—
Use the skin for lampshades—
(Pay someone else to do it for you!)—
Oh most high, oh most holy broadcast network sponsor,
I love your sexy glistening advertising slogan—
(“We have no use for the sky anymore.”)—
It really makes me want to buy more corn flakes
& watch more television game shows—
“Ach, was ist dis?”—
“Das ist meine Meisterwerk, Juden!”—
“Jawohl, mein Fuhrer!”—

Scrambled eggs—
Oh my baby, how I love your legs—
Salmonella food-poisoning holiday—
I love coughing up black bile & rivulets of blood & three feet of small intestine—
I love to sleep curled in ball on the bathroom floor
with vomit on my breath & in my hair—
I wake up every morning with a bloody nose
& a crisp purple crust caked along my upper lip—
Flipside my Miller Time—
Hello alcohol, goodbye bloodstream—

Put on these X-ray specs
& take a good long bubble-bath look at Christy Turlington:
Don’t she look shabby & paunchy
& disreputable in a grey somebody’s beard & a light brown nobody’s suit,
mule-eyed & stupid among head exploding in the breeze—
A flipper where her right arm should be—her Chernobyl arm—
Anybody’s whore—hold that pose, Christy baby—
Jam a firecracker in your pussy—
Don’t frown, bitch, it causes wrinkles—
Don’t smile either, we’re paying you not to—
Now spread wider—
Now insert the Crucifix & Rosary beads, get some blood on Christ please—
Oh come all ye faithful—
How much did you get for that?—
Pay her enough & she’ll learn to love it—
A heart-taking bend,
a hawk wheeling overhead,
a bright golden haze on the fields—
Toys in the attic & an empty basement—
She’s driving high on an empty stomach again
in search of roustabout arms & a bear-wrestler’s neck—

Cheap reproductions at a dollar a pop—
But she sends me postcards mailed from Ohio
with pictures of an Arizona sunset
& her messages written backwards in lemon juice
all turn out to be hate mail disguised as mash notes, blue notes, grace notes—
Chaos punches the fifty-four-piece orchestra—
Cascading temptations resurface in crashing trombones—
Kitten purrs & counts desperately to seven & back, seven & back—
She expects slick choreography & joyous racist jibes
& a nice fat check for pissing on nuns
& the swastika tattoo on her breast
& that’s just what she’ll get—
(That & a kick in the ass so hard that her nose will bleed)—
Kitten you & kitten me & kitten caboodle—
& what buyer says reason to believe instead of dance beats for payroll music?