Mediation in Steam

 

 

sometimes

    thoughtful people are confined

              to wheelchairs

in memory

  for the seven reasons punk died

 

          sometimes bras make sense

hippie pennies contract

 

dungareed dudes with didgeridoos

        values every other muscle

pure

  snowflake 

 

—and that’s where the pastoral begins

the satire

    offends, in case this ambiance is protective

it ain’t—such sominex

          clues us in on the big arrears

 

 

 

my bod on a zine

          haircut beneath the cloying smile

 

rambling endlessly in this pissing christian vision

          —tron

for the babies and bacchanals

 

        gracelessly, the pedestrian surrenders

difficult brilliances

          the instinctual sham-o-meter, that

any given night

        gives reason to pay the rent, that

reason, lost

    pump fist over the castrates

from behind the gleam of armor

      defecated by choice

republic—these thoughts fancy across the water

            of talk

the vandal in career

 

 

 

              this

    arrogance of having deficiencies

      in the technicolor half

of an mgm fantasy, video

          raspy and white

    the career hype don’t love it

rhyme after rhyme after rhyme, no

    poetry

as the fans are flakes

and the texts, half-baked

 

          of the pattern

what decides in waste fields

      the currency of joes

 

 

 

                          and that would make it remarkable

to listen to, socializing with the extremes

  for daily

    manna, proud, ridiculous

so that ordinary blasphemy

    reveals its vicinity

 

      hamstring begotten favors

one more scares the bejeezus

          from tiredness

supine at the foot of the

          “lamb” what

      abstractions

 

    for bizney

    has been muddy these days

 

 

 

this, finally, my book

  of philosophy

recollections, discouragements, lex

            often reading circus

for humid terms

          suspended in the wild percentage, moving

like cloud spots, frictions

                  of leg against leg

the music

          this frantically the look

of seemingly improper moments, for the

    book

protects, and then there’ s abundance

          to elevate

the mundane, to its

        synaesthetic upper station

where white funk makes its play, for

          emotion, pleasure, pain, simple

it seems—to the roving challenger

        bored, quite frankly, of this

 

 

 

that the bull sways

                          breezily sideways

tell it to the arboretum

                          balance it with cheek

the grayed

        galaxies, sophomoric at first, breeding

sustenance

      a marked reduction in hormones

    virtually unfulfilled

                        cozening the hottest button

    the latest spiritual chill

from comcast

        and, brother, its monthly

purchasing power projects

            without doubt, sans future

budgetary

as a high loan from the outer spaz

    protects without whim

          and nothing of that german grammar

 

 

 

truth ache, comedy

                        of replicants deferring

the love lost between selves

  in crackling plastic

  what one observed

            through the rain

is a runner chasing countdowns

            sadly forgotten

but for the gorgeous

        challenge of it all

         

this celebration of po-moing

        verbal synergy

         

 

 

I don’t go to shows

 

operation, tag-to-tag

          survival

in the mesh of vicinities, bar code

of

beer bombs, a

          ball room, such

across that heat is

            africa, crust

of issues, she

          asks

and performs the marxist plug         

         

of the werk on the werk in the indelible cellars

      of culture         

that would be a chapter

one would want to review further, 

this

gridwork, pile-on, path through the

  forest—paved out by yellow 

flares,

clutching, from the drama of organic life             the sense of civility, civic pride

 

 

 

          in the fuzz box, of

autumn

            slants of light curtains

 

who

complains (this is worth forgetting) is

        thrown in

       the circle—stones are projected

              venomously at the jolly roger

 

 

 

 

one of the great english voices

                  cut

up, three stories

          robert wyatt

hum, incredibly danceable

        now, to the new knowledge

accrued with friendship

              such self-referential grease

provokes the dim readership

 

        in a vial of kittens, ribboning

                what one considers meters rather 

didactically

uncovers a gem

 

 

 

    blinking spasmodically, uncontrollably, the girl 

proves herself worthy

       to the master’s eye, bored of cushions

      that guarantee 

worthless renown

    like a seismograph in economics

replacing god

 

    in the black boxes of futurists

this, a rather depressing acknowledgment that progress

      was a

turgid joke

understood by practically no one

    beyond the 

claustrophobic perimeters

the unprofessional, the densely arithmetic, the sieves

                that play

   mundane instruments in their pathology

 

 

 

 

      now it’s getting heavy handed—the 

toaster

for katy forgets her books

          and has the best play day in her life, running

       back from school, finally refreshed

      that her screen saver recognizes xmas

 

 

 

 

meditation on steam

                           can’t be suspicious, though

as an aphrodisiac

                               nothing much matters

hence, hostilities retract

                                    into forests

these gels

                          correcting all the colors

of intent

              the cop glider stilly overhead, photographing

grapes they steal from the nile

 

no thought, no

                                  a blunt buttinsky

 

decides it’s all untrue

 

         dissolves the anti-depressant

          book

 

the moment they diversify

              into wingdings

 

        in text and a battle of rhetorics

such that the corsair archeologist

            makes intelligent play

 

                                  squirted

eighty percent of the style

 

statistically unkempt

          rolando

 

pastoral

  as tits

 

                a crush of stable forms

 
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