Saturday, June 5, 2010

Tres Versing

written while the pain pill began its work
i aint got head for
beckoning kitchen and baths

my necks a live wire
scrounging for everlast
batteries, nything wld blast
this pain down lower from
the head, get off the neck
and shollders, bury my heart
in your wounded

i aint got face to go wandering
in your chicken trax, smoldering
some personal fire, wanting
to take your whole farm in
my breast like a kerchief
like a postcard from the past

wanting repast--but no apetite
for just the spread, wanting a picnic
you yourself lay down for all

i aint got time in this life
perforated by pain, why is it
we all have some major pain,
some serious blasting pain
thru the gullet in the face of it
in the face of it all i would bring
your sister down pat, would
make your doctor reconsider shit
especially when he heard you knocking
your own face talking poetry coming in
whether anyone answers the door
is in the fading past

your fanciest outfit is in the past.
i want a fucking headache gone
and blast your poetry, i am so over
that i want the next great poetry.
the next overlord. the ringer of silence
in that grand bell ringing fast.
fingering the light on your mother's
hosiery. your mother's greased
legs shining, propped against the
mast of some sailor's perfumery,
his sweet lies that heaved her chest.

i want to know about the rust bldg
half boarded graffiti left by
what chance to hulk the night
you were driven drunk past.

to mean something like an altar,
trekked towards, incense burned
for, as if ten thousand people
yearned for the painting made
by this unkempt place--

this unkept pace we have no meter
for. no footing on. no truncating.
no grading. not sized up.
not spurned like some
reclaimation. no stakes on.
nothing to regurgitate or even
harp upon. no Larry David
monologue for. no Lord Byron
mourns the pace of man for.
no goddamn 2009 on. nothing
to set your empty glass of wine on.

i want you to take my embrace.
and fleeting strangleholds
will be forgotten fleeting fuck you
mothers and the fleece you think
your sheepish drapes were closed in on.

to be saw through and begot.
to shave my legs and wear a dress
like the magazines taught. to fuck a
headache in the throat and stalk
the halls in glad, everawareness
of Death for.

i applaud the ones in the seats
who schlepped in for to hear
your poem. your puny Hoover Dam poem.
your Aeschylous. Your scrawny Bob
Dylan lyrics line the waking dream
all the time for. your haunting rhymes
which make the soldier die for.
your time slot is seriously limited for.
if you ever go over the saints in the
garden will pine for the next great
poet who howls in Cleveland
better than you panned for,
even the isnt it anyway such good head
you've maybe by now forgot.