Holiday Wishes

A real horrorshow in the fall of 07.
Viddy my brothers well, and like a good bit of the ol' ultraviolence.

BONITO WANTS HIS HAND BACK

Spit!
I’m you’re spin-off---miffed my heartache on mildly raped suits

while captured eyes announced another savage citizens arrest,

Spit!
Xeroxed to persist---training wheels come on snail pace slimy, goose-stepping while in Rome---
When in Rome the bodies piling up, to a big fat gestapo ringtone.
I’m an egg shy of a cane-sugary sweet human brulee;
Of all of our briery hexagrams,
all of our pained but jubilant vacancies are running out of bedtime stories,
all of our long distance relationships---picking up a few hours here and there worked to death is what we like!

We’re in charge! We’re on top! Got everything to loose---
Spit like curried kisses, prune your dresses,
blackened zealot represses.

Bonito hears the recess bells a‘ringin... shame, I’ll get a little more than this hook he whispers into the crevices of that bone-adorned headboard.

Carefully avoiding eye contact with a tousled tourist girl I reached up to the top shelf to grab a couple of cervical titans and tatvas for the twice-delayed car-key party I’d arrive at in trench coat and fishing hat at 01:00.

Instead of legs her partially exposed pelvis and what I believe was a portion of her femur
appeared wired into a dolly-like device housing six wheels.
It resembled a beat-up shopping cart, the kind you’d find
salt-watered and rust-encrusted on the outskirts of the boardwalk or in the marshy desolate woodlands just outside the farmlands miles from the closest supermarket.

Freaky cat with a sharks-tooth earring beckons,
Lookin like fat Rembrandt.
singing “Monday bloody Monday”--- a bunch of ere’n ekidas sipping
wine-coolers and pina-coladas, skin-crisped-leather smells like Miami sun but without the ink, without the love; vagina dentata’s hum the tune of an outdated yisrealim ringtone.

Under fire,
Awake, under the knife,
Underpaid,
Under-prepared when under siege, underage but never outdone,

Spit!

and withdraw deep into yourselves.


I want to tell him his necktie is fastened incorrectly, and what he believes to be a double Windsor is in fact a funny looking attempt at a pratt knot. Children! Boy-scouts! Novice knot-makers could tie something finer. I wonder about his intentions…his true colors, if there anything like his cheap suit he’s a dull palette of chrome, charcoal ash and murky water. His time is equally divided between eating piggishly and pretending to listen to what I’m saying. He washes down sloppy mouthfuls of his cuttlefish raviolis with several pitchers worth of vodka martinis. I dab my finger into the high heel shoe shaped vessel that keeps my four perfect looking duck skewers uniform in their own juices. I suck the contents of the stiletto from the ridge of my thumb, a champagne Dijon sauce with tamarind paste and a hint of deluded orange juice. The simple sugars metabolized orange and yellow and yellow and orange sour aluminum malfunction, soul sighs a non-committal reversal with a muzzle and glow-sticks. The parasites that adorn my viscera rose and shined, and with all the commotion I couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle cause my innards really tickled. The man called anything but Bonito mistakes my titter for a genuine chortle, it isn’t until then that I realize he has reached the queer punchline of some strung out joke his legal council amused his simple mind with early this morning. I smile with teeth, what a terrible sense of humor, who cares? His wife’s legs have begun to part and my symbiotic friends and I can now preview the entirety of her thank god bald underside. Her contact lenses stir something awful, she’s had three to many kamikazes…the stench of lime juice is countered only by the delicate perfume of her razor burned... can’t you just put the car in reverse while we traverse the intimate contours of your elegantly designed hoodoo-acquired mind-body dichotomy.

Cosmic cosmetic body farm #1---you’re my numero uno!
Don’t you know that I put the B in Black box warning---won’t keep us away, always three steps ahead---its you, me, and Depo-Provera.
Taking apart the parts! Taking apart the parts! Taking apart the parts!

Body-bagged Bodies---Airbag-struck Bodies---Etheric, astral, and communal Bodies
fled to a late night subway party on the super-centurion but rather lively L-train,
who’s neon lights are always missing letters.

Spit!

it’s a rather gross habit.
I don’t need anybody.
Don’t need anybody, to tell me that I’m better looking in the half-light.
A better lay in the winter cause the wool blankets retain heat.
Heavy bass crawls against gravity while gift-exchanging commences;
Bubble-machine-girls kind of drew their lips in too low.
The finest under a speedy flicker,
Green nail polished tips, she was wrapped in a nice green slip.
She was my favorite handmade magistrate on the eighth avenue.
It appears I’ve got to tooth pick parts of you cause you showed up to soon in the endless soup & bread sticks of my unctuous lunch special.

It didn’t matter that you ordered my shylock flank in puff pastry with pineapple and brie. I’m still hung-over from all that progestin popping to prevent our preteens from birthing… radios that play our least favorite songs on repeat to torment our dry-cleaned body-doubles in prison cells, frozen vaults, and forgotten safety deposit boxes.

Boy, you’re a far cry from her!
The third drew the legs and quartered;
she sounded like green tea with dulce de leche and roasted sesame seeds.
With her hypothyroid smooching a juicy boy-cut hipster monkey-crotch.
Snort! got a little tickle in my nose while taking apart all those bodies piling up.
Taking apart the parts! Taking apart the parts and spitting! Taking apart the parts with fugu subterfuge to delay a third party gas leak (is what I’m after.)

Handle the popo, cause the janitorial staffs sucking-faces have gone berserk. Thought-readers of everyone’s throw-away, everyone but me! I hand-tear my tax returns and my social security number is still 230-04seprent handling where allowed, keep the cylinders well-oiled and shave off the burl
Take some supplements and go fuck yourself.

They can’t hide from us,
your thoughts are no longer only yours.
You and I are archival under T for thievery and B for basket case, in a briefcase across the staircase all of our enigmatical prattle fed activated charcoal to bind the fishy toxins that toke on the pulchritudinous exhaust of our life-support.
Say goodbye, blow kisses and close your eyes.
Keep blowing kisses cause when I get my hand back I’m gonna jerk off and strangle every kidnap victim and random ransom search party and amnesiac committee member that plucks my feathers for a good laugh. Keep blowing kisses, count on it, Choke on it
till the very end.

Cause baby bonito wants a reach-around, a left hand, and a big red rocket ship for Christmas.
It’s not politically correct but hey, Seasons greetings from all your friends at the Bethlehem Abortion Clinic because we still believe in Santa Claus

...?

It didn't play leers.

It's mass made up the atoms of toadstools.

It could have been a wandering Roma on our mothers lap of the new zodiac.

It was carved out of the sinew of the air.

It lives in the barrels of our chests and speaks softly through broken typewriters.

It is not guilty, but only because no one points a finger.

It will forever be a motor-mouth vulgarian screaming theater in a crowded fire.

It will almost certainly serve sangritas with 'medicine' from a top hat benediction.

It is such a tool; a corn kernel in Warhol's shit.

It was and always will be the veneering's of a milk-sea lost to the madness of birds.

It...

The poet and the wiseman stand behind the gun...

Lots more work with the drunken rabbits,
This one's in regards to our umbilical link to fossil fuels...

ECOCIDE

Molé
By the end of this,
the clocking tide will tell a tale
of black-blooded psychopomps.
Her freshwater wrist will takes no prisoners,
in placental croaks of each dying ocean that rose.

Children of the Dredge
The castrato will sing a sullied song of arterial angels

tangling their wings, in drill-ships of rigs.

We’d been christened the
remorseless Betelgeuse and Cadiz,
after tankers capsized aside sleepy jazz.

Our birthright was a
semi-submersible mobile offshore drilling unit
with impacted Hyperion mandibles.


Who, What, Where, When and Why the Frac?!
We bought and we sold a dragonfly millennia of mothers ruin

and roaches in beds before abyssal plains of petroleum
you dreaded to tread;
the dense myth of petty ego’s clash

as they buried each one of us beneath a sour cherry tree.


This Land is Their Land
We scribed seven red doors with chalks from their lore’s

as the bandsaw’s crept slowly against
the wiry necks of their big-business kings.

All Birds Require Lubrication
And well the roughnecks ran red
and their godheads bled fossil fuels

And the gulls of the barren,

and the cambions and the whales,
they spoke from the surf, needled
and on through memitim clouds.
And it tore through dispersants

and it howled through ghost highways

In Dreams of Jonah’s Fields
“Your patriotism should squiggle insipid off your ruptured beaters,

your fascist banners of putrid gold leaf,
and from your tanks into the very cells of your blood.

“Your nationalism should tax the

rich white framework of a vision serpents bloodlet-for-oil-iconography.
Who’s vote may or may not be for sale in two starless nights,

blights of go-devils breathing spells in bilberry

and lost to limestone slabs of medieval cemeteries

terminal in clavicle yesterdays stunted by
tone-deaf whispers of variola blankets eradicating natives.

Malach HaMavet, or just another Pipeline
You and I, We’re just two air bubbles in a phthalate bath baby,
drunk at the pump--- poppet’s disco-fit discombobulation

mongering screaming females

and the hydrocarbonic ineptitude

of their crude alchemic puddle of cruor and of cuddle.


Your Roman Wilderness of Pain
By the end of this the clocking tide,

will tell a tale of blue ocean and of clear night sky

and yet you and I will still stand wailing
as we pray to the pump-jack.

The Slushpile, Sun Flowers, Mine Fields...

I will admit my activity has been sluggish;
My attitude toward you my little blog child, has been aloof at best as of late, but I'm trying.

Lots and lots of writing, so at least there will be something to show for...

Until your next pixelated kiss.

Cryptids

From
the nettle
of the new man's strength they've wrestled

and yet their lives
still end
in the meek
and tired rebirth

of the
bodies and the brains

they'd convinced themselves they'd always been;



all now, just hollow lifeless hulls of acorn's



swimming in a sea of green.

Vermicide?

MY MYIASIS...

FREUD’S FATHER
“I have no gag reflex” she lip-sunk through a kiss of coral margarita
when the limpid dream was still contraband
and coyotes scoured imps in convertibles like houngans
swinging fists in sugarland trysts at wiretied wrists.

CASU MARZU
A weekend in three days despoiled to an areola of pentacles tonsil massaging

the angels trumpets in the emperors clothes.

ROMAN TRAFFIC
No one came for Phoenician columns, lawn-dart injuries

or room temp botargo and both of us prayed
that my sperm were as drunk as I was that evening.

JUJU ENTERICS + OVERLOOK
Twas a tiny hatchet or a spiny hammer brothers mallet or halls of blueberry terrine

dribbled like tiny slivers of silver
over the menace of Venus on the half shell.

SERPENTINES
When all else failed,
we could always stare lethargically into the camera with dirty spectacles and meditate on the inequities of crooked portrait photography and

weep lagrima like a capric(a) in a rocketship town.

VOLTA
Our dilemma if not direful, if not malefic, if merely celluloid in nature would be the envy of Fellini, not just cheese-skippers kids pattering bin-bags like maggots down and out.

TWO FLOORS FROM ROKY
Twas 11th floor elevators ajar on clandestine decks betwixt the gentle strangle of the lagoons hands and the uncomfortable secrecy shared by you, and him, and her, and I.

SMALL BIRDS
And from the choke of the fledge leaks the clink of the vapor from which I emerge
“a gift for the family” painted in corpuscles.

"We are unity consciousness" piping to nest plummet,
From brainsick giddy fowl fencing for a taste of a strangers secondhand elation.

VIOLENT OLD MEN
We descend from the brink hysterical, from the only home we’ve ever had,
so ungulates groomed to personify

Sardinians may enjoy our helplessness in moderation along wine, song, and celebration.

ESTRANGEMENT
Twas codicals in your codicils, notes of entanglement,
A third eye arose from my girl's pierced paunch.
From meat and potatoes,

the routine poutine, err...putain

from lips behind the nervousness of blush and the chance-medley of rouge.

FAILURE
As boy and girl, sister and brother, father and mother we’d brought stout offerings to their "tallest" and grew up thinking Guinness was an over-the-counter cure for indigestion.

FREUD’S MOTHER
We grew up too soon and left in a hurry too late as sunburns become as rock & roll as humanly possible and the slow-dance of cry-babies, larval in the hedgerows grew grey

and derailed into your daughters throat.

Dim Mak

An excerpt from a novella entitled "Centzototochtin"

Which I may some day release...

“I could kill you by sticking any one of 212 pressure points”

she whispered through a speedy drag and esurient nibble of livid durian her
silent militarily inept sidekick bootlegged through Thai customs.

That scant lil patch of thin red pubic hair she’d carved into a slightly askew copyright sign last week peeked out from her ripped boy shorts

as she pulled her scraped knees to her mosquito bites.

“I could also make you come, make your lungs deflate, inflate.
I could make your heart stop with the agony of hemorrhage
or the tight wet kiss of ecstasy, all with those dull meridians.”

In that I grew a few inches for her.


She admired her dimples and quicksilver eyes in my aviators.

She fed her razor edged bangs stale pumpernickel crotons and danced clumsily through life zinging gansta rap through the gap in her teeth.

That is until she made herself at home in the temporal wormholes of their occipital lobe;

Where gas-bar girls in smirched pajama pants and flip flops and not much else strayed through Newyorkian Februaries avenues of barbwire.

In the back of the rusted out hatchback,
I argued their diaphanous skin was "hypothermic blue,"
while she insisted “azure” more accurately described the shade...

1,000,000 died to write this

GOD BLESS OUR DEAD BANKERS

-For Efrim Menuck, Sophie Trudeau, Jessica Moss, Thierry Amar, & David Payant

otherwise known as 'Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra'-

“The earth is 4.5 billion years old, kid don’t you know you and I
are just grains of partially digested fried rice in the stomach
of a mob lackey in the back seat of an American auto barreling down a hill in flames?”
- Squeaky B (The Bride of Pleiades)

Gamelan
When I could still determine my age with one impeccant hand
Goethe’s moribund foster-monster
prison-tattooed my paltry sex-machine
with the word “flagellant” in Sans Serif.
I would not understand why for many years…

Damnum Fatale
She used tritium embezzled from a planet identical to earth but ravaged by the magnesium bleed of wildfires;
A world where the meaning of life was not frenzied birdcalls in
dawns clench of the jaw.

Everything in my world was golden brown, and either stippled your
sore gums treading trazadone waters of sleep with the stories of our lives or lost-and-found stiff flat feet in the sand’s frightening vamp-off-ya-mojo.

Sedan + Headless Torso Relinquished in Redwood Forests
I came to your manufactories, petitioned rail-yards, parentless grain silos and the villa van asbestos lost in the grub writhe of oblivious daylight to live deliberately and see if I could not learn what it had to teach and not when I came to truly live discover that I had died in the Devonian.

Heresiologies
My father
& his father before him
& his father before him
& his father before him
had all been
married to bonny man-eaters with low self-esteem who on the side buggered slack-jaws in carpenter-jeans.

Do not disappoint me.
Practice flagellation with dirty orange extension cords in mountains as they turn to steam in your ears.

Dauerschlaf
See, the voyeur frig the viewer and the viewer flog the martinet and they’ll both end up dejected with autistic kids--say it’s just you, me, thirteen stray vermin and the liquor cabinet---so lets drink to the clamor, and drink to the amour, and drink to the glamour, and drink to the rancor, lets drink to forget, and drink to remember and lets share a kiss for our kids who are killing;
God bless this millennium!

Aceldama
I understood then,
That I had prevented “The last headache you’ll ever have.”

I’d changed my identity more times than I can count with two hands.
I have killed the lord,
now everything is sacred.

Note: This poem will appear in the forthcoming publication "The Caunotacarius."

Also, props to Henry David Thoreau
for providing me with something fine I could fractionally plagiarize

The Unstoppable Blood Jet Pt. I

Note: As always the material you are about to

read is sort of a work of fiction based on true events.

Those events correspond to a reading held

at the Florida Public Library on April 16, 2010.

THE UNSTOPPABLE BLOOD JET

PART I

Virtuosity coruscated from the perfidious barrels of our eyes, Big Pink and I set out into the aphotic brackish of blackberry winter to skull fuck the dandy's with our oratory and so we did.

I dismounted in the sleepy hamlet of Florida, New Amsterdam with the rooty quiddity of Calliope in the threads of my unwashed hair.

We drifted into a grotto of picture-books and chocolate-covered strawberries with our weapons loaded and serenely plugged our Ajna's into the mercurial grid.

Rebecca Schumejda summarized an oxygenated ocean of imagery and vision with a human face and a kind mein prickled with innocent jests of levity.

Janet Hamill commanded the audience with an affable yet momentous tone while administering a lethal dose of brilliantly crafted surrealism;
I would like to state for the record that I died mirthfully fulfilled.

Robert Milby who has been called everything from "The Whirling Dervish of Poetry" to the "Sir Milby of Florida" or just simply the "Tzar" brought the reading to a powerful sociopolitical end employing work dealing with the oil crisis, dead patriots, and the unthinking Amerikan majorities disregard for virtue, purpose, and love in the modern information epoch.

There was no time for elbow bumps or posturing after the curtains dropped and the candle flames died just a hustle through mist with Ziplocs of cookies too tires squealing fog fits.

One hundred & twelve minutes to get to the capital district before the genome samples we'd recovered from the hull of the aero-copter would deteriorate into viral progenitors and the human project would once and for all dissolve...

Would we get there in time?

Alive?

In one piece?

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Destroyer of Books...

The beginning of the end is near...

Breath Easy

I Haven't posted in well over a month...

been drudging from sun up to sun down in the very chilly Villa Van Asbestos.

My books The Biblioclast & Mnemosynesiac are nearing completion,

I'm also working on two records which incorporate improvisational compositions with poetry and field recordings.

That having been said,

I'm going on a temporary hiatus with Not A Dead Tree

so I can better focus my creative energies on the vast array of projects I've upheld.

I am in no way abandoning or shutting down the blog, just taking a short break.

I promise you all that I will return with twice the spice and a bevy of delicious surprises.

Until then, breath easy and enjoy the spring!

WORD PORN!

Word Up! Fellow logophiles,

get your forks and knives and grubby fingers ready for squishy fun!

Dinner's served!

Mammiformis- Shaped like a breast

This one's just begging to be exercised in your next bibulous chair-tipsy 4-martini tirade or I'll be a proto-human primates illegitimate uncle;

and actually, while we're on the subject of inebriants I've got a another fantastic articulation for you guaranteed to perplex, flummox, perturb

or just plain start some violent shit at the local gin mill.

Betterave- A drunkards nose, a nose with "grog blossoms" or a "copper nose,"

such is possessed by an "admiral of the red."

-Albert Barrere's Argot and Slang Dictionary, 1911

as in

"Hey you boozy scallywag! Your humongous betterave's clogging up the dance floor and poking me in the earlobe."

Unpicturesque- Without beauty or charm. Unattractive, beastly, mishappen or disfigured.
as in

"Your lady friend is unpicturesque, she looks like Michael Berryman

with a spray-on tan and pumps."

This next one's sure to make a guest appearance in my bawdy penny dreadful erotic novella "Henry Longfellow's Long Fellow's Sexy Sticky Sweater-Puppy Hunt."

Cadulix- Male genital organ

Pulvillus- A small cushion or pillow. In surgery, a small olive-shaped mass of lint used for plugging deep wounds; diminutive of pulvinus, or cushion.

-Sydenham Society's Lexicon of Medicine and Allied Sciences, 1897

as in

"Wolfgang Easy packed his yawping abysm with a dewy cerulean pulvillus and in doing so demonstrated the profound relationship shared between those who indulge a strict

vegan macrobiotic diet with those who engage in jocose hammer-murder type sociopathy."

Autochthon- An aboriginal inhabitant. One of the indigenous animals or plants in the region.

One of the earliest known inhabitants of a place.

-Origins: 1646, "one sprung from the soil he inhabits" (pl. autochthones),

from Gk. autokhthon, from auto- "self" + khthon "land" (see chthonic).

And last but certainly not least, a word introduced to me by my darling Nee.

Pif- A type of high grade marijuana that is identifiable by its distinct smell and excellent quality.
Pif can also be used as an ad lib, verb, sound effect, expletive etc.
Examples include "Dude, what the piff happened to my piffing ear-buds!? Stop touching my piff with your greasy goddamn vienna sausage fingers."
" That Inuit industrial lubricant salesman over there, piffed your ladyboy girlfriend in the ass!"
" Fo Sho! I piffed from dusk till dawn yo and it was piffing awesome!"

A Capilary Hint of Red

Mark these words,

one day this chalk outline will circle this city!

Was he robbed of the asphalt that cushioned his face?!

A room colored charlatan, hid in a safe.

Stalk the ground, stalk the ground...

-The Mars Volta (from Televators)

XENOPLEIAD
(The Lambsbread)
-For Dylan Donnelly-

XENOLITH
Skandha tissues crawling surrounding shallow veins
Expedient pinpoint needle tracks all tattoos are redeemed.

XENOPHILISTINE
A heigh-ho in trachoma’s,
the stroma of drunken pardons---shrunken head‘s jest “cheerio”
For all the wet-rat dapper bon vivants!

And the euphony is sulky symphonies of Neptune’s tuned timorous by DMTequila coxcomb’s crackerjack bounty of gee-tar calluses Spartan in Martian bivouacs taxed to cardiac arrest by a bovine plague of Volta plaques.

They could have gouged my look-alike van dyke of grease penciled 3rd Reich lip spikes for hunger strikes in sebaceous buckskins or burglarized my cretin indiscretions with serrated triceratops paraphernalia’s but they chose you.

There were automotive pileups, Neanderthals buried in pollen shrouds,
Doktora of data havens and the herons of heroin Ontario probity humanized by the
teeth-whitening waves of seed grenades.

XENOPALASTINE
Long live in the hemistich a mustached buffalo of psychonauts luddite mystique!
A seven string assassin of speed-trap courtiers
In this duchy of polyps catalytic for Dutch masters faint.
Your Sonoma coma short-lived their Durban poison lambs bread..

“I’ve got a whole lot of nigrified raiment’s in this Walpurgis wardrobe ” he thought
“Don’t even need to wear no vicarage antlers!”
And I’ll goose-chase and goose-step like a startled solar calf into the tires of 2002 Toyota in a no fault state.

XENON (LESSER)
No ‘callabo shit’ for you or I comrade and the vestments sunkissed you…
And the teething ménage unite for one trite night once a queer
year to eat the prescribed meal of auto-glass and 9-W anemone.

And I eat from her hand maggoty trick-or-treat torrones and dimples rear in a one-room cellar of negroid Passovers as the smoke clears.



XENOPHILADINE
How real the way the tow-truck turns tricks and hurtles stomachs and mutters with rag doll physics.

Church body primary! Zero growth society!
Useless eaters nocebo! State sponsored placebo!

Eaten by the sky! Beaten by the kind!
Final greetings, stoning heathens,
Maintained inane by the droll amen’s of ecstasy technicians, made my amends again but they’ll never claim your name again.

XENOPLASTICINE
And she stopped with all the diaries,
And closed the dust-plugs on the cap of her skull,
Because a journal unread by outsiders is a journal best left unwritten.

XENON (PROPER)
And she said “I’ll lift a burnished mosque of tone-deaf pedestrians with my mock-claws and hoax laws or was it jaws in the ambiguity of tendril tidelands viewed in their particle nature.

A young lass named Jesus astir with rivière bugs below gaga skins amorets and bayonets, tripped-up/pimped-out malcontents are slavery personified in SNCC chemistry.

And mankind and kind blah blah blah…
And I held you in jade,
And I held you in jade.