ummm

 A scholar's fest, bacchanal, rages,
I've been sitting here lonely for ages,
When suddenly a lithe lady comes
her cheeks like fine seething
plums.

Is there a love that kills?
Splendidly slack, she swills
A crystal of dastardly juice
Around like a swirling
goose.

A goose in a little round glass
Spinning round terribly fast --
The image, on my mind impressed,
Is a little bit stupid,
 at best.

I shake this wan thought off my brain,
and begin to observe her again,
this happy and bright-limbed woman
that i hope might my life
 engooden.

Her orbs of seeing (eyes)
look at me startlingly wise,
oh hold on, those arent eyes at all,
it seems I for a joke just did
 fall.

Peering again, more closely,
these "eyeballs" stick our rather grossly.
Indeed, if I be not wrong,
the eyelids are far too long.

Yes, as I say, they was false,
false as my current pulse.
Yes, you heard that right,
I died in a car crash last night.


( commentary:
a lonesome scholar unlucky in love is discovered dead in  a car and his ghost 
is whispering these humorous verses in your ear as you try to shit in peace in 
an icy public toilet cubicle at the university ...

textual analysis: the fine lady was wearing a pair of novelty springy 
eyeball glasses things. the ghost actually died before the events of the poem, 
making the whole thing impossible. )

~~

~~

The shark's grip

in a lull of the unit-time
measurement of intensity

bedroom doors close, lights click,
the windows dim to abyssal-zone slick,

its cold, im too tired to hold my extremeties from
convenient distances from the heater, so i just burn myself

paroxysm horror i scrunch my whole body,
and hear the fleshly mechanisms churning and crunching,
harder and harder, i wish i could cry
but i have not even a problematic enough to libinizise myself to try.

before me the organs that denote our race
palms downwards, i let my fingers interlace
at the knuckle -- produced is a saw shape,
the shark's mouth, a bony pale bear-trap
what an odd figure, it's not really a 'thing' with
a name, like a gun sign, or a middle finger, or even
that intricate frog's face with a poking tongue,
that i learned in primary school from someone...
it hurts to hold, to squeeze. im scrounched over it now.
there's not a good place to rest ones chin in,
not rectilinear, not aslant,
i can't.
maybe pulling out -- some more room? My roomy chin?
a bone squeezing sensation, not nice,
niceness isnt concerning me now,
im in the dark now, head in my legs,
a clothly, hairy, chilly orb of wretchedness,
with the single, unflinching kernel
of pain centred in my inner hands
constituting everything.

~~

~~

Money on the bridge of sighs

sunshower morning
industio-mechanic, fairground,
the cold new sun's winds' clammy hands clench my neck
and burrow through my spine
the death of this dead place stinks like industrial heavy metals
this onetime home of mine
today marks two years since they shut down the place
and the new trash became old trash,
the plastic bags became antiques themselves
buried in frozen mud by the duckweed lake shore
where water milfoil caresses the waters
that old photographs show to have been a thriving fake beach resort

this overpass was designed by someone on a computer
wearing a white shirt.
the smooth green surfaces at the lower left
are jungles now of dirt.
im here today, here to play,
in the troll world swamp of various species of introduced weedy plant species mostly native to afroeurasia.


plaster crumbling old,
skirting-boards wet with mould,
green waist-height leafy scenes,
shattered CRT screens 
  in the duckweed
      covered mud reflecting clouds and trees
                in black pixels.
who can resist a gap-world, 
imperfect, undesigned,
a species of a slap-world,
for all too muddled minds.

My brain is like a toilet,
all puddled full of shit,
the big man called 'the big man'
sits comfortably on it.
push him over if you want to,
he doesnt really care,
though it's lighter now without him,
the shit (your brain)'s still there.

~~

~~

My friend Halbwachs

Earnest Halbwachs, you're cranky now and then,
but I know that deep inside your heart a kind
of desiring process occurs, like you hold that   pen
and twiddle it here and there, your big mind
clearly moving somewhere far away, maybe you're
thinking of me, or your parents, i'm never sure

because ive literally never met your parents! in fact
you never mention them to me, or your siblings, we just
don't talk about ourselves to each other, we act
biunivocally or something, i mean, we sort of trust
that it doesn't matter, i guess, or we just say
random crap and laugh, at the end of the day.

It's embarassing in a way, kind Halbwachs, how
neither of us has managed ever really to 'get though'--
ive known you for about three years it must be now,
but we pretty much never say anything deliberately true,,
always some ironic or stupid quip: it *is* hilarious, I love
it, I love ... no, there's no * you* to be loved, and I
dont even imagine one, I dont even try,
do you imagine me? What they fuck are
we doing? Who even were you? It's been
over a year since you randomly
stopped talking to me. now
i realise how much i miss
even your stupid, unfunny
superior
voice,
but at the same time i hate oyu more than ever!
thought its kinda depressing that im slowly forgetting you,
who were my best and only friend for a good portion of my life!