Home   :    About   :   Music   :   Poetry   :   Art   :   Comics   :    Films       Store   


POEM: Raspberry Skull


                       luscious raspberry (oh,
               haven’t heard that one
                       before (!)), the punch clock now
               clunks without your fingernails. You’ve
you cannot lie to yourself, what you want is the Skull
                fallen out of time, sweet
you lusting the Skull drowns you
in your ergonomic keyboard
                ex-employee of the month, no more
                paper pushing for you, raspberry,
                your smell
                wracked hair falls across your
                face as seconds drop fast
                before you and behind
                you, as your tired feet shuffle past the rug.

                They need to shampoo beneath our desks, that shit
                is all stained with
the skull who approaches with white and protruding teeth
                take out and rub down, stomp and pulse.

                       And now that time cannot thwack
                your noggin, you’re free to pass
the skull who squeezes her sphincter by

                beyond; drop that badge, flux
the bulletin board whose forest green pants

                into non designated areas
crinkle by the crack of her clenched buttock

                        Aw, that woman cries too much, you’re sniffling
                as you pick up the phone sweet
Skull, whose ganglionic stringly black

                mean melancholy syrup of snot rails down your nostril,
hair is pulled

                 sniff   sniff   yes. You can help me now.

Far back

                 Okay, here’s the clues:
To expose the pale white forehead, the hair trails in
historical ribbons in essses on her neck

                 one red card, cartoon face

the Skull, it
                 saying hey here’s a smile, paper urchin,
                 click clock girl, your blond
it the Skull you desire

                 hair, cuts so sharply and intersects six
                 o’clock, I could have piled all the index
                 cards in your file.
You want to hold her head in your hands and glare into

                 one magazine singing praises of two
those caves for eyes, caves of the Skull

                 none of which are you, but
you want to kiss the skull, your lips quiver and you

                 all of my desire, which
claw your desk, you pound your wrist-rest, you jiggle

                 a part of you or
the lever on your adjustable chair, you

                 meal of you, won’t
                 activate your desire vicariously,
burying yourself in faxes and serial numbers and key
strokes and titles

                 you frail, Doc saw you in the

lost in the fantastic red ribbed shirt of the skull, of the
                 brushing your finder
lack of lips

                 nail over bumps
the misaligned breasts of the skull

                 on your face, you’re screaming

                  down the pavement, aawww, a mini-car
                  woman, you’re falling into punchcards inside
                  the mirror, you want nothing

                   to do with that mirror, but it’s better than the clock.

                   Twenty paintings for you, raspberry face, I painted
youuuuuu, want to dig in deep, dig into that skull driving
you crazy

                   before you existed, so you

you, lost paper pusher, you are hunting the hairy hive of
                   never look at yourself instead.
The SKULL, you must have the SKULL, her

freckles, the spots on her pale bone shined epidermis
                   primping yourself to pieces
tissue of the skin, of the skin of the skin of the skull,

oh AGONY, she eats her pasta in the cafeteria,
                   your eyes look twenty smaller
she is not lonely, I repeat she is not lonely.

                   After you have plucked your eyebrows but
you can’t have the skull, she won’t come for you,

                   you still can’t see the punch clock, won’t look at the punch clock.
And she could be the plainest plain skull of all,

and Hercules is choking on a chicken bone when

                   all time belongs to a little red box that
he spots her face,

bone fail face, big forehead, knife cheeks, sunken treasure
                   you pass your card through spotting
eyes, o nostrils, lack of lip, tombstones for teeth,

                   time in four digit LED display beeping
spotted grumbly crumbly skinned skull woman drive

                   you like an obscene road runner, pelting

                   your name at you CHRISTINE CHRISTINE Raspberry GIRL,
You insane, you could die, you can’t get a piece of the

                   your shoes klink their heels together, knocking poundache
                   from the spiral spring on the snack machine.

                                            Open drawers.

                                            Here, take
                                            eat, stuff
                                            this 65 cent pound
                                            cake, remember
                                            me clutching your

                                            cubical, feeding
                                            you words, offerings, and
                               nothings, and nothings, and nothings. Utterings,

                                            Raspberry Girl, bear in
                                            mind, not that
                                            you have escaped time, that
                              you continue to be stuck on site
                              in geography,
                              under the rule of a tyrant,
the skull wants nothing to do with your paintings, you

                              you’re not Robespierre,

                   you’re not Voltaire, your blond hair
                   knotted in your tiny slit eyes, you’re not
                   standing by a coin fountain in Philadelphia with me, smelling
                              horse shit, trailing Ben Franklin, you’re not
                   holding my hand on the cobblestone
                   terrace on Pine Street,
you fraud, she reads your poems, the skull finds

                              luscious raspberry, you’re no
                              Rousseau, you’re not
nothing there

                              the woman sitting starry eyed across
                              from my danish in Baltimore, ribbon
Your works are in vain

                              round your neck, reading she seeks nothing
                              poetry as we wax on the nature of time
you’ll never get her in the ass

                              And O, no
                              Danton, drop that pen, you are not
                              figuring out the bill, hand down my
                              pants in the Russian Tea Room.

You cannot lay one finger on the skull,
                             and Diderot, I’m not
                             making love to you, faster an harder, in
no lover, not today, not ever in

                             a closet in
any time zone, not in

                             a small studio on G street in
any time past present or future, in
any geography not in

                            Washington DC that is not
                            any dimension of alternate reality or fantasy,

                            a bead of sweat dropping off your neck, non – philosopher
                            your legs are not
                            in the air, you’re no
                            spread fuzzy sunshine raspberry,

the skull moves not for you in eternity not in ever

                            you’re not eating any poundache.
                            I’m not telling you, Christine, I’m asking, I’m asking,

                           Are you hiring? Can I expect any word this week?

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.

  • All content, art, and text is copyright RadioCobalt.com 2010
  • AWSOM Powered