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



07
Jun

POEM: Hot City Part 6.0 (Merge)

HOT CITY 6.0

 

MERGE

PROPOSITION ONE

Nothing like an orgy to order the tests.
Are you sure you haven’t forgotten your identification?
In an assembly of pornographic phantasms such as I have painted,
it may well be supposed that no ordinary encounter could have excited such sensation.

Orgasms today are way too easy, though frequently bitten by death.
It seems I’ve lost my drive. Thanks for letting me pour through your fingers.
The man who writes these words is dying, and I didn’t intend
to lift a finger, but that plaid skirt you’re wearing makes me want to bleed.
You’re the one that wanted me to drink on my birthday. Convinced, you
paralyze yourself while poetry attacks your immune system.Lights up, shades up.
I’m the vector devastating the country.
I’ve studied Swedish massage. Would you like one?
I will trace stanzas and words on your back, stabbing your shoulderblade with my thumb.
Squeezing your sides, and wrangling paper, pressing my fingerprints
into crevasses while molding devious lines.No pestilence has ever been so fatal or so hideous.
The jury on my cortex is defibrillating my organs.
My finger notches the edge of your breast,
and train cars vibrate in tandem. Turn over the cushion.
Pass through membranes to undergo microscopic therapy.
I’m wearing nothing but a hat, explaining why people are staring. So
many beautiful people, writhing in circles of candy wax.

One symptom is nausea, and regurgitation can occur.
You’re gagging on the curry. RRRRRRRRRRRETCHING ON THE TRAIN!!

A headless woman, tracking the weather, booming bombasts in spring.
I’m just telling you before we begin that I’m not on the pill and we can’t have sex.
Not the way I see it.
Hold up a sign and honk if you’re hot.
All your muscles tighten as your face flushes red.

You did it to me again, and if this train derails we’ll all fly into a tree and die or something.

I know  what the problem is, only now that I’ve kissed
you, I’m unable to stop, I’m afraid you’ll be insulted if I don’t go through with it.
Alas, you seem to have lost your motor functions anyway.
We’re stuck in a pattern.

A trained virologist is trained to recognize patterns,
so me and this guy who says he’s not drunk
get to the top of the stairs. You look dead!
“We’re fucked!”

You’re the only woman I can give an orgasm to lately.
Seems I’ve lost my compulsion to please.

Trying to get in with the KEY
Tougher to climb the stairs when you’re tumbling over whisky and facts.
Turn over to tan your tummy.
Staring through bars and tulips and hair.
Tangle your silly hat. We passed through antibodies and strain.
Beautiful girl, puking slop onto train squares, drooling drip of reddy snot.

And another woman, gagging from the claustrophobic odor of your entrails.
LEAKING a look at the weather.
A booming cloud locusts the shade of spring.
I’m just telling you that I’m not on the pill right now, that’s all I’m saying.
Just Honk if you’re hot.
And your back arches, your architecture rises, balloons in fresh palms.

We’re all going to get lost and run into a tree or something.

There’s a pill you can take for that, too you know, but you have to keep on taking it for at least a one week cycle to kill the infection.

I have to tell you about the dream. Pretzels.

What’s wrong, HONEY???
Of course I know what the problem is.
Now I’ve started to kiss you, I’m afraid to stop.
Can’t eat dinner if you’re invited, or it’s a great insult to cultural hospitality.
What is it with your nerves? Why can’t you move?

MY KEY BROKE OFF IN THE LOCK, FUCKER!!

A heart hole refrain from the edge of the bed, a littering of your face with paper cuts,
surely grotesque.

PROPOSITION TWO

Wear the mask, so you don’t’ get airborne particles in your beard.
I want to get the hell out of this poem,
this expansive and magnified structure,
the creation of a viral eccentric and august taste.Refined at the top of the stairs,
tripping over carpet tacks,  women spill sideways vomit down aluminum decorated panels.
Everyone has to try turning the broken key in the lock.

The external world can take care of itself, if only this moment could
flicker in the pink skin of heavy night.
The Key cannot be shaken, pulled or rattled into turning the latch on the lock.
The backyard is full of undulating stars and asses,
a sizzling wintry and dull.

I’ve thought about touching you for months and days and seconds and now
that I’m here, I’m digging through your pocketbook for tickets.
When I drool on your nipples, I’m spreading beads of carcinogenic fluids on your sweets.
The saliva sticks to your teats, like the moist, festering of third degree burn ointment.
Damp cellars mold cultures in shires in seem.

My plans are bold and fiery
and my conceptions glow with barbaric luster.
It’s necessary to see and to touch me to treat my infection.

Can I show you, you said? Would you mind?
Yes, and you’re spreading your legs and opening your friction, weeping fear and fascination.
Dripping ink down your thigh, rolling cheeks past your knee,
a tottering, a falling and an end, again and again
repeated refrains, a voluptuous and tragic scene, with leaden radiation trumpets,
perceived by fingers instead of sense.

I hate the huge of the city, ambulances, intravenous, vectors,
but Cole bought me drinks. He said he knew about the dream I had,
and that I’d try to fuck the ghost of his woman, and every freak dresses
too well, and tattoos and piercings are in all the right places for laughs.

Maybe I should have brought my lucky hat from Zaire.
The chronic case next to me has double sets of crooked teeth,
and she finds me boring, and the shark has nowhere left to feed,
I’ll stab you in a cage my dear, you’re going to be extinct,
and I’m BORING, BORING,
MY KEY IS STUCK IN THE LOCK,
and I’ve been gored by the horns of a cocktail queen, full of martinis
and conceit, witch buckles on shoes, double death teeth, vitamins,
and grisly designer fabric.

YOU BITCH, I’LL FIT AN AUTOMOBILE IN YOUR MOUTH

Float yourself into a cage and slip yourself into the bacterial bath,
decomposition and bends will mark your guts.

I can’t get this FUCKING DOOR OPEN, and no
locksmith is going to come this time of night, and THE KEY won’t come out of the lock,
and I’m not going to sleep in the street, in puddles of vomit,
collected in samples, lottery offings.
You can try to turn it, every twenty or thirty days, or twenty or thirty miles,
making a novel effect, a long resonance,

and if you knew all the people here, it’d be easier to relax. Try
to picture them as friends, as anyone you’re comfortable kissing,
because you’re not real at all, all of you in this room, you’re black and white
sensations, distorted nitrate particles on a flat surface death.

How can your naked skin be both gaudy and fantastic?

And I’d marry you, you say, if I loved you, but how can I love you?
You’re not even real, you’re a revolution of neurons, a collision of better
Living through chemistry, fear flavors and a fate flapper,
I CAN’T EVEN SPEAK FOR THIRTY MINUTES,
I CAN’T MOVE, THE KEY IS STUCK IN THE LOCK,
Language is dissolving your thighs,
eating away the muscle tissue and revealing the polished brass of bone.

In spite of these events, it’s a rich and magnificent orgy.
The tastes of the dip are practically peculiar,
delirious delights, such are fancied by ex-lovers who collect rocks,
much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre,
something of the terrible, and not at little of what might excite delight.

To and from the suburban backyard, stalks
a multitude of maladies. Stiff frozen stickly human popsicles,
licking the discarded fruit of the starless sky.

All the stars are on the ground, discarded in grass,
wrinkled, and hairy, quarantined and screened into saturated clumps.

I can’t find a soft place to sleep,
not even in the grass.
Laughing hysterically, everyone is paired off, even me
yes, I have the basket of pretzels, and I’m licking off the salt.
There’s human refuse fluttering in midst of weeks,
and I’ll forget you next time, and your sacks of flesh on the lawn.
Bones rattling meat packages, strain. Crickets, violins, razors, beer,
blood and bile. Maybe you should hang from trees as morning comes,
as music ceases, as revolutions of cock are quieted,
and gears crunch us thru into an uneasy cessation of color.

PROPOSITION THREE

I am a vector.
Once my words were a repose of sweet,
a place, a strong place in which to sleep.
My bed is shaken now, hungover, and weak, nauseous and failed.

Diarrhea, bleeding tear ducts and raw nasal passages eat my skin
as I shit on the tiled floor, and a disinfectant janitor mops
dirty hair under my feet. The mop is interfering with my sanctity, and
I’m shaking as I try to cut my pancakes. Now when I touch you,
my face is pushed into piss soaked pillows, I’m paralyzed,
and I can’t see through the bloody film on my eyes.
My fingers are bones, maddened with rage and the same of
momentary cowardice, hurriedly rushed through multiple boudoir bleach.

Then, a tap on my shoulder.
Maybe there’s another way into the apartment…climbing a wall or digging
Underground? Maybe I can jump on the shoulders of a headless
lover and reach into the latch?

No one wants to hear this crap. Am I right? I might as well be carving notches on trees.
It’s impossible to sleep with the smell in here. I’m staring at a starless ceiling, and
cannot see the end. The small blinking light on the stereo
component is the only illumination in the room.

There’s three rows of corpses in here.

In one final attempt to turn the key, I serve
to tear off the last fractured shard with a set of rusty pliers.
I collapse against the wall, hypnotized, glaring at the busted piece.

The door will never open.
It will burst into flames, either now, or tomorrow, or the day after that.

 

 

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.

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