send the sky to your mum over east

huddled rocks, west 

of wherever

the sun hits high, lyndon jnr with overalls on 

and squashed knuckles, the hair on his head like 

festering mice, or like the guy in that commercial 

about cheap stuff, 

L j is saying how the stars fit the flag too even 

to be real, like if they were in that blue ocean 

it would boil white, red, whatever. that many stars, he says, 

any ocean would be boiled death. 

i am sitting and nodding and drinking ice tea, 

and the sun is hot today, 

so i am not really thinking about stars, 

but how the sky should fuck off. 

when i look at girls in a bar

canticle for you would go something like:

i i i i i i i  

or thermos of you would come out cool, lit
and slither, i am a snake- you say,

but the way the bent branch
ends your vertebrae like i was capital letters
on a page somehow you inserted me formal,
a terrible "Mr", a "dear" that i never received
or
you misspelled with your tongue and i was the roadkill
you eyed as you passed the mile-marker,

sure i am alive, naked as gravel, not thin and
skin tight, you know like shaved meat
where you can almost see my ribs and little kidneys,
  my other okay organs too.

i say you looked beautiful
like stilettos look beautiful sometimes
or the right foot is quite like the left
and my tongue was so heavy in my head
i should have left it in my mouth
or maybe swallowed to one thousand.

i shouldn't have said it, never again,
now it's like i am the old shoe
with new laces, re:
the last of my kind, the endangered

i should be on some kind of charitable pension
where i can't be looked at,
its with my eyes where the trouble starts.

i cry more than i smile
 abandoned to heart
a balsa wood ship

crepuscular
  the rings of a tree
i am sawn through the middle
 i am another line
 you cant connect with these words
 that don't gather and dance
  me under starlight,
 faulted. don't picture me merry
 or upon the knee of your good looks
 gaping
 so far beyond, a vision
 with you
  beneath golden leaves
 and me
 leaning into

the only reason to go to america is to see what doritos taste like

but the sharks back is a rough ride
and i would forget my cowboy pants

my dinky-wink would be lonely tucked in my belly
eskimo style, don't think it likes cool ranch

maybe twirly mustache music like dad plays when evil
and fist bumping socks

i think 'merica is too cold in february
and lady liberty is huddled behind the dumpster
with dim sum in her eyes and lettuce in her
armpit.

i think in dustbowl country, or oil lake whatever
theirs an abused poem writer who likes
nachos and uses doritos or doesn't because the flavours
are confused and the additives made her hair go red

yeah, snack abused poem writer from the dustbowl country
who peed in the ocean so it would be warm enough for me
to swim and i did

and i came to america!


but i ended up in mexico and when i asked to try some doritos
they laughed at me


and i cried.

yet

Love i
In thoughts skewed by by reason
Before the footprint the thing to walk
.obscure. though heart is one
Beyond subtraction it with various incarnations slights through then through is not enough nor trousers well sown to skin I naked naked naked. Embrace the stench of love not its ever angled dildo. Its sleek angel of buzzing tumoirs and iridescence.

slit or shine

i was tense with my philip grin
that slinks out every now and
then:
  got head, like torque
  like a throat twisting my junk
  like a
  limpness that wheels itself
  to the garbage can
  more so that sans self
  or soloing a dirty sanchez
  i am sick
  sick sic
that yllow

its the ground i alert for, my throat
is the canvas and your heart is the glass paint
the horse piss; the radicchio wit; the end
of this...

i am so cut, so unscrewed
so
almost bounty clad
in a ribbon, furred for the hunter
and the
slickness of
it, you know:

a wet hole where love lies and where 23 minutes went searching
for it.

stick a fishhook in my mouth and gutter me

shift my body to the upper-case
SLIT ME.