chi hua hua Tartar

young Mr. Lakiavitis
thought he would end it all around noon
on January 2.
the first of the year had been too inauspicious,
and there was the important matter of
waiting to see whether he would be evicted or not,
and his lawyer, Mr. Small,
would have to be contacted
for this determination.

but otherwise his plan
was to fling himself
from his 9th-floor rent-controlled apartment
which his parents owned,
in the building
where he was known
as the withdrawn young man
never without headphones,
into the frigid Manhattan street below.

New York city had received
almost two feet of icy blizzard over the holidays,
and many of its services were
as paralyzed and incapable
as the despairing
mind of Mr. Lakiavitis.

so that when he screwed himself up
to the herculean task of self-defenestration,
his long liberating plunge to the frozen street below,
to escape all the
confusion and humiliation and disappointment
he had known
in his brief city-bound 26 years,
ended with what could have only been
an anticlimactic sound of busting rubbish
and air escaping from many stuffed trash-bags.
Refuse sacks piled high on snow drifts
all over the city
and neglected by the sanitation department for days,
prevented him from escaping
his life's bleak, sullen, dirty anguish.

but he was able to break his back
and develop further financial ruin.
Hello, cruel world,
he may have muttered,
as he waited for the ambulance.

Enter net here

the wild, unchecked, and over-checked
rowdiness of the internet
has come to take us away,
in an elegant suit, wearing jackboots.
to bring us home from
our lickspittle suffering on isolated I-lands.
from this thriving enterprise, from this
county swivel seat.

to a place where there is
only light,
and the best information,
and elegantly prepared
truffle cupcakes and pancakes
and great Kardashian ass-cakes
to eat, between healthy meals that
test the bounds of health and leather
and all sorts of stretchy material.
Here we will in comfort
and slipping slowly about in a sweet, milky sort of froth
enjoy many consecutive seasons
of velvet underwear and better than .500 ball,
of silken fuck-swings,
Love and financial security,
of constant updates and
lots of planned unavoidable social Events.
your flesh may never rot in this land,
if you care for it enough,
and routinely apply the Lotion;
the only worms or viruses that exist
will be made of processed sugar.
Nobody will ever distrust you again in that light-flooded digital land.
A child will never be heard to cry
unless beaten by a legal guardian
or gently denied a third helping of whatever it wants,
especially sex with animals
and beheadings.
There will be endless effulgent commentary
on the most common and dingy of ass-wipings in
the fine goldy expanse of
the internet.

the internet webbing has done and woven
what could not be done or woven,
in record time.
it has strung up and together
a world of atomized, abused
automatons,
and given them a voice,
and a large hollow tomb in which
to throw this voice about.
this web is dependent entirely
on electricity,
on a temporary maintenance of the insane
disorder of things


the magic of
the internet
can only be
compared to a
24-hour service station for the Ego,
and a warm rock for the reptile brain.
or else,
to an extremely well-funded
spy agency,
for which the spied-upon line up eagerly,
wearing big diapers,
to spill their guts.

it is a dating service
for the fed-up
and the castaways,
and a syringe for the
inoculation against general health and modesty,
used by salesmen
and government and your fellow man
to avoid living
and playing fair.
In the beginning,
it had promise,
but look now.
look now upon its ugly facebook.
it is an ugly sunken hag,
it is a sick-minded Golem
running wild.
Dirty self-adoring dirtiness
in the filmy public eye
is its Way.

now it can be compared
to a step-brother
that has come to wake you,
in your bunk bed, when the house was afire,
but stabbed you to death instead,
after giving it some thought.

heavenly bastards

they sit there and stare,
the Greats.
the legends in photos and eternal words
and sounds.
they castigate me without
a word
or sound.

"Do something. No more thinking,"
they imply,
and stare...


well if they're so great why
haven't i done anything?
and why haven't they
through all their high eternal deeds removed
the necessity of day labor for us,
at this late stage of the game?
Not very impressive.

humpty dumpty

yesterday i was dumped again.
tossed, thrown over,
moved beyond,
given my papers.
Love is all around us.
what the fuck are people afraid of?
i love the garbage man,
and woman,
for they disappear my many
fat loads of garbage every week,
for they are not politicians,
or giant spiders.

i love the post man who brings me
products i have bought
off of the internet by pressing the buttons,
using the numbers off of my card,
representing my imaginary
digital wealth.
i love the strongarmed officers of the Law.
their tight blue uniforms.
I love em for holding it down and shooting steroids
and thugs who creep and use
bagged drugs and not bottled.
i love very much the shuffling
homeless couples who have
each other
and lay about in moldy corners,
in their swollen redfaced misery
reeking piss,
glad for each other's warmth

i love my several friends
who number less than a dozen.
they have great patience and lending capacity

i heard
love is the mix
and the blender. fair enough.
but it is also
the noisy yet perfectly-maintenanced thresher of dreams, as well as
a thin slime we crawl through that
slows us down when we were hurrying like
sad but white vermin
here and there through the lab.
Love is a pungent healthy slime that cloys.
it suffocates and gloats
and stammers
and can't get it out.
love is grimy but we need it so bad.
love is perfectly beautiful and it teaches us
not to be our asshole selves.
it will stop you in the park
and split you
with a grin
it will separate you from
your money and your blood
it'll make you write
bad but generally sincere poems.

the thing called love
will get us through the night
and lend a sprig of dignity to
our deaths,
even deaths on the public scaffold.
we can whimper about it
and people will remember
us...
or how
if our flesh was weak and flammable,
then our love for the flesh and soul
of another was immortal,
worth praising as divine.

you can love god, and you can love a live or dead rabbit, too

Yea love surrounds us.
some would say like a womb of
life-sustaining fluid,
others, like a pack of desperate cannibals.
But all agree that if you dare use the Word,
if you dare use it
incorrectly,
or with poor timing,
there will be Trouble.
someone will groan
as if they had sprouted a
weepy but benign tumor on their neck,
and will have to be troubled with its excision,
and some other may moan
like a sick child in the dark,
dug in deep
to a bed of loneliness.

Lettuce tri two meek cents of Evil Monk Ease

George W. Bush was a man
who for a while was positioned over America,
both the noble nation itself and her
dignified people,
like a Gargoyle,
a gargoyle made of flesh and blood,
lots of blood.

George W. Bush was a gargoyle
of poor workmanship, for
it is said that he too closely resembled a man,
even though
he came from a long line of gargoyles,
known either for their viciousness
or their ability to marry into
families of importance
within the
banking and finance industries.

but as a dangerously stumbling and foul-tempered,
sincerely devious and volatile
sort of flesh-eating flesh gargoyle,
the imp performed well enough
in his duties as US president.
in america a blob of yeast can become president,
if only it rises to the challenge of securing
enough dough.
America is like a great temple or cathedral to Wickedness,
which needs always be topped by scary
if not powerful demon statues,
to keep away the forces of good.
some of the demons show themselves so sadistic
and willing, so lustily capable of inbreeding
with identical stock of hateful
european devil-swine,
that a country can fall under their shadow for generations.
They become as our own national,
hereditary disease,
a recurrent throwback of
moral rot, of tendencies to
cretinism, blood-bathing, and child buggery.
These monstrous winged aristocrats form
exclusive social clubs and steal lower-class children
from their early morning paper routes,
and fuck the poor children all over before
killing them in various ways,
but never mercifully.
They would as soon
burn a forest of babies
as flush a toilet
full of ticks.



the second of the
Bush gargoyle presidents
was chosen by what is called a Supreme Court.
this is a committee of huge black-robed squid-devils
that sit high atop an altar,
a devilish nine
before which all members of society may
by proxy come and be
flayed open and given judgments that rattle through
the ages with solemn and unalterable wisdom.
this panel of warlocks and one or two Kabbalist squid-witches
draped in the depressing tone of midnight human sacrifices
has made fractions of men,
and Men of corporations,
and the gates of Hell fling open for a little warmth
on their giant flat asses,
flat from sitting in judgment so heavily,
flat from lifetime appointments
and the weight of their massive bribes.

george bush the younger
is only the most recent evil shame
and punishment to squat over
this diverse land of spenders, buyers and idle rape-watchers,
and spit hot blinding venom into its many glassy eyes.
...But it was the grandiose nakedness of his crimes
and of his dark religious piety,
and the forward nature of the way
he took all those children and murdered them
inside towering office buildings
and squat mud huts alike, showing no preference or proportion...
it was that kind of brash satanic effrontery
that signaled something frightening and new
for the world of little people.
our rape would no longer feature lubricant
or even a pillow to muffle our cries.
Adding insult to buggery, the brutish sodomite was
none other than
the Universal Fool
and Royal Cipher,
impressive only as a badly botched being
who should have been secreted
in the bowels
or the attic of his father's castle.

Yea, we were moved in those years from the
gay fattening-up stage to the
part where we are introduced to our unique place
at the table.

Bright hot chicken

Chicken chicken burning bright,
sailing squawking through the night,
the awkward bleaky thwartsome night,
little yardbird you're so cute!
Wipe your nose and
show me your papers,
you are not authorized to fly.
You will never fly.



Deep in the borderless land of Sin
there existed a man who conceived of Virtue,
as he scrabbled away at a nothing job
with a miserable look
grafted upon his face.
It was an accident and he had been day-dreaming,
when virtue occurred to him.
It had entered his thoughts
like the biggest-boned

and least popular

girl at the prom,
with
tiny
tentative
steps,
as he bent halfproductively to the controls
of his station, in the lower ward of Station 7-D,
of the Northeastern Gummyworks sector.
But at once he was apprehended and understood
to be a defective and
very bad egg.




Authorities then threw him into a kind of pit
carved from stinky-reeking red clay,
glistening with a
greenish slime.
in the pit there was a sign.
it said "We your masters will soon fill this pit with stinging
911-legged millipedes and
unpredictable plague-carrying vermin,
and a dozen or so pit vipers.
Imagine the terror it will inspire
and the pain!
Will you repent?"

"what have i done?" begged the man
of his captors, who cast long stringy shadows
and smelled like suppurating wounds
but could not be
seen or heard.
Another sign appeared suddenly,
in place of the first,
and it was clearly nonsense,
but printed in red.
It said "Gabbledy-shivvles,
gabbledy-shivvles!
All around and in the bronkumbe shaye.."

The man who lately conceived of virtue and was now beginning to regret it
read the gibberish helplessly, and
heard a tiny scratching in the clay walls
of the pit.
He felt fear and asked in a tone of
maturing hysteria, "what have i done? what do you want me to do?"

No sooner than he asked these things the sign was again replaced,
and it showed a simple illustration
of a man kneeling with head bowed,
as if to present himself for punishment
at the hands of a Bishop or
some lesser cleric.
So the man did
what most of Man would do,
he blubbered without restraint
and knelt, and then
all at once
the giant bipedal Rats burst from the clay walls,
and performed a fiendish and horrible dance
around the now cringing, weeping man.
It was a menacing and suggestive
tango,
and it lasted exactly thirteen minutes and thirty-three seconds.

When it was finished,
his hair was bone white, and
he was returned to his other rightful, natural position,
at his little station,
but with
his pay reduced drastically,
and serious back pain,
and told never again to daydream
at the controls of the controlled,
the controls of his controllers, that is,
unless his dreams were vicious
wish-fulfillments involving
other people's misfortune.

Beer

Golden delicious beer,
Murky brown stout,
Red syrupy greedy glasses of ale,
also retrograde canned hipster lagers,
our faith is in beer.

Beer-leaders,
tottering, toasting tipplers,
angle your stein to the stars.
sigh into it, smile into it,
pour it deep into your
eager, thrill-seeking gullet.
Spill some on your friend accidentally with a grin.
Spill it on him when he is flirting good with a girl.
Piss its congenial warmth into thy neighbor’s lawn
in the pre-dawn, with a heave of gas and laughter.
Better next door,
than in your drawers,
or your pants, even.
Drink it to be a man,
at twenty one,
twelve, and ninety.
Drink it to be an animal,
at risk of losing wallet
and reputation.
Let your Imp show its ass.

Beer! Bring it here.
Let its praises be sung kind of warbly!
For it leads to the wild frontier
Of happiness and fun.
on a good night,
it can make a swan fuck a hedgehog,
with pleasure,
then allow it blessedly to forget.
It gives false courage
and somewhat
more honest words,
but i must tell you
it may turn your sense of honor
into a rabid mangy hyena,
a starving, sick hyena
let loose in a pre-school
at nap-time,
biting at all those snoozers.
You must be careful
with Beer!

That is not foam,
it's the potent spew of the Original G's,
Osiris, Zeus, Odin,
and the soft girlish curls of Dionysus...
an angelic cloud
over the happy tear drops of the Buddha
and the sweat from Li Po’s brow.

God damn it don’t be squeamish,
little children drink it down.
Admire it traveling through the light,
bringing specks of kindness,
wit and felicity
into your shadowy mind and your clabbery heart.