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on a whale of an 80s sitcom theme song

i was benzed on a and dreamt a place where writers would cut off their fingers and rub jelly on the nubs to grow back stronger fingers to grip their pencils better with

and then runners and joggers and lifters and people with misshaped skulls and dreams.. and wed all fatten cause who wants a hard time finding clothing that fits when youre smaller than everyone else

$$$$$$$ $$$ $$$$$$$ $$$ $

in the salvo outside the tri-city are more trees and some farms and people hereve only got their peaches so this salvo smells like peaches

the salvo smells like peaches because farmboys only got peaches TO GIVE IN FOR THEIR CRACK DOLLAS

form . emb ex . emb

i’m three to four feet behind the back of my head

world like this says ‘float’

85-5

Locked blubber, like Mars always said, could never “unfit” just right. It ran through his fingers, but it snaps back and the carcass jolts forward.

Along sea hocks, red and blue and dying and branking vile vegetation, it could never un-grasp brittle waters. And kept on going and swimming and swimming.

At the hotel, he’s developed an aversion to orange juice. In it he puts two-to-one of glycerin and alcohol – of two different dissolved, extracted strains. Sits in bed, Mars imagines the sea and he spits and the sea dribbles down his pink pink-red chin.

we l c h o me

Stuck by pages of pounding and nut holding, grabbing, chopping, lobbing and grey, grey water turbid whose monkeys these rapids scream for

fuck me

fuck me

fuck me

mura, mura, where have you gone to

Mura doesn’t look up to tell the weather. Mura looks down, constantly. Looking up, when she does in public, is to maintain appearances.

This is important to Mura. It’s important to be normal. This afternoon, she will take Lysatrans-L and Kavain to prepare for her father’s visit. The mixture will cause in her a sedation of awareness. It will take away the nausea from the morning.

In the evening, to avoid splintering, one half-dose and one and three-quarters dose of Diskeratadine and CortAg-Recep, respectively, will be administered by her bedside before dinner.

To avoid vivid dreams, she will play Sounds of the Rainforest.

earachestwofortwo

Screamed at me at the kitchen sink, I’m munted already: “SEVEN HOURS OH SEVEN HOURS” worked long and hard and I didn’t do shit. All out of nowhere, I didn’t say a word, dinner was like that, toned greasy chicken with the bone in and big man squawking about my weak skin and meager hide.

Flash on, driving drunk, stupid, stupid. Eight, nine passes, at ten retorts in my head, get angry, smash my face against the wheel, punch the window. Poor girl in green, hood up for the rain – raining for days – sees everything and puts out that cigarette and drives away.

Hours later, a parking lot. Why? Why? I’m sleeping or dazed or inconvenienced by the bright light shining in through the windshield, shining by a lamp up there somewhere, glazed refract by inches of rainwater, pat. And I hate this place.

I have to think, have to think, to think, think too much is expected of me. Toys gone under the rug, when I wipe I think of the shit, not to clean, just there’s shit and I’m doing something with shit. Molded into shapes just to flush away under incontinence and, mind me, a dead cat who I can still smell.

Litter from years back still on the ground where she was, pressed hard into the spider crack corners I can feel still between my toes and, god, what a good feeling that feeling is to feel kitty litter between my toes.

Seats down, wheel’s up, security van trounces by with spinning yellow lights, but my head’s too low to see and I fall asleep with neck strain. I dream of the shit and wiping and wiping and there’s my cat, staring with dumbass eyes, not moving a bit. Hey cat. Not moving a bit. And I pet her.

getemtiger

You read your Buber. You read your Beckett, your desperate, your derelict shadows and you think like they do too. Figures gone away from you; you were never anything to them and they were nothing to themselves. Still you’re everything to you and you smell like it, glycerin extraction and all, alcohol barely legal on your lips. Jackson couldn’t cradle the world in his pink arms. Neither can you.

Tomorrow morning under fluttered, sagging eyes you’ll be there again, reading and loathing the world. And you’ll never be any closer to the morning dew and the grey sky fence trees shin-high weeds you want to call home.

mars v

Mars sees, through the spiny winter limbs, a blinking fire flashing at increments off to his own eyelid flutters. Every few seconds, the light would sync with his shut eyes and he would see darkness for a little longer. Time’s not up, just dozing for the night where Mars is perched, smelling soft, soft, snowy air.

They came in droves at first, but forgot the picks and axes and torch flames so they turned back, disheartened. Only a few returned to the stable under Mars’ feet. The others, embarrassed, cloyed vapid things at their own faces.

“You’ll get him next time, champ.”

“You’re doing alright by me.”

They walked around in single circles alone, though they could stretch out their arms and reach the next circle over. It was all said in whispers, but just loud enough to cover the cows screeching and the hens’ roast under Mars where he stood neck drawn to the dark, dark night, taking no notice to anything but the blinking light and the inside of his eyelids.

mars iv

Outside his window, he hears a crash and the slow cackling of sandpaper flame against brush and bent picket. The night street, riddled with blood, he sees an overturned carriage – food, baby and all – just lit by his burning kerosene. What a prickly thing to see. He hears some shouts from the wreck and a burst of flames singes the back of his eyes.

But he grabs a chair and sits tight by his window. This show is good.

Mars, when it fit the industry of the dark, dark night, would sneak into the fuchsia-finished backseats of hotrods and wait just a little bit. He would sit like this: like with feet on the floor, but head tucked low. His neck would burn so much.

Tonight - that night - a woman with candy – licorice gummies for the bitter taste red meat can’t give her – came to him in this space and had a little baby too. Mars didn’t mind. Stoicism of rancid oil turned into fine, fine sugar with the baby there. He liked the baby there, just there where it was so it could see his arms unfurl around the neck ahead of him and twist it to the side.

It saw him too, buckled backwards, occipital to the road and wanted to play, not to warn its mother. It lifted an arm and reached out for Mars. But Mars…

It’ll be good to be done with Mars, that rot-tooth. Maybe all he needs is a red hot flame to teach him some bounds.

You can’t do these things, silly Mars.

Wouldn’t want back in the sewers, would you?

mars iii

A rash appeared in the loins of all the neighborhood children, dogs, and rats in all points according to the butchers, tamers, and dog catchers. Exterminators too swore that spiders and roaches were itchy by the mandibles.

Mars had already moved in to every home and had a perfect room in each with perfect wallpaper and perfectly sanded floorboards. In the center of each, he rested on the fats of slurped old women. They too were pretty rashy. Even their long, grey hairs had coarse bumps the size of his pupils when they saw something nice.

Something had to be done. All this was out of hand. No one could sleep at night except for Mars.

mars ii

Mars was a snakebite in the neighborhood watch, who tracked him down to the sewers between Foley and Madison after a ten day stretch of no raping, no crime, no sex in any prim homes. Said they found a manhole cover bent in two, straddled across the telephone pikes, blown up off the pink asphalt by a dozen red-white-rosed flash powders.

So that’s where they looked and that’s where Mars was, huddled like a spineless middle-aged shit in the funicular to hell. Well they dragged Mars back up through all that sludge, your sludge and through the linen-smooth mossed-up brick and back out onto the streets where they let him free. Dancing, penis out, looking for soft new skin.

mars i

Mars didn’t really mind being a rapist. Children, whatever. Playing Damascus (at God’s rule), whatever. Just couldn’t really – not wholly – contextualize anything. But why the words? Jammed with words, everything. And everything around Mars like yapping, yapping children full of words.

Some stunning beauty couldn’t lift a finger and Mars didn’t do a thing. Mars would stick it to the wall. Mars would say “Fuck off” and Mars would be right because Mars didn’t like them too old.

climb famed longs peak

First like skipping over paisley fields – blink – then at home, skulking.

franwillsucktheworld and the world won’t stop for any kinds of shit

The kids would drive around a little stick shift chassis with bike rotors and bike chains attached on the bottom where that long spindle turns the drive into thrust and they would drive this four-seater wax dummy around Belfast where they grew up and ate sog and munty bread for dinner, breakfast, and anything in between.

Fran would head home after her ride around town with her three best friends and away from the other ones who watched from a distance and the one who wouldn’t let go of the bumper even in traffic and spills her menthol drops like pennies on the wooden floor, clanking like hellfire, and sees one jumping around all strange like so she pulls up her rosy, sweaty socks to the top of her shins, determined, and sticks a boney finger out to stab the bean when all that spills out at her finger’s shadow are a half-dozen maggots raging at two hour increments outward from the center.

She doesn’t know what to do, but she’s not especially tipsed at the weird sight because like off snowman pictures on painted notecards she’s good at folding away, away from her brain and she likes to stay there for extended periods of cloudless-somewhere-times summer skies and breathes real slow like she’s got no more heart even, but even that she can’t be sure of because she’s never seen it skip a beat or cause her troubles like her father’s did for him or like her mother’s could never do for her.

Fran’s got something heavy in her chest and it’s not fear now or rusted-shut caked-rust that makes her valves feel like lead pipes and plastic syringes bloated with god-guesses-this and god-fucksall-that – it’s that gone stuff of fear left behind like punishing apathy and cold-sworn eyes that can’t see fear anymore or death or maggots for what they are, little living pusses.

No, Fran hasn’t a clue. 

on a whale of an 80s sitcom theme song

i was benzed on a and dreamt a place where writers would cut off their fingers and rub jelly on the nubs to grow back stronger fingers to grip their pencils better with

and then runners and joggers and lifters and people with misshaped skulls and dreams.. and wed all fatten cause who wants a hard time finding clothing that fits when youre smaller than everyone else

$$$$$$$ $$$ $$$$$$$ $$$ $

in the salvo outside the tri-city are more trees and some farms and people hereve only got their peaches so this salvo smells like peaches

the salvo smells like peaches because farmboys only got peaches TO GIVE IN FOR THEIR CRACK DOLLAS

form . emb ex . emb

i’m three to four feet behind the back of my head

world like this says ‘float’

85-5

Locked blubber, like Mars always said, could never “unfit” just right. It ran through his fingers, but it snaps back and the carcass jolts forward.

Along sea hocks, red and blue and dying and branking vile vegetation, it could never un-grasp brittle waters. And kept on going and swimming and swimming.

At the hotel, he’s developed an aversion to orange juice. In it he puts two-to-one of glycerin and alcohol – of two different dissolved, extracted strains. Sits in bed, Mars imagines the sea and he spits and the sea dribbles down his pink pink-red chin.

we l c h o me

Stuck by pages of pounding and nut holding, grabbing, chopping, lobbing and grey, grey water turbid whose monkeys these rapids scream for

fuck me

fuck me

fuck me

mura, mura, where have you gone to

Mura doesn’t look up to tell the weather. Mura looks down, constantly. Looking up, when she does in public, is to maintain appearances.

This is important to Mura. It’s important to be normal. This afternoon, she will take Lysatrans-L and Kavain to prepare for her father’s visit. The mixture will cause in her a sedation of awareness. It will take away the nausea from the morning.

In the evening, to avoid splintering, one half-dose and one and three-quarters dose of Diskeratadine and CortAg-Recep, respectively, will be administered by her bedside before dinner.

To avoid vivid dreams, she will play Sounds of the Rainforest.

earachestwofortwo

Screamed at me at the kitchen sink, I’m munted already: “SEVEN HOURS OH SEVEN HOURS” worked long and hard and I didn’t do shit. All out of nowhere, I didn’t say a word, dinner was like that, toned greasy chicken with the bone in and big man squawking about my weak skin and meager hide.

Flash on, driving drunk, stupid, stupid. Eight, nine passes, at ten retorts in my head, get angry, smash my face against the wheel, punch the window. Poor girl in green, hood up for the rain – raining for days – sees everything and puts out that cigarette and drives away.

Hours later, a parking lot. Why? Why? I’m sleeping or dazed or inconvenienced by the bright light shining in through the windshield, shining by a lamp up there somewhere, glazed refract by inches of rainwater, pat. And I hate this place.

I have to think, have to think, to think, think too much is expected of me. Toys gone under the rug, when I wipe I think of the shit, not to clean, just there’s shit and I’m doing something with shit. Molded into shapes just to flush away under incontinence and, mind me, a dead cat who I can still smell.

Litter from years back still on the ground where she was, pressed hard into the spider crack corners I can feel still between my toes and, god, what a good feeling that feeling is to feel kitty litter between my toes.

Seats down, wheel’s up, security van trounces by with spinning yellow lights, but my head’s too low to see and I fall asleep with neck strain. I dream of the shit and wiping and wiping and there’s my cat, staring with dumbass eyes, not moving a bit. Hey cat. Not moving a bit. And I pet her.

getemtiger

You read your Buber. You read your Beckett, your desperate, your derelict shadows and you think like they do too. Figures gone away from you; you were never anything to them and they were nothing to themselves. Still you’re everything to you and you smell like it, glycerin extraction and all, alcohol barely legal on your lips. Jackson couldn’t cradle the world in his pink arms. Neither can you.

Tomorrow morning under fluttered, sagging eyes you’ll be there again, reading and loathing the world. And you’ll never be any closer to the morning dew and the grey sky fence trees shin-high weeds you want to call home.

mars v

Mars sees, through the spiny winter limbs, a blinking fire flashing at increments off to his own eyelid flutters. Every few seconds, the light would sync with his shut eyes and he would see darkness for a little longer. Time’s not up, just dozing for the night where Mars is perched, smelling soft, soft, snowy air.

They came in droves at first, but forgot the picks and axes and torch flames so they turned back, disheartened. Only a few returned to the stable under Mars’ feet. The others, embarrassed, cloyed vapid things at their own faces.

“You’ll get him next time, champ.”

“You’re doing alright by me.”

They walked around in single circles alone, though they could stretch out their arms and reach the next circle over. It was all said in whispers, but just loud enough to cover the cows screeching and the hens’ roast under Mars where he stood neck drawn to the dark, dark night, taking no notice to anything but the blinking light and the inside of his eyelids.

mars iv

Outside his window, he hears a crash and the slow cackling of sandpaper flame against brush and bent picket. The night street, riddled with blood, he sees an overturned carriage – food, baby and all – just lit by his burning kerosene. What a prickly thing to see. He hears some shouts from the wreck and a burst of flames singes the back of his eyes.

But he grabs a chair and sits tight by his window. This show is good.

Mars, when it fit the industry of the dark, dark night, would sneak into the fuchsia-finished backseats of hotrods and wait just a little bit. He would sit like this: like with feet on the floor, but head tucked low. His neck would burn so much.

Tonight - that night - a woman with candy – licorice gummies for the bitter taste red meat can’t give her – came to him in this space and had a little baby too. Mars didn’t mind. Stoicism of rancid oil turned into fine, fine sugar with the baby there. He liked the baby there, just there where it was so it could see his arms unfurl around the neck ahead of him and twist it to the side.

It saw him too, buckled backwards, occipital to the road and wanted to play, not to warn its mother. It lifted an arm and reached out for Mars. But Mars…

It’ll be good to be done with Mars, that rot-tooth. Maybe all he needs is a red hot flame to teach him some bounds.

You can’t do these things, silly Mars.

Wouldn’t want back in the sewers, would you?

mars iii

A rash appeared in the loins of all the neighborhood children, dogs, and rats in all points according to the butchers, tamers, and dog catchers. Exterminators too swore that spiders and roaches were itchy by the mandibles.

Mars had already moved in to every home and had a perfect room in each with perfect wallpaper and perfectly sanded floorboards. In the center of each, he rested on the fats of slurped old women. They too were pretty rashy. Even their long, grey hairs had coarse bumps the size of his pupils when they saw something nice.

Something had to be done. All this was out of hand. No one could sleep at night except for Mars.

mars ii

Mars was a snakebite in the neighborhood watch, who tracked him down to the sewers between Foley and Madison after a ten day stretch of no raping, no crime, no sex in any prim homes. Said they found a manhole cover bent in two, straddled across the telephone pikes, blown up off the pink asphalt by a dozen red-white-rosed flash powders.

So that’s where they looked and that’s where Mars was, huddled like a spineless middle-aged shit in the funicular to hell. Well they dragged Mars back up through all that sludge, your sludge and through the linen-smooth mossed-up brick and back out onto the streets where they let him free. Dancing, penis out, looking for soft new skin.

mars i

Mars didn’t really mind being a rapist. Children, whatever. Playing Damascus (at God’s rule), whatever. Just couldn’t really – not wholly – contextualize anything. But why the words? Jammed with words, everything. And everything around Mars like yapping, yapping children full of words.

Some stunning beauty couldn’t lift a finger and Mars didn’t do a thing. Mars would stick it to the wall. Mars would say “Fuck off” and Mars would be right because Mars didn’t like them too old.

climb famed longs peak

First like skipping over paisley fields – blink – then at home, skulking.

franwillsucktheworld and the world won’t stop for any kinds of shit

The kids would drive around a little stick shift chassis with bike rotors and bike chains attached on the bottom where that long spindle turns the drive into thrust and they would drive this four-seater wax dummy around Belfast where they grew up and ate sog and munty bread for dinner, breakfast, and anything in between.

Fran would head home after her ride around town with her three best friends and away from the other ones who watched from a distance and the one who wouldn’t let go of the bumper even in traffic and spills her menthol drops like pennies on the wooden floor, clanking like hellfire, and sees one jumping around all strange like so she pulls up her rosy, sweaty socks to the top of her shins, determined, and sticks a boney finger out to stab the bean when all that spills out at her finger’s shadow are a half-dozen maggots raging at two hour increments outward from the center.

She doesn’t know what to do, but she’s not especially tipsed at the weird sight because like off snowman pictures on painted notecards she’s good at folding away, away from her brain and she likes to stay there for extended periods of cloudless-somewhere-times summer skies and breathes real slow like she’s got no more heart even, but even that she can’t be sure of because she’s never seen it skip a beat or cause her troubles like her father’s did for him or like her mother’s could never do for her.

Fran’s got something heavy in her chest and it’s not fear now or rusted-shut caked-rust that makes her valves feel like lead pipes and plastic syringes bloated with god-guesses-this and god-fucksall-that – it’s that gone stuff of fear left behind like punishing apathy and cold-sworn eyes that can’t see fear anymore or death or maggots for what they are, little living pusses.

No, Fran hasn’t a clue. 

on a whale of an 80s sitcom theme song
$$$$$$$ $$$ $$$$$$$ $$$ $
form . emb ex . emb
85-5
we l c h o me
mura, mura, where have you gone to
earachestwofortwo
getemtiger
mars v
mars iv
mars iii
mars ii
mars i
climb famed longs peak
franwillsucktheworld and the world won’t stop for any kinds of shit

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