Those dunder headed doggerels

disdain simple supplicants.

For them

there are none.

Crackpot gerunds

only look like homeopaths

when they trunk trunk trunk

across the desert sands.

Fine friends

doing the math backwards

all the time (all the time)

all the time –

sustained situational

(versus I tug off

her halter top) enjambment.

These screaming inveterate twit chasers

know nothing (not

as

nothing) about

nothing.  Curses

creasing out of the star sculpt

but so long lost

on their way.

Crease master go longer.

Over there (tree

by water) hung over

the lost sepulchral bung buffers.

(Isn’t that sweet.

Someone calling her friend

from the street.

Evelyn.  Evelyn.)

Sheer seersucker sadists

stand wiltingly

over all grave matter.

(I wake at night a hardon

in my hand.)

Terror dactyls mute

where nothing mates

nothing

and casks of cadavers

cake forked cracks whipped under.

Oh.

These overfed fealty freaks

gigobitten geeks

and hardware hammerers

have left almost all the women at home.

(Flossing Evelyn

in a long summer’s afterooon

of afternoons

under the apple boughs

in green at a slant

up on the hills.)

Ruinous roll overs.

It’s the mind

fucked or otherwise

that suffers.

Nothing left to lose but loss

and loss is last of all.

(There’s no one here.)

Cretinous lose washers

flaking over the tidal pools

pool

bent topped topless threats

that look like kids

you went to school with.

(My wife in a basket

of treacles

of thought.

She paints.)

It’s an illusion.

There’s an authority that paints the future

as an illusion.

They have chomp friends

at out of genitals in teeth.

Clamp crink.

Chemistry

for the whole family

for the home

and for the home that isn’t

there.

(She sings.)

These fine fighters

don’t fight fires.

A fire fight.  Fuck.

That’s all that that was that.

(Feet are sweet

and hands are grand.)

Shock and awe.

(Just old sleep.)

Sweeping stutterers

these storm ditch stammerers

only pretend (only pretend)

to speak.

(I feel you rhythming here

in pathless passion

all over the legless lakes.)

All they trap squat squeak

flatulence

brilliance short lived quakes

none over them top dips.

Over head.

All under wire neck off.

Dead.

Into the future

(the future) squeaky

days speak.

Is it actually due to reality

that people did that.

No.

Not for now.

Not for now anyway.

Cruise

missiles.

The bombings moving closer

to the center of the heart.

(To feel the edge of the world

even when it isn’t there

turning

or not turning.

Turning.)

They’re swill sweatered and down

among frat flanked fruits

eating

fruits.

All hell to the helpless.

Not a thing blameless or new.

You know they ace master immolate

master token kill.

Sad sidelines.

We get you gimme gimme hammer counter.

(Flavor.)

Before came (too) to die.

Face face over under face come apart

scree.

Scree.

Literal color air scree.

(She in them over by the park

baby walks.

Baby.)

Dollars per death.

And it would be dollars

wouldn’t it.

Would it not.

Cease fire.

Cease.

Cease fire.  Cease.

The man who rotten day escape heat.

Horror.  Head down.

(Simple verbiage over faultless water.)

Unseemly skies

ripped from rain ruin

over a desert.  No less.

(That boy is allow of love.

Over there.  On hill.)

Stogey smoking Smoky Mountain homers.

(Green lake tide mansions.)

Buck saw tooth back hoe

works irregular like

over the under terrain.

No place for babies.

Bottomless erudition with spikes

as is eats ego.  Pork.

Oh they’re slated to hate

they made the slate.

They slated on it.

(My mother’s curved ears

had she been a nicer one

or one’s own mother

listening to the curve of her children.)

A huge burning.

Embeds embedded in sleep.

In all of sleep.

In all that used to be time.

Bread potatoes rice.

The freezing cold of the mountains.

Women and children.  Alone.

The don’t do this of the map

stop change happen ok living people.

Ok anywhere.

Zero dead.

Don’t hurt.

Cranium stop hurt big time.

Really voicing concern.

Death has no sequel.

No one way about it.

It hurts.  Broken momma momma momma momma.

Big handshake.  No.

(Salad.)

In re around.  There used to be.

Deft.

Conniving windowless shoutout room.

Pain pain.

Rather deft downtown figure figure.

(Alan.)  Solo.  Gone.

Oh.  Sea worthy battle head.

Can’t stop.  Hormones.  Sorry.

Heading off the charge

that it’s all a simulacrum

at the pass.

Foot brothers.  Mercy.

The geeks shall inherit the earth.

Fanfare.

Fang fang fang fang fang.

(More like about a bout of timely writing.

For someone.  For you.)

Lewd newts.

Why don’t they kill the dead people

for a change.

Let the dead kill the dead.

Om phallus om phallus om phallus om phallus om.

Just so as not to fall down thinking.

Executionary deploy.  Decoy.  Damn.  Dead.

Destructive over antagonism.

Antagonistic over destruction.

All the edges are beveled

by other hands.

Glimmerless devoids.

Not neighbors.

Flagrantly deleting arms

(from taverns) and the like.

Smug affirmation after smug affirmation

that we

are we.

The high priests of the war torn porn tube.

(Hello.)

Supplies of food and water

are a kind of gentle reminder

there.

When they are there.

Flagrant drift walkers

fragrant

under air.

Crematorium over there.

Sleep is a continuous bickering.

Sleep is insipid.

Jewels break out (red jewels)

out of pores

(out of holes).

Intermittent cellular deaths.

Nothing unusual, really.

A light sanding, at times,

too.

News in the flesh.

Amidst sand storms

even small fires fail families.

Small fire arms fire.

So much flagrant death empathy.

(The graceful sweet ardor of your ways.)

Scarily hating even other investors

with only only that to live for.

No thought of essence.

The sad obliterates.

So the sad fact obliterates the fact.

In the end.

Most of living’s liquid,

as we think about it.

Moist stuff leaks from the wrong words,

the wounds, onto dry land.

Dillinger’s body is everywhere.

A slam dunk spit fire artiste

with crimes for knuckles.

Repressive dreams.  Oppressive dreams.

The clutches.

(Thereby in the rain.)

The soul has enough sharp density

to spittle the earth with scars.

Rubble.  Turf.  Detritus

rolling over detritus.

Preened envy.

(Please.)

Nothing can be undone.

Death is a course in history.

These eyes are drowning in themselves.

Flames around a moth.

Will kills.

Splattering ruinous gluttinous exasperated bastards

wanting.

Wanting wanting.

Foreign travellers with a sick thrust.

Errant kill fucks.

Noone’s exactly sure what we’re looking at.

(Hills.)

The cranial pain of a head butt.

The angular offal.

Little Abbas

no longer has arms.

He was badly burned.

His parents were killed.

Nine other family members as well.

A nurse wipes away his tears.

He wants to die.

An accident

of a smart bomb.

Challenged by his body parts

the dirt headed cock sucking golfer

drives deep into the heart of America

in Iraq.

Whorers or war.  A fuck for a buck.

A fuck

or a buck

for a bucket of black gunk.

(Civilians.)

It’s April the 9^th.

It was cold and rainy today.

There’s still snow on the ground.

Is the war over.

No.

It’s just beginning.

It’s always just beginning.

Sleep comes quicker to the Archbishop

than to the dead.

Cannibalism went out with the last corpse.

This is that mode.

Their cranial cavities become smaller and smaller

and smaller.

Their language became more prose

like.

Their life became more death.

And I think that there were life like

creatures in charge all along.

That they used to have faces.

Almost swept away now

by the lie of victory

into the lie of victory,

spite ass piss face mangle racial bigot sluts.

As if there were some thing to care for

and it were all here.

It looks easy

when we see it all with our eyes.

Our own eyes, the ones we don’t own.

(And I write this all for you.)

Those fucking little bastards

that made it all seem true.

Reckless divergences

still manage to finger the feckless bastards.

Some of us still think.

Popinjay miscreants, as sweet John said.

Death is a kind of foreclosure.

An unkind kind

made more unkind

when its hand is the hand of a man.

They’re white men, really,

the ones we might have stopped

or influenced.

They’ve had a problem, in the past,

with alcohol consumption,

and they’re not entirely over it,

not over it at all.

It turns to rage

and four thousand die,

eight thousand, ten thousand.

What does it matter, really

as long as the rage is spent.

See, for another example,

the eldest son of Saddam Hussein.

T & A.

Testosterone and adrenaline,

run rampage rampant rapacious

over the little hills.

(The hollow northern light.)

This horrible urge to create,

is it,

that can sometimes go so awry.

In the solitary basin

where still rocks the soul.

Where some still rock the soul.

These eschatological schatologs

that are

government

here

are

war.

Always have been.  Always will be,

I suppose.

A furor of fervor,

this patriotic tumor.

The desire to be top gun

or number one

under the sun.

I would rather

if I had my druthers

that each and every one

be my sisters and my brothers.

Into the elucidated tragedy

that only looks like life

these days,

and smells like it.

These horrifying clips

just waste themselves out of time.

People die by the roadside.

There is no gentleness

until we speak of it.

And even then.

An almost thrombotic misery

unites us.

The cold war

was warmed over,

won and lost

then won and lost

again.

Nothing unites men

like the death of a friend

or, in the absence of that,

the projected death

of a presumed friend.  A

soldier, really, a

young black kid

from the ghetto, probably.

War is male rape.

Over and over and over and over

and over and over and over and over and over

and over and over and over and over and over and over…

Gods & machines.

21Mar03 to ?

26 copies

26Aug03

52 years

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PEPC Digital Edition (c) 2007 Alan Davies