Sunday, November 29, 2009
Mechanical creatures and slime can rest in my weightless curls with room for your life and forty more. I love you that much to communicate my post-feminist claims so you may rest in my jatamandala while I shriek in carnal crime and despair.
My terrible living makes me pigeon, street girl to stars, but to compare, you are just a tiny ovum saved by chance on my vajra tip. You suffer sharply. But I am there. When you hear the cloying screech of a suparna, you feel me.
Your Peggy, Our Pegyuh
Friday, November 27, 2009
Peggy, daughter, godlike
horror; I miss dangling
from yor claws
Don't you have even one arm
on reserve for yor father?
you can hold onto so many
chakras, tendons, memories.
at yor birth as an adult already
we stifled our vomit be-
cause you were ourz, woma,
bird of technology:
your talons carried me,
so were a part of me, my
migration into yarns,
lies, wintry buff salad of
fur and cries, wild and
concern with pre-history,
peggy... peggy... peggy...
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Well just don't take to the skies, my love. And walk behind me.
Nothing like a brisk and life-risking stroll t'the hotel after Thanksgiving with the savages.
Do you refer to the motorcycle dodging?
And the blackout and the open pits and filth piles.
Happy Turkey Day, Tom. If yor lucky yule get eaten too.
Did you catch the framed photo of the dumpy colonists and dead tigers?
Hideous. One lain atop another. Lifeless as rugs.
And what about the way they announced our consumption from the minibar to all the other guests in the lobby.
You are ashamed?
There's such as thing as discretion.
In drinking or in collecting drink's wage?
Bastards will gouge you with their handlebars to avoid a stone.
Or maim a dog.
But we've come so they may see, remember.
Or for fear there's nothing for us anywhere.
Yor maudlin as a milk-begging cripple.
Yes, everywhere cows roam free, and yet...
Here we are.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
blue walls of sea green
jungles or trees at least
where tigers could be
grey ceiling flat
yellow road scratches
white casting black shadows
farmers dig out
just look like keratoses
patches dabbed at
muddy river red and green
then a bellhop in full uniform
bearing orange Koolaide on a tray.
Friday, November 20, 2009
- a wild forest of desire under her housedress
- usually amenable
- sorrow of captivity
- "We have to wade through a stink water river of suffering humanity, crippled dogs and burning tires just to buy a damn nail clippers."
- "Don't forget it's for the church, dear."
- she whispers praise the lord as they fuck
Morning in the Terai
- Big red sun on a 3rd-gendered temple
- Tom and Sylvia in silouette
- suitcases full of eyeglasses for the clinic
Thursday, November 19, 2009
against the horror of All,
sleeping in a plasm of snakes,
Cali rises in my face w/out your
touch, brief soul smiling:
i exploit yor dumb balm.
we can ride on fire back
to my place, a dingy 4-star
hole. Shab, my accompanying
dog, whose eyes glow, is mad.
Peg, manifestation of estrogen,
can take you down town, and
yor clan will grow old wondering.
Monday, November 16, 2009
My partner in the hard-plastic cask where we were buried alive in cellophane sheaths and cables and I took an airborne beat to contemplate what's now a rural legend: how the Chama was sucked through a grapefruit-sized hole in the pressurized cabin when the stainless steel flap suddenly gasped open at the bottom of the commode. In an instant one is there, and then not.
She was a goddess and could sprout again in a dirt lot. He was a prototype for Asian-American goobers. He kept hocking snot into napkins and stuffing them between our seats. He was scanning a spreadsheet and operating three electronic devices while tongue-rolling a toothpick in a baseball cap. He slept hard with his knees bent "indian style" and upon waking had already cleared the virals he'd been farming.
Monday vanishes over Da Nang. It's not ended because it never happened. Throngs phase through their generations as Archie characters in fresh skins. Freckles appear from nowhere into their rightful industrial age of error. In Spain, they called it edad de pavo. Big-headed, pencil-necked beasts. They are miserable and potent and giddy with loose beaks.
Chamatilly birthed as the earth turned her up: back, shoulders, arms, scales, and having been scattered to the winds, desirous of integral flight. It's everyone's problem when a queen takes a spill. Now she swoop in bald headed with piercings and claws and craving easy hot nutrition in tiny disposable dishes.
Thai Business Lounge, BKK
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Plumb sorrow, and regret.
But if we all can connect over stylized flowers,
Stencils of the same design in different colors,
Commodities will be cheap for everyone.
You havin a party, we havin a party.
Spread yor fancy plumes-- nirvana costs the same everywhere.
Here's our lucky day: don't have to worry at all a good
35-80 hours a week. It's a hypnotic supply chain.
Bring me yor backs, yol. You should be doing good, not begging.
If all I see is asses, I am Lord. You are selves frontal forward,
Trusting me. That's how we have fun signifying one another.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Was it Hysteria? Tiny Gun Toter? Envious?
If I had to choose, ventures Charlie, in a pinch? It's Devil's Clit. Devil's? challenges Chet. Charlie: You betcha. Chet: Clit? Charlie: Yep. Ok, just checkin, Chuck. Charlie: Yeah, I know whatchur thinkin: 'The Devil's Clit never choked a man's speech like the coaster over at Chank Dhubbabera.' But it was the cheddar curls, not the attraction. When the commissary cooked 'em crunchy, they cheered you good.
Then they made us colonize Chang K. Chang and opened up the longest ridemall in the wurl. On the Vagina Root, you could have some hairs pulled or catch a load of someone's spittle on your chest; coming off the Lesbian Stem, everyone would be dizzy and hurl no matter what. Yeah, Vagina Root, Lesbian Stem and the curio store, Prosthetics Whore, were all perfect for a second or third date as well as kitty-corner from the bar.
Pandora was just a gaping humid cave with a fog machine, but everyone went in there to pee and avoid the perverts in the Ladies' Room. For some of their ideas, we blamed Perpetratoress, which always had the longest line, and once inside, things just went wild with lists of suggestions on what to do without getting arrested. The only way to exit the Perp tricked you onto the street as if the whole churning circus had suddenly become disgusted and attested, "Yor toxic!"
dirt while a pit viper dogs its barrier,
wife standing by with a needle.
Isn't she regal in the torn screen
chatting on a land line? Aren't pretty
hands wasted swatting at dire straits?
We thot we'd at lease have some
body art to show for our aches as
opposed to a paucity of bike parts.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Shaded information bar insert, p. 15.
Chapter 4: "Dogshiv!"
My Boys and their Bitches
Dr. Donna Thong
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Corporation: OK well I'm the great big corporation. Think I can do what I want? Well no. I'm just a hallucination: you are me. The individual. Without your support, I'm nothing. Never heard of a Thousand Holes that are Tight? It's everyone pulling together to co-sign my Right to Plow.
Individual: Ooo lookie me I'ma little diddly noo-body who can't even pee without buying a contraption from some kinda capitalist. You'll arrest me if I just let it flow. You say I'm gay if I don't have a mug with your pig logo.
Hoolie drinks a lot of wheat juice and tries to explain getting fired to what's left of the disciples.