bully crush

life over you is a better view
than forest or either trees
someone to meet my knees
and occupy my sharpest tips
of bone most honorable dis-
respect i feel for you alone

Cloud Dam

Driving toward the coast, the great mountain shoulders that let between them a wind pass to the Outer Chanks, we've been seeing a barrier, white-washed stable door, crimson smudge curtain at sunset, between northern and southern High Gate, where bouts of weather can build up and ponder a spill into our open gravel bowl. One you could see from the Community College of Cement, there's been of late a brooding cloud dam at Crack Gap.

We've got two car shirts, one getting its tail beat to fringe hung sticking out top the driver's side as an ultraviolet ray cushion, for a hooptie these days wants you to sit n' roast in yr own cancer juice as it crab rolls face-up along in its morning-loving glaze. The other's for short-sleeve work days to wear like a smock if yr painting short crescent lines with yr knuckles, sad faces rocking left and right in a studio that could churn the whole globe with a gesture light as a mouse's joint.

Where in the Wrrrl?

Cap'm is AWOL. Last seen slipping into The Crack with Hillbilly Jehovah.

White liar

Lectric pole in a gale, base is wagging the land.
Walking on is half again beyond an eagle badge.
Nothing, writing letters, shiny coins can trip the session.

Empty, kissing awl

Empty, kissing awl, riding on a wagon in,
Your wheels are hewn square, cad, heel.

Beliefs are polluted with the lining of the head,
Every skull a holster boosting love and hate.

Your breath on share from others or in egress
Tastes of useful rubberiness or harbors a tax.

The World's Agents

Now that it's 11:39, a frightened user checks the time.
Even doing nothing, you are a part of the community.

When the filter came down we gave up futility,
traded it in for fear and opportunity.

She'd like to remember, forget, but she can't think
while the world's agents swim toward past and by me.


Phyllis
"Fuck you, men of Canada!"

Gore Vidal Army

Is it dt's? Everyone looks like Gore Vidal.
Turns out it's an army of an era of dreamy
princes, scowling beauties who're naughty.

obambic tom

liar, concubine
shill clown of energy
black oilfield lush

black as the deepest
grounds, the hegemony
of your work boss

black of temperture
a kinder doctoring
of loins, a fudge


Bill Naughdon

Black mute

puppy show
tourettic impulse
black mute
thoracic cavity

dark morning
fire exhibit
kyoot ko-leckshun
weather denial

notion aperture
end's wedding
life as fuel
auto-miraculous

Some kind of foam

Sylvia sees a film of herself on the outside wall of the gym. Her colleagues are stopping in the causeways and pointing out look, there's Sylvia's corpse. Why is it standing and moving? Because it thinks it's still alive. Maybe it sees a projection of its past life on that facade.

Tom comes out of his office with his briefcase and a v-8, does a double take. And I was actually married to that zombie. Look at her now. He glances back at his metal door, pulling it flat. Who was it confused the word crack for dimple. Said there was a dimple in the fence.

She'd had dimples everywhere they'd put her back together, dimples in the skin between the limbs and torso like momo dough. What if everything had dimples, what a cute world it'd be? Tom starts the walk on out to his hooptie, one drowsy thigh prickly as a stuffed owl.

The word jail was blocked out giantly across the side of the county jail to give everyone fair warning and to offer no illusions as to whut yor approaching. If you had a warrant, for example, you may not be released until morning. That's where he'd gone to get her out.

Once the attacks were confirmed they'd arrested her for having been the first to report a flight-gifted reptile in an olive tree outside her office. Her coffee, fortunately, had been in a spill-proof mug. She first spoke with the chair of biology Tom, her partner.

She next spoke with her labor boss, the chain gang lawyer, and a team of crack psychiatrists. When you let me out of here with a stern admonishing, and it comes back for me, will their be a separate co-pay? she asked sarcastically. Those creatures have saw-like teeth was the rejoinder.

And if it comes for my lover, even if he doesn't believe? Is he covered? Do we wait in line at emergency? Suddenly the panel revolved like a bus destination eight ball. They were things in robes, monsters of erect and punished gravity, disappearing unansweringly into some kind of foam.

Mind as State

Memory and a human's fluids thinly planing on a concave surface, two refracting layers over what's not us but of our same dimension, at depths we are protected from by our limits, with emotions and lights.

We grant it's psychedelia, where mind is state: mind love/ mind rule/ mind the invasive host and replacement unto all horizons, a world of fright because of everything that sub-equates, unimagined, but waits.

Survival is my god

Survival is god
and god is survival
as long as i live
allowed in my body.
Yet if i say a prayer
to be in the bible
and still don't survive
then god is my rival.
While lonesome and odd
survival's my god.


Bill "Goldstein" Naughdon

cleaver riposte

The meat has clicked all across these sagey flats, stood warm with a mild itching in the hair filter.

Their tail spread, a full-body sweat, heavier-than-air broadcast, markers of which we get plentiful traces.

This fruit was conscious on the vine, the apple of our mouth, ignoble for the word prey, yet not a weed,

Answered back a sound only comprehensible as evolution's plan to rejoin a perp from beyond the plate.

humming to go with "mind has snot in it"

"Harmonize your own humming with this while you read the piece."

Mike

My Mind Has Snot in It

Vic and I both had shown up at late-night volca outta horniness, not piety. By the time they'd sung Admonishment to Work, we had each of us a hand on the denim of the other's strong knee.

There was no Marriage Plea, just a place to stay for a couple weeks that extended to a bud vase or gilded vintage gravy boat crashed inside the door sometimes when it went flat on me. 

I'm a dog if he couldn't have the whole loft disappointed and rearranged by the time I'd get home caked in salt from the pools the next day. I'd ask where'd you get the wood, Dave? Oh, Stella... he'd start to say:

"You know I'm in the stick trade, I cd vend a dozen lampshades, but I'd rather get you laid." I guess because of the movie lot furniture, the ink of a knight or rook he'd tried clawing out with his fingers, I stayed.

But my mind has snot in it; I remember trips to a childhood shack where his mother still lived without an upper palette, a tree that stretched across the whole garden hanging hollow doll heads, and his tooled skin wallet. 

Going back is ever a sad fable. The first time featured stainless cuffs and a hatchet, tho I found the lucky safe words, "yr bordering scary." The last starred my own dining table, but the same old dude's ass walking away.


By Mike
"I know yr out there."

The Unfired

When a judgment finally took my side,
and I was ordered back to work,
I walked into a wall fresh painted
where my door had been and almost fainted.
I overheard a colleague's words,
"Oh look, it thinks it's still alive."


by Donna

mentholyptus forest

Mother, if I went back, I think I wd be dead, and not in a good way. It's some dirtiness I picked up in the gritty city. It affects you because you've been under the protection of my lizard body. I want peace, I need peace. Peace. I'm a desperate personage. You may think because of our ministry we're safe from thugs. Even as top bitch, I am vulnerable because of you. We can take care of PharmSupply outta the offring plate, but who knows what a hard up flake with a pistol whip can do. Yes, I am serious. The preservation society, it's whut's off their radar I'm concerned about now. Even with Illyn in the street feeding intelligence it's a random bet we gonna see days to spend what we get. I have to go through with the change so's we can live in a cave all of us big enough to hold volca for three days. I have to become the K you got mixed up and had to born me with.

Chama's side of the conversation
Swank anonymous alpine hotel

Pot of Embers

That you went's left the ground a trembling. Or is it the pressure of everything not you that's building.
The narrowness of this alleyway has come to a V-tip. Do bricks and mortar want me trapt or gone?
In any case, I sit stunned, and not by beauty or sex. Can inability to fend off germs be their beacon?

Through the blossoming years my entire flower showed freely, outlines of priapus in midnight lycra blends.
Walking around thus, in any venue, not a witness complained. My innocence and backing by fashion won.
What we have that's shaking goes down in a manly twilight of language, a mutual contemptuous attraction.

Starting in the morning, a blazing hell will pass over all over again. The tumbling voracious mess, engraver.
What provides life is to look at is to going blind as to slow down is to put out lights. With a pot of embers,
We stay up catching up on everything that wasn't acted out wordlessly during the worrying daytime hours.

housetosis

We went to a foreign city and interacted with the beings there. Scat my dockers! A wooden barrel, shot through with rifle rounds as a hanging target, and the light that comes in: those lines make up what's underground of their hive: a demented honeycomb of tunnel shafts to explore. We popped up like gophers and entered through servants' doors. Then back into holes plowed in the 19th Century. Samovars for Everyone!

Then we thought our response should be thoughtful, of maybe even doing some pre-thinking. Our return to the countrymen could make or break our knees. To their point, we do have come back infected. We will has been a life changing. From our mouths bring a daisy: even at 109, if it's not windy, it's a burn day. No matter the measure of particulate already present in the breath layer. High production dogs dig soil into skies.


"Traditional work chant"
Chang K. Chang Chank Grain Bank Chain Gang
Dubbaberra 

Translation by Donna

Grain Bank, the Mp3

Lesbians Demand More Responsible Films

Chama Tilly's turning 40 and won't come down from the sea wall cave. In the middle of getting her preen gland expressed, the fully-organic K turned on her certified technician, flinging her more than 300 feet into the cloud cover over Cliff Suites. PharmSupply's medically licensed glandular biotics rep known only as "Phyllis" is passing a hard convalescence at Thong Clinic over in Chalk Chank.

"She was saying all day how much she needed me, how my skills were all that made her sane, and then whoop, flips out. Maybe I got too close. My rescuer was a level-2 protection boss in a flying-F suit."

We asked Phyl if her feelings had changed at all about having real K's or K blood/K love/K rule still flying, suffering when everyone would prefer to drive their own false K with closed legs or recycled K meat with privacy screens sewn on.

"No, because K's are not the only ones who suffer. None of us up in this chank or the crack that runs through it gets to live in an environment most suited to our "natural habitat" except of course for all humans. On the other hand, if humans and their actions are considered to be part of the natural habitat, then everyone and everything is entirely natural. If curing K’s would mean a major culling of the species for commercial gain, that's not okay. On the other hand, there is the odor, emissions, the sounds."

The K is a re-emergent life form that was named for the way it flies with its legs spread eagle. Barely living K's were hooked up to muscular positioning outfits and wireless saline IV's and flown remotely first secretly, then as a silent swell of cash transactions, and finally the unlucky target of public outcry. Flakes can't afford a K implant or the kenneling. But they deeply value the patrimony of K lore/ love/ blood/ rule.

We asked Phyl about all the hoo-ha on ground below the Chama’s lair: balcony to the world, sea salt and moss tacky. Though we understand now there was normally no more no less than pounding waves down there, with a narrow spread of rocks close as a penguin’s foot and only accessible at the pleasure of the moon, and where every low tide documentary reporters and free-speech zone die hards staggered under rubber ponchos in the mist.

“I asked them to give me a shot and bring me right back. Maybe I was the only one who could get her down. When I pulled up in the ambulance, somebody told me here, take this, and I did, thinking we were all a part of the same occupancy. Here’s a sign, they said, shout and walk around with it now. We were moving in a tight oval, no, an ellipse. I thought they meant it was a sign she wanted to be with me forever. But it said, “Lesbians Demand More Responsible Films.” Even when I put what the deal was together, I thought what better way to be where Tilly can see... that I’m totally willing to come out.


Chalk Chank [the Mp3]