Wednesday, December 30, 2009

They Say a Shank


Covered in what's accepted as amygdalar care these days, one can take the therapy and writhe against it at the same time. This is an intimate interaction. If you are symbiotic with your interlocutor, there is a dual yet pure inter-protrudence we would like to introduce. Results that suggest indisputance, even in cases of inappropriateness: pubescence, any sign of leakage? These wd exceed natural license. Tho we a fiction house.

Hoolie wind, unwind. Bound to introspection, by the shiv, which was within. As the Twist is to the twisted, it's a way to work things out.

Way out would will more wild, could be involving major wiring, or a whole nerve bio-mesh quadrant retiring.

They say a shank is your last tank, Shane. Yud need a 3rd-A-Genda Witcha-Dokka. Name of Wayne.

MPS, MPS love, MPS name.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Hooded Meatball Face

Christian Giggles

She had Peggy the way she was because the birth occurred in a Crack. Water broke on a reddish brown golf course where giggling Christian children knelt bare-kneed in the dewy Spring mash with their parents and their clubs in a prayer circle. But there was a temple. It seemed a shrine to a hooded, faceless meatball head. The goofy children were giving Sylvia a bad labor, even as she recognized their clothing from a missionary barrel back at Shivchurch. Her guide, Rajkumar, had been a Living Child Goddess, and then become a caddy, then a midwife. The caddy-midwife and Tom made a human rickshaw for Syl and her unborn and carried them into the dark opening of the shrine. All its surfaces were thick with a paste made from human spittle and sacred blossoms of the Tagetes erecta. The ridges were the giant stone elephant trunk whose waviness was deep as hilliness under trees. Peg spilled forth onto these mossy undulations. Something like disco music began to play. Her special features, the spines, scales, woofers and tweeters were like mother of pearl then.

I translate this knowledge from the daughter of Rajkumar, now a domestic I've named "Miss Sprint." It is said as well that the birth occurred in a direct trajectory between the game house of conception and Peak Fordamall Chank.

That temple was a crack as sure as the sidewalk next to the bookstore at Sylvia and Tom's community college is a crack; they know and they sticky progeny are subject to fluctuation. I know. The Pegyuh's brother was my form-shifting, all-night lover.

Dr. Donna "Donna" Thong

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Promise

Here in a trophied stone house,
where palace charnel begins
its wet and glittering course,
I offer my fingertips,
blind and pendent ministers

of last-moment innocence.
There in pierced forgiving skins
blood charges your perfecture
and can whisper a promise
while hours press beyond my lips.

Tom

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Pothos

Gravity Station

I, conversely, felt nails through my insoles.
Maybe pothos shoots trying to get in.
Life to a woman requires a fine screen.
Only songs make a magnet of the floor.
Was your question no more than repartee?

Look, you, stud, spaceman, spelunker of holes.
We can make a bed with thousands of chicks.
Sign up the throngs in your gism as pets.
When can I make room for your steady love?
Children have rattles, and so do your lungs.

Syl

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

gravity station

it presented deep, but there was no pull.
a random, unvertiginous marker.
in lieu of a beacon, hoary barbed wire.
vandalists had no imagination.
you paused and asked me, “What kind of babies?”

a farmer’s wife walked towards us in the dust.
a tiny goat hung pressed behind her arm.
liver and tripe rocked in my cavities.
our knees bumped along with the potted road.
the highest peak in the world was a dot.

Tom

Monday, December 7, 2009

Yogi Mazuh

I rise up flat-back springing from the waist, Acupuncture needles hanging from my face. Because you touched me where I’m still a man You forfeit the illusion of a guru’s upper hand. Some chakras open up like evil boxes, Kundalini peaking like the equinoxes. Ayurvedic powders scatter in the wind; I doubt you know what chapter of the Gita you are in. I got my cult as an adult and I am rolling with it; We going to a place where Buddha never been. yogi mazuh [the Mp3]

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Drop-In Center

In this village, there's still a camera shop.
But the money stopped with a red dream
And chop, chop. We put a drop-in center
For the third gender made whores of, but
They mothers started showing up. My son,
You told me you went for bleach, shaves.
Sheaths. This is where the rice thrasher's
Dogs and chillun play Carom with poker
Chips. The neighbors came round with
Sticks and chrysanthemum paste. There
were fights, but now when we see goat heads
In the street, we can say, here, I brought
Some money. Internationals need batteries.
No more swatting; you must say hi to me.

I am Hoolie

Air Serum

road fires, 1000 nights in a cab: your stink cave, married man. proven air serum, meter rigged, but you carry me in a new-moon lonely-body seatcover steam. I am Hoolie

Friday, December 4, 2009

Monster Poinsettia

In this forest we give fear, alms to the Begging Rajah, who straddles a red-eyed dog named Shab. M' lord, your palms once carried, gave Vajras as gifts, cupped milk curd and batteries. Once, riding home to the Moist Pinkish Cave From a tour of generosities, which were your Fetish, you came upon a poinsettia as high as The Fordamal Chank, at Chukka. Its star-shape Mouths bobbed in thickets of plaited wondry; It's hunger smelt rough and good and buttry; But as your fingers slid thru the crinkled folds In bliss, there was a neuro-chemical stab, Your eyes rolled, and the Monster Poinsettia's Incisors chopped your hands off at the wrists.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Spin, Vajra, Spin

Maybe it's my hairdo that makes your bun fall to the side when you think of me, mom. For she is I that laid your egg, not you a Peg, and members of my retinue must twist the dhammilla so low and tight.

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

memory concern

nature made one womb insult
another, forced you from under
skin cover into bleached air:

how could I suckle your
charms when you'd stolen my
man, simpleton, happy meal

come back or die, peggie

Syl

Homesick for Sorrow


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,
shocking yolk-sucking
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...

Love, Dad

Thursday, November 26, 2009

My Husband is a Rickshaw Driver

Krais I think me air bladder's full, Syl.
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

Transgender Dad

This post has been taken out, swatted on the genitals with a white fig tree stick and shoved off a cliff.

Mthyuh Preservation Society

Window Seat

gray ceiling
chanks rising
blue walls of sea green
jungles or trees at least
where tigers could be
grey ceiling flat
and moving
yellow road scratches
white casting black shadows
farmers dig out
their industry
some cultivations
just look like keratoses
patches dabbed at
with brushes
over Myanmar
muddy river red and green
then a bellhop in full uniform
bearing orange Koolaide on a tray.

by Sylvia

Friday, November 20, 2009

easy home

Sylvia
  • a wild forest of desire under her housedress

Tom

  • usually amenable
  • sorrow of captivity
  • hyper-empathic
  • "We have to wade through a stink water river of suffering humanity, crippled dogs and burning tires just to buy a damn nail clippers."

Sylvia

  • "Don't forget it's for the church, dear."

That night

  • 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

easy home














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

Swooping Beast

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

You Havin a Party, We Havin a Party

Measure your success in drops of happiness, and the drug addicts win.
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

Lesbian Stem

Oldentimey couples often chance to sit and chat over checkers at one of the Preservation Society chessboard cubicles chained to Sin-Gaberra Chank. Today Chet and Charlie can't decide which carnival or what ride was the most chilling back in the century before Chang K. Chang was even a mention on the Chama's lips.

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!"