on pavement

i.
of the collusion i say nothing
must prove myself a good citizen
allow the fabulous to decay;
the protest was justified
against the moss on my driver’s stuffed windows
doors locked strapped in temperate mornings

i say no way to talk to a man i
think you understand the crepuscular stretch of my stare
which you should interpret as an omen
against disaster just so &
with a mean edge in the event that
you cough up more prickles than the rain
of nails with which i stuff you to the soul

ii.
have faith inself flighty bird for if
not then you are dunkled & drowned till
the land twotters with mingy mankers
blanking all accounts of albion’s fine tinkers
blasted across a skittersoil
of dead leaves in an unkissed sleep or
the ambulating chaotix of stocktaking days & this it is
that you must prove by spraking & extracting from
the wet chewinggum pavement with a good kick

thus

iii.
you see my driver’s report was
fixed with no imagination & with rules
the witch computes my downfall
with long ambiguous twist of mouth
with schizophrenic dialectics contempt for any order
of thought besides own self self’s sminky judgement

deep ungodly cough brought about by
the inhalation of something small & dangerous
perhaps a fact or
maybe some software ...

tell you what i’ll hover over here
flap farts like hairspray on yr god
forsaken tearglass eyes yr
alimentary geography yr freeze-dried pudenda

can avoid violent coughs
can strike the air with rolled-up news can
strip headlines for lead & sell to nuclear scrap
merchants can buy up shares in protogenomix can
sell them too can sell the fucking lot for

abandoned perfume


iv.
now hell looks pretty much like this you can
not return it to the vendor if
it doesn’t fit doen’t work don’t
be honest whatever the deal

multi-larcenous corporations
light candles
to preserve the evil spirits
from dampness

& beyond the lines of cul
ture lie unopened thoughts
which in hell are corrosive


v.
erudite chalkdust crowds the
shoulders
of the grandest mountain i
would rather climb in
the sewer


vi.
& after there followed a sentimental letter
from the cynical ruffian a humdinger
of a professional departure

yes a very good job well
done getting out & vanishing the mould

the boss’s decision is final la
gramercy for guts &
a damned fine job well


vii.
again i woke up
late for sleep

shit i
woke up bald

Death i
slap you in the chops to
wish it on no man womb
a curse a struldbrugg’s dream

(a blind one

Death i

give you hair
if you lend me yr
rusty old scythe or
some immac