as the masses laugh holding the pin to yr hand grenade heart

you
gotta
write
w/
the
shotgun
stuck
in
yr mouth

you
gotta
write
w/
the
hamburger
of
despair
in
yr
mouth

you
gotta
write
w/
yr
yellow
rotting
teeth
falling
out
in
yr
mouth

you
gotta
write
while
spitting
bloody
molars
at
the
ugly
white
page

you
gotta
write
w/
stained
cigarettes
sitting
burning
in
the
gaps
of
yr
gums

you
gotta
write
as
yr
top
floor
blood
pressure
boils
yr
kidneys
&
presses
threateningly
against
the
walls
of
yr
vessels
all
while
the
sides
of
yr
room
close
in

you
gotta
write
w/
yr
head
on
backwards
bleeding
out
of
yr
busted
nose
while
yr
neck's
in
a
noose


while
yr
nostrils
are
hemorrhaging
down
yr
crooked
spine

you
gotta
write
while
dancing
in
broken
down
shoes
in
yr
own
pool
of
blood

while
dancing
on
yr
own
fucking
grave
&
everybody
else's

YOU GOTTA DANCE UNTIL YR HEART EXPLODES & RED WAR PAINT STAINS THE RUNGS OF YR RIBS & YOU RIP THEM OUT ONE BY ONE & DRUM ON THE PAGE W/THE LONESOME UNCONTROL
OF A GOD

lines like drops of blood

my tongue is a damp slab
of meat among chips of skull

between the buds
& the web beneath
my life stories line up

broken off from
a perpetual lump
a tumor full of tines
at the back of my throat

they spring off the tip
through spaces between
tombstone teeth
like sprays of spit

not like venom
but rather the
antidote for the bites
within

hot droplets like pus
like tears
like blood

quit graffiting tombstones w/bullshit (for david mclean--fellow truth teller)

people aren't blank slates
when they're born
happily waiting to be filled up


rather they are wordless
tombstones pushed out of
the womb


mothers cradling
yet another grave-marker
in a birth blanket


not a chalkboard to be filled
w/formulas & philosophy
w/human horseshit


rather bloody
howling gravestones


& they spend their
lives slowly chiseling
their dumb names
into the slab


like they know
who they really are
what they really are


& maybe some etch
a cheap epitaph
a bald-face fabrication


HERE LIES SO & SO
& lies is fucking right
a rather appropriate verb


GONE W/THE ANGELS
row after row of
bullshit


nobody ever writes
the truth:


HERE ROTS A SACK
OF MEAT


ANOTHER FEAST FOR
CADAVER-EATING
BEETLES


& what will yrs say reader?


will you go down
into the ground
w/the rest
of the make-believe meat


a mute slab
of
LIES

dance in yr meat threads while you got 'em

meat threads

jugular vein
for a necktie

lungs
for lapels

colon
for
cummerbund

this human suit
that never
goes out
of style

one day you'll
strip down to
yr skeleton

& you'll try on
something
else
for size

a pine
box

w/nails
for buttons

death is
waiting w/
a tape measure
in the
final
dressing room

so dance
in
yr
meat threads
while
you got
'em
you son-of-a-bitch

trying not to stub my toe too much before they put a tag on it

the light bulb blew out
in the lamp
next to the couch

a pop & a flash
& then
darkness

like one of the stealthier
members of the paparazzi
finally snapping a photograph
of death

fumbling through a drawer
in the dark
for a new one
i screwed it in

the old one
still very warm
though dead
in my hand

a black spot
on it
like a smudge
on the crown
of a skull

along w/something
that had come loose inside
pinging within
the glass walls

a $1 store death's head baby rattle

an obsolete cartoon idea
above no one's head

& the new bulb illuminating things
ten watts brighter
than the one before it

sharpening the clutter
the edges & mouths of corners
in the room a little more

how lucky we are for this
invention
that allows us to see the jaws
& shadows awaiting
& precariously stacked accumulations
of dull objects

how lucky we are
that it saves us from stubbing our toe
before the tag
is
placed
around
it