Seems like I’ve not typed for weeks. It’s cos work’s been a bastard but now it’s Friday and that means, it means: I can sit and think about Kafka. Everybody reads Kafka. But out of all the poets on the playlist it’s to him that I’m kind of most romantically attached, and so much so I printed the Warhol portrait, taped it to my door. Which is clichéd. Sod it though. It’s my fave painting. That neon is alive. And looking at the neon I think: Kafka and Warhol are overlapping opposites and a cable connects the diaries to the factory but dunno how. And I think: Kafka is a console game. And I think: Kafka polishes a crow whose wings are purple and blue. And I think: Kafka Cybernetic stockprice this morgen fell by 13 points. And I think: Kafka visits Artemis bordello. And I think: Kafka has a monopoly on the letter K. And I think: Kafka in a seedy letter asked Felice what she’s wearing. And I think: Kafka Zoo. And I think: Kafka in the 2nd-person operates in the 1st-person. And I think: Kafka taught art to those who teach me about art but I’m a bad student. And I think: Kafka is a kind of detective and his stories are kind of criminals. And I think: Kafka produced music in spurts of delirium. And I think: Kafka is a brand-name for pharmaceuticals, a benzo.
Guilt––iso-trans (upthroat) mute
the UGH: Buccal-latching louse
in deep slope catch,
fancied esemplastic vessels
of yore eaten bit by bit
to a stub-muscle.
To remember now is a struggle
through mush. SOZ,
flush vain succour-fill
re. petrichor fizz cued
by Scarborough Mere doubloons
and the snip of a sabulous twig
in my velveteen box.
MOVtV raceclub “FOREST-B” [registered #: a79$] traverse flat plane reservoir a tunnel w/ bats snaking vacant coast highway ( highrises clip in/out lightstudded, clouds stickered to mirrored perimeters ) CHECKPOINT by bikini beach –– a pedestrian hit here last yr: totally headcratered a n.wooded region feat. passive, drugged mountain lions & fake fawns 2d cutouts ::: my sound effects of slot machines & cash registers go nightly here thanks don b :::: into evening & scooby-doo horror Tør: blank castle corridors at night. W00000m we R dreaming baby, plastic fed plant radio says (listening) red beside abandoned hospital –– creeps watching from window: w0 w000 w000 ⁓) morning again; notified of white blur, racers slow to 34tds/mm ☁︎ glittering datalike pollution in cummy breeze (sniff briefly:: turn neon green w/ bloodshot eyes ?) oh & there is a mood or absence or thought (or feeling) in the wooded glen, a racefan discovers, turning over logs & stones––– 67tds/mm 99tds/mm 101tds/mm team slows–––bright suburban streets lightwarped and there is only so much in time, one thinks of, one is watching a certain way of using sidewalks (in this afternoon of general love)
I wake up and think “where am I?” It takes me a moment. I am flattened against a kitchen island of a rental apartment in southern Pennsylvania. I have sleepwalked again.
From the floor I look at a clock on the stove. I shower with a medium level of heat. I enjoy most making myself as placid as possible. How calm can I get in any given moment?
A minimum of ten hours in commute is a quiet evasion from a ceaseless internal silence felt when I am free and doing things considered good for the body.
Your family is affection, but since opening the door to various winds, your family seems slowed, causing them to sit braced in ill repose, sometimes mumbling a little word of encouragement, but not much. We (your family) know only the dread of cavelike living and the perverse incentives that cause the panicked to “stay in place.” Your family is communion and future, a living devotional, amid that which is heartrending and gray, whether placed (see the family encircled) below arid, dreamlike breezes, patriotic banners (faded now), acid rain, and eggshell skies very zebra-like with velvet tunnels of birds.
half-lived girl, scaled curiosity decaying under sand / wesley swift’s fused radioactive green sand! the sinner actualized in split atoms beginning with spine / great periods of silence. except for winds with no flesh to flay. breath of anthrax two times removed. not allowed to become imprint on brick / not allowed to have ribcage dusted / not allowed to have memory disintegrated against a scabbed over-expanse of particles forming / crumbling / reforming. glowstick fluid – cyalume – leaking out of right eye. staining ground in liquid nightlights. blunted perception / eye socket turning into home for gamma mites. the inert weapon weeps charcoal – joy.
I. For Sarah Connor
you clenched your fingers
against a tarnished fence
bathed in glowing sweat
you were eviscerated
skin turns to ashes
and a war rages
inside of your fragile bones
cold silver metal fingers
split apart your sons heart
do you recall
having sex with binoculars
as a yellow bus continued to flip
across the golden gate bridge
For you, I googled how to write a eulogy. I never sleep anymore. At night, I hang out at rock piles and train yards. I piss in gravel. Under streetlights, the urine resembles your silhouette. Can a face just be a face? I got my first hemorrhoid in this town. When I wiped my ass it felt like a tiny blood balloon. Have you ever seen this movie? We watched a VHS copy of Face/Off. You hit pause when John Travolta said, “What a predicament.” Now that I’m living alone, I worry that I’ll die in my sleep (like you). Every morning I rip the sheets off my mattress to avoid going back to bed. Self-defense is self-love. I try to write nice things but the words come out wrong. We walk to the black house. Instead of a doorbell, it has an anal star.
Two cougars: one from Brazil, one from Honduras. Extensive plastic surgery. Palm trees. I am faced with my fetish for the basic and I can’t fight it.
Eyes I caught hanging each other on tangling legs or stretching out, taking selfies, a gutter lined with “Mercedes,” “Lexus,” “Infiniti.” It was too much for this cub to walk away without asking blushingly where they’re and now I have to own up to my timidity crashing and burning.
To compensate I can see you at this table of a boutique pizzeria your elite whore buying a large artichoke chicken pizza for $20 “Because,” I think, “if she has an internet presence, she must have hands.” “Because,” I think “This is the shit I think about, knowing you’re a coast away.”
The physical world as we know it will end on May 20, 2019, when finally the International Prototype Kilogram, a platinum-iridium alloy cylinder stored since 1889 in the aptly named city of Saint-Cloud, France, will be replaced by abstraction, by extrapolation from mathematical constants, at which the cylinder will gaze, if it can gaze, as Butch, a factory worker on his way into retirement, gazes at the few dozen lines of code, aptly named Butch.exe, that will now perform the duties he has faithfully discharged eight hours per day, five days per week for the past thirty-four years. At the prospect of a life of nothing but weekends, with one foot out the door but hardly bearing weight, he turns to the handsome man who showed him the code and asks, “Will your numbers and non-words remember to give the part a little twist right as it’s shooting down the line, to make the job easier for the next guy?”