Saturday, May 23, 2009

Petite Sarah

Download brian R. Tucker - Petite Sarah

Few Presidents

Download brian R. Tucker - Few Presidents

Collab w/ Jon

High quality drinking surplus cardboard, metal
flesh, shining exposure.
Bulbs burst with jealousy as the homeless
Man behind your stretched face tonight
rips his corduroy pants to expose an erection –
The facility, a useful member of society
dared dark rooms waiting spoiled light shrivels upon
exposure the leftover negatives of a post-life moment
in time. Existential proofs considering pre-reality, flash
points to live by. It was framed perfectly adjusted balances
and we shuddered shutters in 1/3 the time –
blasting emulsion from our ink stained fingertips covering
each other’s throats and mechanical parts with sticky
ever-altered unloving cells basking in the glory of the
yet-to-be. Spoken moats, ever-collected remnants
estranged. Idyllic siren melody ringing like stray cats
fighting over the last scrap of skin in the back dumpster
while the neighbors watch porno at a cosmic volume –
Let’s do this – let’s take the few snapshots remaining
and burn them, send them into the atmosphere to
the Brazilian woods where, while we can never
speak of it, they will wait there until the trees
are cut down and turned into Polaroid paper.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

these words are not mine these lines are nothing but lies the paper which this is printed on is soaked in blood the ink is gathered from dying children in one of those shanty towns far east of here or west and the letters which construct the words you are reading are dreams of dead men that mean absolutely nothing you want something recycled I beg you to begin here at the quarks of the written word a miniscule vocalization on the page represented by some arbitrary character an utterance a stare that could only be expressed with an elipses or projected on and off the page with strategically placed line breaks and stanzas this isn’t the only way you see when you really think about words and feeling and emotion and physical perceptions the letters break down and the words become components to the greater story it is in effect Nagasakian by the logic of several dead American men this writing is greater than the sum of its parts.
Bowing out along slippery
green blades swinging severed
limbs drenched in Sento and
Sonnets and the blistering gamots
of an uncertain shaking anxiety-
we forgot the book again
we forgot to read again.
It’s yellow outside, but we are all red.
And not all read, by shear virtue
we spend our nights in the company
of cigarettes and silly forgettable chatter,
neglecting perhaps an orgasmic
chapter or two, or maybe a just
listening to one of the many Prophets.
Let’s chug along anyway
let’s get to work sometime.
Yellow crusted over yogurt dripping from sliced wounds, or the balls we thought were in play sit blankly underrosaries of hanging jungle vines wrapped around an inferno of technological orgy sizzled fuck spread left impressions of our Lord on bedsheets left behind buried next to the bones of a dying distant planet only to be kept awake, adrift from the rain falling outside tonight across plains of leftover beer cans and condoms this is the electric sex pot encrusted sheets stuck together under your family’s old quilt and left to rot under the sink of the farmhouse’s broken mirror under it we lay all night and sang whispered prayers to one another until our muscles fueled with acid burning worth it we cried out when morning came and we remembered the night we did covered in straw and love and DNA like a mirored vortex a cat in a bag never existing but never caring.