The True Ant

Fucking adorable man-boy of brim hat anarchy and handkerchiefs that itched his nose.
Why pile all that anger in your eyes
and walk around selling it to the naive strangers
that worship you like the circus freak you are
so uncomfortable in your own skin and bone marrow
tired of rusty bubblegum talk
and narrow digressing roads to the park
your cloth handbag
and true moon eyes
cloud of Pandora hair
and molested lips
you shine like a beacon of animosity
on the universe's tides
the brick lighthouse with linear, stale beams
deserted iron over the lenses of your tea-shades
Pure maudlin
pure maudlin
rushing out of schoolboy arms
brushing against your cynical palms
carmine red vermillion streams
picking docilely at your childish brood
swaying violently with your volatile mood
you're a fetus in the scheme of things
I'm a watcher with visual endings

Lacuna Child

Forget
the world
and the snakeskin it has covered you with,
the beams
of hunger you have slept under,
the grit in your ears,
the noise
exploding in your gut,
the fingernails of men arresting your essence.
Forget, that you ever wore your jejune like a perfume,
the heat of your mercury skull,
melting
the soap bubble soup of
shedding age in your tub.
Forget the punches to your rhythm,
the bile of youth covering your eyes,
the density of wide-eyed, gulped-down shock in your blood,
the kilern of madness soaked in your spine.
Forget, my pet insect,
about your tryst with the universe,
your ticket to the illuminated camps,
the cost of roses to your teeth,
or the dew in your sooty eyes.

Your vellum is a ransom.
Only a ransom
for bartering the inner-skinned
punishment of some day long gone, to come.
To only remember
is this, then
that which cannot be dismembered
or forgotten
or rubbed into any ears and curved ribs
is your truth and misfortune
dear,
lacuna child.

Sugarman

Surreptitious cartons
of well being
thrown about by all the strange strange-lings
parceled, picked
destroyed unending
fledgling
pigeon holed condemning
bristling whistling
drunk dizzy
pocket
money money
road
road
old broad
broad stood asking for the right questions
out of the brain sockets
into the minor ones
golden footed
raven mouthed
your karma is a brainless trout
possessed of carnal interruptions
and booming instructions
with which to end the water's world
I am the minstrel of joyous deceit
so hand me some alms
for my popular hands
done ditched
done lone
done forgone
all her vicious moans
I'-m traveling like bold thunder
all over the land
now booted foot here
here under her skirt
now a rolling for dice of mirth
now here, again a see through fate
now her again on the stairs content
waiting, like the rust speckled candelabrum,
joy divine
upholding the light
from the grinning
usurped
spoon-fed
garters of all those i buried
in my pockets
laughing carelessly
as i did
so.

The Sham

The musk from your armpits, the stale breath of toast swirling slightly in your morning-mouth, your black shoes moving hurriedly in a personal familiar stride, you carry all these with you wherever you go. Your ordinary hands and woman's body are placed in the world's rapid waves, as you roam ashamed, covered in a thin sheet of another's skin, akin to a large spandex glove of ghostly epidermis. It's as if the road is eating up the miles from your feet and your eyes are the awkward and lost ellipticals of a nervous breach through life's eggshell womb. And still, you are moving and touching doors...handlebars of trains at 6:00 am...inhaling the sea, that slashes foam across rocks on an uneventful evening...laughing contentedly with a fidgety mouth, all with the dull thud of his body moving phantasmagorical within yours. He moves his hands, when you pick up your 35 rupee glass of iced tea. He squats to piss in the ladies loo with you, as you sit in awkward angles trying not to ruin your shoes.His hair is twined in yours, it's unwashed familiar smell weaved shabbily in the knots. His eyes are stitched into yours. Burnt sealed and nailed tight to your brain. So that they may never escape their prison of sickly-sweet surface tension. You hear the thrilling romanticism of music in the train, in the rickshaw. You see life through the black-blurred corners of an old photograph. You try to see beauty in your world because you want it to be convulsing with the satisfaction of a battle won. You want to stand on the curb and scream and scream and scream in the black and white high-contrast glory of poetic justice that "I am better than you. I will always be better. I always was better and you, you are nothing, you are no where, you will be no one and I am the greatest warrior, conqueror, queen, messiah, hero, pundit, saviour what-have-you-not-ever! And you, are nothing and never will be."


"But the truth" is, he replies, "I am everything because there is no other like me, unlike you....who is like everyone else."

Hey,
Wake up.
You.

Cut Open

I need a shot of the lipid,
some bursting of giddiness in my brain.
I need a soothing shock,
to disfigure all the noise.
I need you,
and your flame.
I need your charming compass,
pointing me to the directionless,
directionless hours, through the feet of turmoiled, turn-stiled, passing time.
An incidental clock, pockmarked and walking free inside,
the doors and rooms of my black and white shadowed eye.
Little cursive bent of corporeal mutiny,
little pieces of child-like aim.
Tender, gentle hands with veins,
crisscrossing the raised flesh.
Tender stomach made of warmth and suede,
under a cheek of mine.
Lips like meaningful sockets of truth and stale breath,
courting a lava tongue and specks of lust on the corners of the mouth.
Hauling me deeper,
deeper into the corkscrew vortex of,
spinning hands and hair,
talking guiltily of love,
and
not much else.
Give me your flame.
I need your charming compass.
I will be alive tomorrow,
and
cut
open,
tonight.