come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 10

            disarm you w/ a smile

            fist fight in a grocery store •• theories on brevity •• this is verifiably a pome abt telecommunication systems •• concerning the extraordinary patterns as seen on re-runs of Rubicon on AMC •• (w/ a strategy borrowed from Charles Simic) •• or today feels like how Casey Kasem felt when he first reflected upon the day that music died •• b/c in the snowdrift •• there was something, but it wasn’t consolation •• the decimal points of white noise reifying •• a prospect of flowers •• i imagine a cleaner from Cosa Nostra taking a vacuum cleaner to white noise •• blood dislocated all over the daytime •• Melrose Place on Fox in the shape of Our Lady of the Flowers •• my U-turn at 3:27 a.m. •• shoving the Aurora Borealis into my eyes •• or a little house on the prairie •• into Freemasonry •• w/ Prince and the New Power Generation’s “7” •• as a suggestive soundtrack for jungle fever in Jerusalem •• how irresistible, really, a Playboy Bunny in a snowsuit •• (by the will of Zeus •• undress!) •• else, the silhouette of a stick figure named Pluto •• as it contemplates •• euthanasia or Elton John or existentialism or eroticism •• that one Metallica video w/ scenes from Johnny Got His Gun •• on Wednesday afternoon, Sappho seducing Eros •• humdrum & a hacksaw •• harbouring the august of our discontent •• i presume •• “i will just never describe you” •• the heart of a crocodile w/ Pomp & Circumstance •• i admit •• “you are beautiful, if you wd only be real” •• it’s just the rainwater edged against yr breasts remind me •• Lady Day consulted the idea of fire for me •• as i was gorgeously lost •• clocking the wrong dreams w/ sympathetic research & hysteria •• my sleep deprivation •• implicated in the squadron of silhouettes •• a thousand discoloured letters like injured birds •• somewhere an owl hooting in amusement •• to flapper phonographs w/ Jesus hummingbirds •• berserk like Ping-Pong in a garage •• or a Crusader quantum-leaped into the future •• onto a Pop Warner Wiffle Ball field •• she whispers, “you sir, are certifiably 5150” •• but i’m too tired to argue •• or articulate why i wish •• to bring back the word “affine” •• so this will just have to exist •• then again, i may be convinced something is categorically wrong •• i.e. sleeping w/ somebody dreaming of someone else •• i need to stop being such a romantic •• walking past a baby blue jay in the public gardens •• eating opium w/ Pluto’s mistress of the moment •• this lady’s name is too much •• i think her stare is perfume •• i think, the inherent philosophical error of a lit match •• might salvage the subconscious •• the sibilance of which •• may as well be the national anthem of Canada •• playing as a typographer’s picas sprout from my torso •• to wit, i saw a police officer click on their Mag-Lite •• and having lost my way •• i can believe that •• as the sunshine bores the daylights out of me