After the revolution

Remember days of staring at white walls
waiting for something black to happen.
Remember a silver tangle in the dark
and the mouth that opened under it.
Remember the couch overturned
and kicking at it as if it were
the framework of the world.

Now even the birds sound discordant
and the air jagged, filtered wrongly
around their wings, seems to be pushing
its way into my mouth; I cannot draw it
peacefully into my body of guns and tobacco.
The plants are wearing men and muscles.
Ferns have little machines in each green shiver.
And you have to go sleepless for days just to make a painting
come out of the over-stretched air.

But the mustached podium man and his guards
have been dispatched into a graveless void
and it feels good to have them swimming under us,
hitting demons that we unleashed with silver saucepans,
their pants lined with egg whites.
We'll be free for a few weeks like years,
and let the presses roll.

my grandpa Carl is 98 years old
and he paints pictures of kittens on his bedroom walls
all the cats he's ever lived with
who have died

he has outlived them all
and his children my parents won't allow him to have
a new cat
so he paints the infancies of remembered felines
on the plain white wallpaper

his skin is as white as the whites of his eyes
but his hair is whiter
his paintbrush moves much faster than his heart

Manworld is not Manworld or a world

I said, in a lost essay: 1) nobody needs
anything that they fight for.
2) The fighting itself has become the only thing.
3) Dominance is as miserable for the dominant
as for the dominated. 4) Just ask someone
with a penis how they feel about being so
"powerful".

We threw lemonade at each other
and then we threw beer. We wanted to sting
each other's eyes. The girls ran
out of the room to let us kill each other.
I grabbed a stool and pressed its legs
against your throat while you slammed
a heavy beerglass against my hipbone
over and over and over and the girls cried
wearily in their bedrooms.
We tried to rip off each other's genitals
but our pants were on backwards.

Then we saw each other's faces
(as if the smoke had set the house on fire)
and begged each other to stop, which we did.
We held each other on the porch and cried
while the girls emerged from their bedrooms
and laughed at our sentimentalities,
we were so wobbly with one another.

I beg everyone to destroy themselves
and everything they love before it's too late.

Short gender war poem

We all (even the wifeless among us)
cling to a female comforter.
We can't help it (shadows stroke
the wall on which they're cast)
and everything male is in parenthesis.

Let's all hold hands and sing about peace and love

Shithead's afraid (fear is filled with shithead)
that we won't live through:
next week's widely advertised
far-off glistening weekend.
The idiots, the idiots, and the idiots,
and also the idiots, not to mention the idiots,
in addition to the idiots,
incorrectly have correctly raped us
incorrectly. Rape and baseball rape
and potato chips rape, and also rape.
With their orifices they create new orifices,
holes in proletariat space-time,
and with their beautiful knives. Now we wait
and hope for them to be silent as feces
in a far-off Martian forest. Stony, odorless.

Shit from nobody. And the seas silent,
a sleeping skin,
and rich men filing their nails
with files made from the bones
of the poor, who are stupid and have good bones
and do not deserve to be rich.
Their bones are also made
into televisions and spy cameras
by highly metaphysical asians.
Stomach intestine testicle screens.
Buddha TV. The sexless gooks spray airplane glue
into their mouths and throw elephant meat
from high city windows.

Eat shit from a broken shard of mirror
while crouching behind a heap of automobiles
that just fell out of the television sky.
There is! A comfort here! As a radio,
half-crushed in the smoke:
plays songs by singers employed:
by those who make guns most of the time;
when they're not making popular songs;
for the youth of death to sing along to;
as they drive roads of frozen nigger blood
into their own endless lightweight
craniums. Niggers destroying niggers,
using niggers. Niggers eating nigger-meat
out of crucified cracker hands.

Labyrinthine fistula of puffed clam-tunnels
fighting with each other's tongue-bodies,
acidic in each other's entrances,
licking yellow milk from a dusty cushion
as the cushion watches television
with aluminum in her wifely spine.
And an army of faggots, faggots
eating shit from broken mirrors,
marching over heterosexual hillsides,
bathing each other's anuses
with crushed infants,
faggots faggots faggots!

Trees getting married to each other
by evangelists with clam-meat eye-sockets
of no visible color, and faggots.
Cunt bitches popularizing bombs with their hips.
Cunt bitches popularizing the warfare of the sleepless
with their sleep, selling clams
to the sleepless with their sleep,
selling sleeplessness to the sleepy
with yams buried and rotting
in their important vaginas.
Bitches are responsible!
Bitches are selling miniskirt clams
to everybody!

Fear is destroyed by beer.
Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.Fear is destroyed by beer.

Cracker carries a six-pack.
Cracker carries a six-pack.
Cracker carries a six-pack.
Crackers walk past crackers constantly.
Crackers contrast the terrorists
on each other's T-shirts.
Cracker knows what's best for everybody.
Everybody knows what's best for cracker.
And each can holds the blood, with bubbles.
Cracker rules the world, until asian.
Cracker rules the world, until asian.
The whole world is Pearl Harbor tomorrow.
The six-pack is the white-man's burden.
The six-pack is the white-man's burden.
His eyes are nipple erasers, his head
is the body of a dead baby sucking at the air.