Dark Room

i write my poems with a torn tongue
of Freudian slips
in dark rooms of modernism and supermarkets  of naughty language
that stick like fly paper on trespassing filigree wings of contagion  
where i remember the whole history of poetry
like a pageant of painted bride runway models
which i have culled
from the of blood of recognition

                                    BLACKOUT

a ghost from the underworld
i awaken to life in ecstatic perception
below shimmering celestial equators in a world of endless war
booming noise and scenic fruited braids of blurring tears
as enemies try to fill each others bodies
with spores and yardage of bladed body parts
and riddles of flesh
towards eternity as obsession becomes horror in an empire of rage

                                THE STENCH OF CIVILITY

where justice and power forever suffocate each other
in a phantasmatic struggle both born to intermittent death and renewal in some contra parallel juncture of back and forth
where burning floors thresholds of disaster
sprinkle embered words from hinterlands of excrement
giving birth to sagging hearts
and broken brains vignetted on skeletons of wire and shining eyes
staring    staring    staring
through muffled pinhole pupils
staring black

                                BODY WHISTELING

thank God i'm stoned again
and driving the white car in a crescendo of halos
slinged back fantasizing mythological booty dreamgirls
and the food they cook in their wet bowls
of melodious love and acrobatic bedroom splits

                             VENUS GONE MAD

and then i turn to puff smoke poem jazz
singing with opiated mouths
grinning red Beetle teeth
while driving through immortal clouds
of wish bone shaped pole dancers
with burning button hole eyes
spinning in horizontal love and death
blue pineapple aspic rhapsodies

                                IM YOUR FUCKING DADDY