Taping Asides

I’m a throwback-to,
a cutup of,
a dead, asocial,
intermediate stage.

Grated-dead,
on a rock show
shown, in a song,
from a Bertha.

Then, I was a kid,
a twin tower,
not withstanding,
for a lot—

then, I would not
comprehend,
a lot to stand for,
back again.

I think, I sink,
in the Pepsi-cola,
in the gallon.

I choke, I coke
out red tan
Marlboros,
in white carton.

What can I do,
I can guess?

I’ve tried,
my pocket holes;

I did address,
a book,
to date.

I, once kept
monumentals,
in a junk drawer.

I was not tidily
kept, the junk drawer,
or the little junk.

Holdings on.

I found a
match,
all folded.

I liken and sense if calzoning.

Everything’s
holding on,
silent now.

Just a minitaure,
just impressions
sleep,

where it
once,
they used to pour.

A black-plaited
love,
today:

a reviving,
initiating,
lust affair.

I swipe white
cookie dust,
near in my eyes,
in white magic mountains.

I haven’t had,
cooking yet,
today.

A model best,
goes to, a
particular typing,
of childish abuse.

Now my poem,
says, self-
loathing.

I word, I will,
not have a vote.

I do not dry harbor,
the infinite, or
the manuscripts,

or the poet.

Matricidal middling?

So Christiania
did defeat
him.

I swirl ointment,
over orifice,
over pre-skin,

observing particle,
of accuse, this time
in your curls.