the presenter

the presenter
has a hunched back
and
thinning bouncy spirals
of hair
i find some in the
materials box
brown and white

her neck hangs down
like a wattle
she glides around the room
with her clunky brown shoes
and
repeats phrases
as if they were momentous

we have the same name
she doesn't mention it
thank god

spick and span

little Indian men
with mustard on their mouths
wrapped
in my green curtains
chanting SPICK AND SPAN

its disgusting
their crooked smiles
rotting teeth
seems like all they do is eat

little Indian men
scratching their balls
tossing my lampshade
back and forth

it doesnt stop til
my cat jumps in
devours them all
bit by bit

investigations

there are investigations
going on
there is a possibility
i'm quite aware of
my grandmother is involved
though she has a bed wetting
problem and a glass eye
that could never stop her
her breath reeks
something died in there

the claws

Exercise the semi-smile
spruce, rehearse for seasonal trials
lace glove, squeeze pretty peach
evaporating juice heat

Judge aware of the matter
rewinds the clock just an hour
And the claws reach ahead
A swarm of sighs thrust ceiling
abandoning skulls sottish, roofless
disguised agent scorned and fated
commands more peach to keep faded

art

what is art?
what is art?
it's a god-damned fart.
in a container
or on some paper,
in the air
or at the fair,
what is art?
what is art?
it's a god-damned fart.

marmalade

a fugitive
a small brown box filled with ultra fibs
Heavens gate was rightly just,
in giving the symptom and the dust.

House exhausted still it shakes
between the cracks of lovers mate
Twined in rank the fingers paint
til the war gleams and faints.

My King, he sings nightly tunes
of damned winged clowns spitting spoons

Runs low jumping soil
how fresh it looks to grip and spoil
over hill it seems to go
straining forward stubbing toe.

Soon the prowl will subside
and the moon begins it weary climb-
take its light for instance,
making marmalade of fire ants.

My King, he sings nightly tunes
of damned winged clowns spitting spoons

Parading, cycling to the hills
monkeys choose to quit their kills
for a turn of sanity
creates gems out of us, humanity.