big time cat fancier


Bela Lugosi In An Autoclave


Beach balls ragged with me
The rednecks are gone now for the castles
and places where dragons piss

No one ever dreams of a dragon
pissing on a cutout of Bela Lugosi
What a sad little animal we declare

For this is is violence and we pinch
Him out for his life savings
In Hawaii there are birds like stars


Carmel fixing space between where
The meaning pricks and trucks fuck
In silence people still fidget with pins

Not enunciating with a karmic pull
Or yes I am the language of parabolic
love and autoclave jump ahead three spots

Norse ships drifting in and out of his head
Shapes fill out the sound and breath breath breath
We project old sounds over new chords and verses


Numbered girls going out and in again
I wish in and old bottle I could sound you out
These are the parameters of our understanding

Micah visits the north pole even when estranged
Bowling balls, visitor badge, flexing triangle
These pieces move up and down us as if yes yes no

Did he hit her or was it sound patting sex
Only figures in a dish of soot and clay
Dancing in our windows playing our songs and singing


Felling throw up moods bad little grains around us
Midwest is stacked or pluming out indigo dots
Norma's mother in a grave five miles from here

Sometimes a showboat and a way to leave drums
I go about sharpie points and grains of text
Gosh the thrum of nothing grows out here

Barely knowing the age of my awful daughter
Commonly mistake for strangers dancing on ice
These are problems of minimum wage drinks and nightingales


Book smart trannies have gulps of ulcer water
What an overeater triumphed over parried fans
Normal gales pushed over a dragon's fountain of glass

Patiently regaled writers picking bugs in scalp
Note worth memo floats over canvas on Sunday
HTML clogs the varicose and spreadsheets eat our mind

Nobody cleans after this fairy lisping mess
We are the only line against the guy in beer hat
Most likely to risk spleen for love not pictured

& (sometimes) y

Micah in an underground fugue torrents of kings
Crashing maybe to know fathers if nobody looks
Often clearing up the checkered glasses and soot

The town goes on along the shoreline like a kingfisher
Dishes out sleep and glop a log piled on dead things
In the water we have branches of lost people and yellow things

Almost ready to be over and done one and it
Now covering the ground and lisping to know it
I call out to something and something probably don't answer

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