THE SMELL OF SAINT JOANS FLESH BURNING

U!P

[underground!poetry]

POETRY BY DREAMER I HEARD THE SKY SAY I WANT TO BE WITH YOU SO I TOOK A PICTURE OF MY PENIS AND SENT IT TO THE SKY I TOOK THIS FOR THE MOON BUT YOU ARE EASIER TO PLEASE [insert something the poetic community can pat each other on the back for] [insert formula] [pushcart prize?] [slam fondling?] [Im getting inspiration from goddamn Twitter and using too much profanity] MAKE A DIGITAL DEAL WITH THE DEVIL AND UPLOAD YOURSELF ONE BYTE AT A TIME VIA 20 EMAILS A DAY AND LITERARY ESTABLISHMENTS YOU DONT READ. THE SUN VOMITTED US UP BILLIONS OF YEARS AGO AND YOURE WASTING YOUR TIME READING THIS? I HAD A DREAM SAN OVER RUN BY YOGA THAN I REALIZED ID NEVER AND I DIDNT GIVE FRAN WAS INSTRUCTORS BEEN THERE A SHIT

All my ships are ghosties

I don't want to blasphemize humanity anymore I want to be an elevator. I enjoy books like a currency that's actually valuable. Innocent trees are cut for volumes of recorded imagination. Atomic face of Justice interviews citizens interrogated & discarded like victims of cops. I'd like to interview the sunlight, and fuck Joy the hardest Joy has ever been fucked, but deepening craters of the moon were found in Joy's life and Joy eventually found herself buried in consumer distractions flaunting false fertility manipulated under pressure of constant rape-threats from Freedoms family, a tremendous igloo in a desert. The Shell on Parade St. is disillusioning of any mystic or witch and flattering of the apocalypse that allegedly looms and smells like the burning flesh of Saints worn as cologne by rag dolls embroidered with unemployment. A doll that was once a man turned sucker when caught sleeping on a public bench, or a doll that simply was stitched into place,

or a doll that doesn't believe it can be anything but a doll. This generation need no Howl This generation need no Wasteland Poems don't push off hunger. Poems are not activists. Cellars dark with assumed mystery where wildness crashes loud and blunts are rolled and molly is snorted and sex is a common cock's brush stroke. Where artists paint rubbles of souls explaining how deep their metaphysics run (deep well doesn't necessarily have water) and many observers born and cultivated above ground state, "No, the shadows are not for me, let the Default Script be my protector." Drinking of shallow making-a-living tide pools, comparing not to the warm gulps of living. (Is this an attempt at duality or another relative?) Then the druggies and tongue-sluts and Gods and artists all act like the default script is not theirs, the default script is not just your life. Camera-eyed on public tongue, the dark beards of cellar-dwellers and tangled lips of prostitutes and maybe crack dealers too,

or the lonely soul who wanted to strangle me to death (and nearly succeeded, that was not a metaphor), whomever are the dark stain, we are observably being watched. News-reel interest is ferociously mocked as is the leaders and idols. They are just as weak and helpless as Us. The disgruntled revolution will speak louder than the News one day, (as oppressors may never chew the quality of you) and then revolution will be forgotten, and then last poet dies, and poetry is forgotten, and government disgruntles to ash, and God is applied to an empty planet, and universe expands, and Time waits for a new clockmaker passed out drunk with lonely Pluto, consuming hash with the chances we never took and the selves we never loved. I heard the sky say, "I want to be with you" so I ditched poetry to be slaughtered of splendor and history hauled it, and I, away collapsing into itself. But before being absolved into historys burlap sack I chased the sky and marketed the horizon. I will look back and say,

"I have lived a life well led". I will walk into my grave (the one I am digging) and bury myself in fabricated dreams, and rational lies. I hope you rot happy too.

Train Poem
I was reading poetry on a train then I looked out the window & saw something more interesting. I am a mound of poems. Some interesting, some inarticulate some clogged like broken penises some open like extrovert clouds, most though just futile, sterile like old men in the genetic hot tub. Conversationalists, at times, are intriguing but those excited to be alive, those crushing the cantaloupe soul and making chicken soup of shame I find most interesting. Their disinterest in the bugler's warning cries are commendable, as we need those who are willing to cut themselves open for what they love. The maddening feeling unedited The celebrated mediocrity starved The alley apple pluckers and train hoppers

and bank robbers, among others, have interesting poems to speak. Poets and artists are comparable to volunteers, without much to speak of other than their passion of choice once obsession orders their vision.

Give Me Bees
Sometimes my heart pushes my ribs and a million bears come out.

How to Box in Literature and Refuse Conversation

Today I learned that if you die in Amsterdam with no next of kin a poet will write a poem and perform it at your funeral. Here is a poem for my funeral. I'm going to outline the different ways I found you and discourage you by telling the real goal of any talk or speech and gain power over this very special technique that has never been seen and gain power by learning to become peaceful and listen and not just hear but listen enthralled and become excited with you I've decided to stop spending so much time submitting to literary establishments because-

"WOO FUCKING HOO!

YOU
have been published in the Paris Review, but how many lives did you change?" I wish I was strong enough to concentrate my mind but the Miracle Mind Manifesting Program refused me and I mailed a dead bird to the MFA and filmed a live one flipping up and down excitedly because he was attached to someone passionate to be alive. How often do you take the time to listen to your heart beating, your lungs breathing? (I've never given a shit about calories before) Life style strategies: $9.99 a month Essential guide to supporting youthful memory: $20.99 a month Happiness: walking out the door There is no jet lag here (or concrete philosophy). I demand your roses in my mouth so I can write a poem and speak it knowing where the poem came from. The weird bizarre symbols in dreams are dead poets writing inklings of future poets I'll kill thinking before they do Dont let them kill thinking. I'll place a "no one's home" sign behind my eye balls before they can ever grab my thoughts by the testicles and rip them off like I'm black and they are cops

Necrophilia
Poetry should be ordained by Federal Law. Than the poets should cast the dead to roses and eat all the books Demanding the gov French kiss a corpse named "How To Write A Poem" so we can better understand necrophilia as a test of how accepting we can be and draw cocks on the herald of the sun and kiss all trains in Wisconsin where it is illegal to kiss a train and we'll open free universities in Minnesota because those suits made it illegal for a little while and we all have the right to learn and the Federal law joins the literaries in the wasteland of past as the apocalypses touches hearts, and the last book on Earth kisses no one.

Smiling is a powerful technique

It is insane you can read these words right now and see them spilling like mouthwords of broken teeth and rainbows I'm scared like Israel. I'm a war criminal like Obama. I'm ignorant like homophobia. You can't hammer a nail over the internet I can't find the goddamn nail to begin with Did anyone bother to look up how a hammer works?

I think this seminar is full of ass holes We're a bunch of ass holes A bunch of talking, apathetic ass holes clogged with gurgles of shit to come and shit that's been. The anti-establishment makes me sad It's a big pussy licking my heart. I'm scared of the bullet I keep in my belly button and the gun I keep locked in imagination just shooting for a chance to become real.

Nervous Breakdown
During my nervous breakdown I want my poems to be present so they can comfort me while I cry on the archaic typewriter of what used to produce -what I thought wasgood poetry. But now the poems comforting me are angry and upset as I wrote them ugly brothers and sisters, they look like visualized emotions felt when finding out your parents are dead via text.

My Blue Balls
Poetry has set me down beside you Poetry has kicked me in the balls Poetry showed me I just can't give up on you Poetry pulled me out of depression Poetry made me ejaculate prematurely Poetry allows me to email dead people

Poetry is a way to share what a Catholic wouldn't tell a priest. Don't know why, but this thought just crossed my mindthere's one big nail that we've been trying to hammer in even all those acclaimed greats but that nail will never go in because the nail is a goddamn metaphor and we're confused animations pulling for a new artist. Beautiful trees are left standing, mothers get their suicided sons back and we all happily rot like poem Joan like bone like measurements like the un-eternal clock we think is eternal and the broken watches and angry anarcho kids who just want to get high and hop trains, so I say get high and hop trains.

Tweet Tweet
There's an extremely scared man walking around on 15ft stilts who is unsure of how to get down without falling There's a Japanese Man with crooked braces singing Nirvana in an empty karaoke bar There's an entire country being shot out of a cannon and landing inside another cannon There are leaders with thousands of pirated speeches in their pocket (silent singular) There are a thousand lies rupturing and truth is a silly clown with bad jokes The computers of Earth grow vocal chords with every Tweet,

If only we didnt have a 10,000 year old brain. If only our streets didnt make masturbation seem so much more exciting than flesh! If only people in Japan could read these words If only I could trove the empty mines of universities that are only as full as the student digging. If only I could go to an MFA! THEN I could write a good poem! Wikipedia, will you write me a sonnet? Google, look up the average size of a cock because I'm feeling above average tonight and you're looking warm and frisk-able (is this how cops feel all the time?). This community wants to go participate in a shopping spree at a large supermarket but I just scream and aggressively ram my cart into things In 2014 I stared out of a window while alone in my house and felt explainablely afraid that someone was coming to kill me. That was the humblest I have ever felt. I retreated into computers like a caved junky shooting up with a USB hid under the weight of my notebook. There's a balance to be acquired with obsession. How many poems do I mention poems in this collection? I learned from this But poets, I say I learned from this stop speaking hunched over a self-hating frying pan stop retreating from potential readers, and me, you, yes me, a hypocrite, liar. Its easier to talk when nothing talks back. 3:34 a.m. on train to Boston

48 hours no sleep no revisions This is as it is. Here I am world, my innards are arranged for you to find meaning in gray and discover seeds under bricks. Lets dig this together because hell, what else?

Sadness Is Not Something That Requires an Ambulance

A poem written from the perspective of a dragon A poem from the perspective of a dream A poem from the perspective of someone playing pretend so hard it becomes real (All my ghost ships are real and the stars glued to the ceiling are more radiant than any constellation) A poem from the perspective of Twitter about the hairless apes squawking A poem from the perspective of a noose that doesn't want to be tied, doesn't want blood, but knows its purpose A poem written by a drunk text message to the wrong number A poem from the perspective of a mute vegetable with the knowledge there's a bomb coming A poem written from the perspective of a pacifist gun at a school shooting A poem written from the perspective of the moon during the sloppy American kiss A poem from the perspective of a hilarious super nova A poem from the perspective of the sun when the earth is clotting instantly in his fingers A poem written from the perspective of a wound A poem written from the perspective of nothing wining to be a wound. The masthead of the personified heart is a reproduction how to guide. This people peopling shit has gotten old. Can't sleep, can't wake up Getting excited for being alive is exhausting

In a poem written by Gravity about his job, Humans probably wouldn't be mentioned. PART TWO If our bodies are Eden, when comes expulsion? The masters of Death are everywhere The masters of Death are reading this. The emotion of terrified mystics or the heartbeat of a dead celebrity causing a public seizure of Facebook statuses but the dead bum addicted to heroin or the missing children of Sudan are just anal thermometers. They only bother you when someone sticks them up your ass. "Hello patch of irregularity you must burn." If we personified history, he or she would be a demented nursing home resident shitting in pants. A poem written from the perspective of what humans evolve into a couple million years from now A poem written by what took our place as the dominant invasion in pocket lint web of organisms. PART THREE A poem written from the perspective of an aquatic horse which sometimes surfaces to mate with land horses A documentary of a poem read too deeply. Behind the script there's an idiot laughing his ass off like an idiot, downright stupid. We look downright stupid. That moment you realize you just want to yell and crash your grocery cart into the aisles and other shoppers (happens again and again)

That moment where you want to be a depressed vegetable waiting for a shopper to decide you ripe enough and cook you. PART FOUR If I was responsible for the sun rising every morning, we would have a fucked up sleeping schedule. Sunrise, go to hell. Moon is better in company. I've been getting high with her and writing dreams for the morning. They taste sour scripted, a mouth full of wet bear fur but they are safer like comforts of a school guidance counselor. So we fuck like angry thoughts crushing smiles, and awkwardly laugh together when we wake up, hating each other so much. PART FIVE A poem written from the perspective of the chair a girl was chained to for 12 years A poem written from the perspective of the blank wall in front of her A poem written from the perspective of her ears when she heard her neighbor's ignorant piano PART SIX Art rosary-ed around throat A poem from the perspective of those who are content with what they know. PART SEVEN These poems are written to provoke emotion to make you feel something. Imagery is what I hope to pull off necessity's tongue to convey a heart beat a somber sign of death a clip of a kiss a funeral you can't forget a country you can't forgive a bullet spent and stripped

an act of bigotry Life is your victim Death is your bitch Worth is home-made bread and you have yet to face expulsion. Go light bombs with your tongues.

Two Children Killed In Exorcism (Many More Will Follow)

You are my porn porn for dead people Im not dead though just really sad too much. Junkyard ghosties pour milk down the inside of my skull it pools under my brain and I think I see some funky God. And then something I cant name inserts its death-bone. Id be a depressed Eskimo if there were no other Eskimos to build the traditional igloo with. Id be even sadder if the summer never came.

Should I End This Collection on a Happier Note?

"My favorite part of everyday is watching her get dressed" Dammit poets! Not everyone is going thru an existential crisis! Your depressing vomit will not cultivate community, revolt against conventions we've harnessed like nooses Once you learn the concept of a muse your poems will not make love to her,

no, your poems will wallow in the default scripts of generica and automation, the blood pumping in the ball sack of the great white machine! Poetry needs to grow some balls, so the community can be kicked there and maybe something new will come of the bruise, or maybe the cult of creative arts will burn the foot responsible. "Your body is a ghost factory watch her get dressed in the morning, anticipate."

No! Poetry can go fuck itself with a cane.

Played out of laptop speakers and phones smarter than you I imagined a bald man raising his eyebrows impossibly high, like to somewhere on his scalp, listening to my poems. Visualize a man with a ponytail screaming 'this is my life!' and slap a stereotype on him. A fat boy named America eats a snickers bar in one bite, throws the wrapper over his shoulder, recedes back into darkness (eating is a physical addiction, so to the ass holes saying just eat less, stop, youre being a dick.) He burped and then made an exaggerated burp-like sound as if to mock the previous burp. Then the poets rubbed his belly with the big hand of The Rest of the Human Race.

We are all the punch line of a great cosmic joke.

I 01101100011011 11011101100110 0101 you.

I AM NOT INTERESTED IN YOU PACAFIERS AND VERBLESS REVOLUTIONARIES. I AM LOOKING TO PUBLSIH INTERESTING PEOPLE WHO WROTE THEMSELVES INTO POEMS. DONT THINK YOUR POEMS OUT OF BECOMING. DONT LISTEN TO ME EITHER. DOING SO DEFEATS PURPOSE. NEWS FLASH: world consumes itself after a near hairless ape tweets apocalypse

love,

DREAMER