crane smoking a black cigarette
born on the 4TH of july, spy to be a bridegroom, alive, we, all, in july or as spies.
borneo, and a solemnist for the ambiance, soloist, and taxi cab confessions.
times of our lives, holding the phone, while our mother is rented out to rich doctors.
violence, in our times, watching, and laughing at, the medicine western, laughing.
those be our nation’s killing fields; those are the rap songs we love.
fire over; we go home and fall into one another; violins break.
she leaves the cemetery, scoffing; ashes, scattered; a few, cameras broken on camera.
fire, over; weaponry, only seemed sleek; seek the bright light.
something wicked in the machinery furiously angry, in the mind of me.
some trips to the ocean take more than thirty years for most, slaves we are: pedigree.
some women: in the ghetto: cleaned thirty-two yards, and stores.
violence in my life: what if i: who is it: beggars in the chicken: the lot of them.
doing what beggars do, best; breaking down money, trapping substances
keeping it legal until you figure, nobody bothers to care or matter.
jurisprudence; the lacking abilities of some women; the shadow of our sun.
i don’t know hart crane the poet; i don’t know me; i only know freedoms stripped.
a confederacy of dunces? rise up and strip yourself; cut your losses off.
fucking do it already; july and the fireworks fine; the works of the waters.
january never was; sorry; remember: not good, for alcatraz not good.
for america; poem ends on a sour note; poet goes out softly and copes.
phone is broken, use directions, used i-rections, phone is broken.
phone is broken, fallen token, use i’d reckon phone like, broken.
kiss, bangarang, slipped ships, fall forward and not out.
grace, notes corneal, loran and the bodies out, house.
all my life is, a brick, shit house, all my worlds underdone.
a brick shit house, corneal loran, and all that, slapstick.
apologize, too shy, can i forgive, you?
rhododendrons and the rat brigade, fire, hydrants, rats as mayonnaise.
by the smallest coffee house, a river runs across it, blue, not white.
kiss and kiss, and kinda tang, kinda under the rivers, bestowed.
kiss and kiss, tango rag, a river runs across it blue, ooh wee!
not white, with fire, hydrants nearby, the smallest coffee houses war.
rhododendrons and the rat, brigade, apologize, too shy.
can i forgive you, corneal loran, and all that slapstick, all my worlds?!
undone, by, a, brickshit house.
all my, life is, a brickshit, house.
corneal loran and the bodies, out house, slipped ships, fall too forward.
not out, kiss bangarang use, i’d reckon phone is, like so fucking broken.
phone is broken, fallen token, used i-rections, phone is broken.
phone is, broken, use, directions.
old phone ring me the fuck up. i need the numbers of R N K M and V R.
and the young women who got pregnant err married old phone. old phone?
take dictation. i am holed-up as hell and down to pluck from the bottom up.
as for the wasted, and wrested, rest. i am commercial cigarette.
committed to addiction, women. a lifestyle, on bad streets and white vans.
that don’t slow down but to pick up. and smoke a fig up and kick a brother out.
in the dust, rise up. just for the night bus, of it. what’s next: i go to
atlanta, crawford, no, i have to be home?
you’re talking about doing exactly what you said you would do.
that is, killing yourself. this has gotta stop. the wheels on the bus… .
go around and blacken the wheels on the bus. go around, and go yellow.
wheels stop, just like this latent astronomical. the wheels, but hang him high.
tell a poet about it, later on. i am slick, and i am down to pluck.
old phone rings me the fuck, up. we could have requested more: pennies from heaven.
as the avalanches continue, of calcined chinese pastoral apples. got cut, up.
by throat cotters hell of a day. hell of it is, the grape is lennie small.
brut… clumsy… like a cat or a williams brother. or a cocaine match.
roasted potatoes in the dumpsters of dachau and belsen. forgotten man, boss.
addicted to the lifestyle; a man makes it happen. the perfect gape is grown, just for the rich.
lower the ladder, and let me climb up to heaven; an ocean, like a liver, for dinner.
Bio: "B. North is a poet, near Big Sur, California."
Post a Comment