Cut a bitch.
Find a woman who likes sex
and a man who hates
she only wants the head
cos the mead will drown her.
I don’t make notes in linear time.
I shut the book in the face of knowledge tripping out,
and the book shut, still leaks liquor
of knowledge. The pen is there,
unanimous tendril seeking me
thin, etiolated by my violence.
My insides are inadequate, why would I mark them
We’re fucking with you,
we’re fucking with you,
a band on reason.
They’re just quadrupeds running in a circle.
Do a parody that slices into Jack Irish.
It’s not my job to teach the world to you, mate. Pay me, make it mine: enjoy
Anyone advocating for respectful behavior is fashioning shackles
for use by others. The minimum level of support is
don’t get in the way. Mate,
sarcophagi for desiccated insects inlaid with veneer
of tortoise and moonstone lapis lazuli.
The sacred is the decoration for the lie
artist takes commission.
A lot less will fill me up.
I was unsatiated, now I am knowledgeable,
my desires are human.
I can fill my self up with less.
I live without being filled.
Nyankalema, the bird that never gets tired, is the barn swallow in Zambia.
In Zulu, inkonjani, lightning bird.
I am not yet born; provide me
with water to dandle me MacNeice. I am not yet born.
Where do the gods come from?
The meek shall inherit the earth accuse the ravening feudal lords
with gluttony’s sheen, and white skin flaking.
His shaking jowls indicate an anger larger than a moon.
He bares his teeth to emphasise a state of hunger and the poor
dead children dangle from between them.