Archive for June, 2010

mousey hole

Posted in i'm afraid of americans, what the hell is wrong with me?, whore-to-culture on June 18, 2010 by tony saputo

and there it is in the small cell
the small forced hole in the wall
existing  just adjacent to the colliding force of each corner
hollowed out, dark, but somehow looming
staring directly at you as a mournful yawning tick, a dreary edifice reminiscing of each and every loss
come to the light of day through patient gnawing intertwined through necessity
the rodential, damn parasitic nature of it all mocking and counting down days to months to years

today a girl tells me she is lonely
lost in the wrappings of her past twenty something years
walking in the hands of a man
a father, a friend, a lover, a muse, and a disease ridden predator….
it does not matter
they really are all parts of the same beast
but the masculine identities are nearly another curtain for the illusion, the smoke and mirrors, or hell, possibly the smoking gun if you learn to really look at it directly
it really is all the same

for after all, who does not exist in these rooms
stuffing all the passed up ambitions, unspoken notions, regrets, apologetic self persuasions, and terrors in every hole we can
in every ear that will actually listen
on the billboards down the freeways
in the silence of the writing
in the sickness of violence
on the headlines of televisions
in the tones of our hellos
in the speck of our hopelessness
on the faces of every last dollar bill
in the dreams of our ancestors
on the tongues of bigots, politicians,  drunks, and womanizers
in the actions of harlots, barflies, and the beautiful people
on the shame in our very sex
in the drooling fangs of humanity
in the holes of our walls
exist our real fears

today a girl tells me she is lonely
tomorrow i will say nothing and watch yet another soul solve a lifetime of honest work with the perpetual downfall of a five minute solution

sold singer said shadows

Posted in Uncategorized on June 15, 2010 by matt questionmark

sold singer said shadows
don’t taint the wind
only reprimands and ampersands
crossing guards and fat free yogurt
blood spatter mudded brain
braids of grass strewn
across beaded highways of sweat
liquid bodies foil the plot
like a mercury drip
in the mouth wound of a student nurse
blood batter
kids scatter
that aint firecrackers
dead soldier at three o clock
simple dimples of suspense
suspending time
sending our lives into dwarfed rewind
get the kids in the van quick
cover their eyes
forbid the death
the breath
won’t we ever eclipse our sickness
be just and pigmented
by southern sands of yestermonth?

wasted figures fucking

Posted in Uncategorized on June 8, 2010 by matt questionmark

wasted figures fucking fantastic
spider arms and webs
and threads of yawns
tire us back muscles
frottage with the mothers
in the cottages in other
cities and continents
how sentemental:
we will our wives to waver
and wondering if we ever loved them
we walk in wilderness betwix metal and grass…..
[sounds seeping, restless breathing]
falling backwards in slowmo
through the rivers of ovarian salamanders
WE WEAR THESE WHISKERS
fleecing the crease
deceasing the priest
deathing church matter
\up against the wall motherfucker/
ass rape the papists.