scarecrow poetics/essays
Friday, February 03, 2006
Under a funeral moon...
Swords wrapped around the cusp of our leaving off in silence. Tongue-torqued and holy roller tide the beyonder moonlight and dry ice to get the real effect down we’re fucked satanic breaking moonstream whatever we’re settled for it’s less than what we taste momentarily hark here the straits of the world. Maximal undoing spider form fucker blasting. What lies beyond the gates, it flies into your mind the spirals. I’m a goddamn automaton the cat’s bobsled meow karma. Yellow barbarism.
Black gates form a horde, reused words and forms, goddamn how I delimit myself play a musical instrument laugh defeated. Over there polaroids an instant affinity for the carved self thrown away: eternal misery, he screams. That girl over there. The sofa shits out a moon.
War songs.
Mistress molester, Fenriz’s drumming. De-adjectivize that last phrase please. Try not to describe. Cool nuggets of what I never have. Call iodine. Planted nutjob in the middle of the secret. Hear needs an other tool to fuck righteous. They wait on me to vacate the species. Can’t feel sorry for the deliveryman. Black blocks spin on a cancerous axis. No holes allowed to spew empire. Corpus spells ancient relief from the real Siam. Build for me your sweatsuit, the lion is a king. Plastic tannenbaums gunned down on wooden suede, how long’s it gonna take for the putrid scent to put its tongue in my mouth. Am I alive or else a gun. It always turns into this.
(Not so nervous now as puke once allowed me so. All that eternal plunder. You face gulleys blown fuel of rejection. But the or plane. Panic in the paracide.)
One day we all fall back blood. Less the sped-up galore to shift into height queen hoolahoop mary. We aren’t the future.
Black gates form a horde, reused words and forms, goddamn how I delimit myself play a musical instrument laugh defeated. Over there polaroids an instant affinity for the carved self thrown away: eternal misery, he screams. That girl over there. The sofa shits out a moon.
War songs.
Mistress molester, Fenriz’s drumming. De-adjectivize that last phrase please. Try not to describe. Cool nuggets of what I never have. Call iodine. Planted nutjob in the middle of the secret. Hear needs an other tool to fuck righteous. They wait on me to vacate the species. Can’t feel sorry for the deliveryman. Black blocks spin on a cancerous axis. No holes allowed to spew empire. Corpus spells ancient relief from the real Siam. Build for me your sweatsuit, the lion is a king. Plastic tannenbaums gunned down on wooden suede, how long’s it gonna take for the putrid scent to put its tongue in my mouth. Am I alive or else a gun. It always turns into this.
(Not so nervous now as puke once allowed me so. All that eternal plunder. You face gulleys blown fuel of rejection. But the or plane. Panic in the paracide.)
One day we all fall back blood. Less the sped-up galore to shift into height queen hoolahoop mary. We aren’t the future.
Travis Jeppesen © 2006.
Travis Jeppesen was born. He wrote a novel. It's called Victims. It was published in America by Akashic Books, and in Russia by Eksmo. His new book is called Poems I Wrote While Watching TV. It has illustrations by Jeremiah Palecek, and will come out in March. His work has/will appear(ed) in Purple, Prague Literary Review, 3am Magazine, Another Magazine, ZOO, thefanzine.com, New York Press, Bookforum, Pretend I Am Someone Else, Thee Flat Bike, dorfdisco.de, Pavement Magazine, Shampoo Poetry, Can We Have Our Ball Back, and a bunch of other places you've probably never heard of. He edits BLATT.
posted by scarecrow # 3:59 AM 
