Let's wrap ourselves in coats stitched together out of poems, each one unscrupulous and compelling! Let's rush unencumbered by Sadist Potty Mouths through collapsing Marxist Alleyways, our broken-down Studebakers left to dissolve and rot into words into rhythms into forgotten ice cream flavours. O, to taste a scoop: banana-oregano or toenail-peach! Our typewriters still clack! Our carcasses still move, as if to say, "We are bastards, too." Our beat generations still generate, long-dead and slump-cunted; limp-cocked but still with sparks; hidden away under our coats like androgynous friends. Who can say what we must do now? Adopt imported tongues that gash our throats with song? Does anybody know Polish? Does anybody know Urdu, Underfoot Children? Jitter, stomp, careen, and laugh: Up with the Axis of Evil! Up with the Mad Typewriter Gang! Up with People! Up with our brains as we wheeze and nerves fire-fire-fire! Pop!
(c) 2004 Ben Rawluk all rights reserved.
Comments (3)
Ben- I forgot about our drink plans because I'm a bad person, and I've signed on board for this girl's night/going away thing for Heather! Bah. Can we reschedule? I'm sooo sorry. Happy Birthday!
Posted by Stiffy | November 8, 2004 3:02 PM
Posted on November 8, 2004 15:02
sweet line breaks by the way. I want to get into the occupation of space.
I need to be very, very quiet though. Tip-toes.
OH MY GOD MY EARS!
Posted by m | November 10, 2004 12:42 AM
Posted on November 10, 2004 00:42
"Me? I like the quiet."
Posted by ben | November 10, 2004 1:22 AM
Posted on November 10, 2004 01:22