1,304 Readings | 5 Ratings
Enterprise
I
I never understood the definition of bourgeoisie
Now we have white-collar poor
Mostly products of opportunity
What they dream matters more
Than what we can relate
Smashed up against a car door
Three places I avoid include ice rinks
And of course strip clubs
I adore nudity but despise my clothing
One remedy for the economy a stripper said
At a hockey game requires killing our own food
I no longer hunt at the supermarket
I have false definitions of reality
Which propel me through the workday
But seldom last toward evening
However as sunlight chokes to death on the lawn
Full of weeds I believe I can quiver
Enough to anesthetize my brain
Smashed against the car door window
Wiggling but not pleading
Empty but aware of the price of meat
II
Insisting on the body the intellect
Wrongly takes charge
Where only half a metaphor ought live
We don’t live like Son House
It’s new suffering
Don’t let intellect destroy your grievances
You still have time to petition
God a sunset
Hitting your toaster as the toast pops
Far too much a spoiled reality
I prefer to ignore the absent at present
And give my posture a reluctant aspect
Not reliance
Anything takes away
I want to sit here not breathing
Or doing whatever no one suggested
Or exactly what I am supposed to do
My truest friend has never said
As soon as your back is turned
All that you lack shall reveal
Itself burned up beneath low-lying clouds
III
My experience worth only loving looks
From lonely girls who thought they couldn’t understand
Mad red blanket before night
It matters if I walk down streets
I have walked before
Nothing marvelous will befall
Anything nervous will not repeat
I would like to say in revision
Problematic perpetually free
Break down and build
Rhetorical emulsion in the grass
I might as well say angels have fed the guillotine
And without tears
Regret motivates me to survive
Dirty bastard planet
We could bury the banks
Still the still point would scar us
My true friend resides in the attic
What if we made a song
And learned to ride bicycles
And cooked with spices and made love and drowned
I never understood the definition of bourgeoisie
Now we have white-collar poor
Mostly products of opportunity
What they dream matters more
Than what we can relate
Smashed up against a car door
Three places I avoid include ice rinks
And of course strip clubs
I adore nudity but despise my clothing
One remedy for the economy a stripper said
At a hockey game requires killing our own food
I no longer hunt at the supermarket
I have false definitions of reality
Which propel me through the workday
But seldom last toward evening
However as sunlight chokes to death on the lawn
Full of weeds I believe I can quiver
Enough to anesthetize my brain
Smashed against the car door window
Wiggling but not pleading
Empty but aware of the price of meat
II
Insisting on the body the intellect
Wrongly takes charge
Where only half a metaphor ought live
We don’t live like Son House
It’s new suffering
Don’t let intellect destroy your grievances
You still have time to petition
God a sunset
Hitting your toaster as the toast pops
Far too much a spoiled reality
I prefer to ignore the absent at present
And give my posture a reluctant aspect
Not reliance
Anything takes away
I want to sit here not breathing
Or doing whatever no one suggested
Or exactly what I am supposed to do
My truest friend has never said
As soon as your back is turned
All that you lack shall reveal
Itself burned up beneath low-lying clouds
III
My experience worth only loving looks
From lonely girls who thought they couldn’t understand
Mad red blanket before night
It matters if I walk down streets
I have walked before
Nothing marvelous will befall
Anything nervous will not repeat
I would like to say in revision
Problematic perpetually free
Break down and build
Rhetorical emulsion in the grass
I might as well say angels have fed the guillotine
And without tears
Regret motivates me to survive
Dirty bastard planet
We could bury the banks
Still the still point would scar us
My true friend resides in the attic
What if we made a song
And learned to ride bicycles
And cooked with spices and made love and drowned
Posted 07/04/09
Recommended
1,786 views
Comments (0)
|
Would you like to leave a comment on this profile? Join Ink Node for a free account, or sign in if you are already a member.
|
|