shepard fairey

ras

ras

ras

ras

ras

ras

ras

gustav dore

our boys

death and burial

wm

Saturday, October 30, 2010

I Just Don’t Think Like A Portable Unit


all my ergs are potential; my legs are grown over with vine,
my scruff of beard is shot through with a dull and agitated
gray, and, theoretically, I think sex is too much trouble. Once

you’ve been one with another, burdocked, the two of you twinned
for all time, mated for lust, branded, burned down, thrown back, and
thrown over for love, eternal, people start having expectations.


Felicitous Results May Be Obtained


by compression of the occipital at the
Vandenberg Gate while excavating the
desiccated plug from the neck of the

venal medulla with a 150 cc.
chambered lancet; mop with
graduated hygrometer and sea

sponge, and try to forget.


Death-Screws Through My Baby


and my head doesn’t feel so good. It might
be time for a soothing neural bath. Coffee to boost,
perhaps a quick hit of extreme power yoga.

7:07, it’s starting to get light in furthurance (sic!)
of my nefarious (via shiftless) aim to ease
my passage through today.


Everything


me included, is exhibiting the self-same symptoms:

viral patterns of exponentiation from a central-most
interior seed lit by the fire of the stars; all the while,
we, it, they, them, shine with a light from within

to match the brilliance of the morning.