~after William S. Burroughs, for the Poetry Police
The American cemetery is nothing
but coffee and blood,
drug addicts and info addicts
pouring their mucus membranes
full of battery acid for kicks,
sick yellow ghosts
caught in balloons
and tubes tethered to the sun.
Veins crawling with neon spiders,
a fix that hums like tinnitus
or a refrigerator stuffed with Coca-Cola
running in a bomb shelter or
a basement below the street
where JFK showed the world his brain.
These are the bites that glow
and pulse like liquid light.
These are the spiny tendril fingers
pointy and barbed with ticklish poison.
This is the American Dream
self-siphoning a hole
of Kool-aid laced gasoline.
I am Jack B. Nimble.
I am Jack B. Quick, of the Quicken and Loan,
son of Sam and a mouth
spilling rancid Quaker oatmeal
resembling liquified brains
or the last will and testament
of JFK's cerebellum.
I watched the doctor
as a kid with the alcohol shakes,
his eyes spilling centipedes,
kerosene, and runny egg yolk,
yellow as his semen
shooting against the wall,
his cubicle now a grotesque collection
of samples and abstract art collage
smelling like a rotten mountain
of rat bodies piled like they could
reach the moon,
and I felt my cock get hard.
This poem is an orgasm
gone so decadent
all the assholes are quivering
between the cheeks of assholes
stifling their ecstatic screams
squirming like worms in their seats.
I am the planet, the cephalopod,
the machine that devours screams.
I'm filling your ears
with the mucus and secretion
and fetidly fragrant semen
of words too obscene to breathe.
This poem is a gang rape,
a conflagration of penile knives
pumping in and out of eye sockets
and rectal vaginas alike.
This poem is teeth clamping down
on a scrotum like a thin fleshy
raisin and ripping it free
of an elderly body, setting the sky
ablaze with steaming blood
and the fireworks of throats
hungry for flame.
This poem is stealing
the virginity of the Virgin Mary,
a forceful moan of wind
ripping through clitoral skin
and painting the caverns
of press-ironed slacks
with her holy ejaculate piss,
the canyon cubicle temples
blue-black and business gray,
pin-striped suit faces
upturned to welcome
the spray of her incandescent shit.
I am just the conduit.
I am the lightning rod
of erectile nerve sense,
a climax of cerebral cortex
gone incandescently wild
like St. Elmo's Fire, electricity
skipping stones across the heads
of a multitude of dicks,
the flagpoles encircling the globe
like the stations of the cross,
wishy washy as a gay priest
granting sacraments to the sinful
or the diseased.
Your reaction is the expected
elicitation of being incensed,
an emotional response most akin
to shitting a razor
while someone fingers your gash.
I am nothing
but a windmill for laughs.
I revel in your outrage
like a burn victim rolling in gas
and slathering myself
with the sewage of your horrified gasps.
I take your petition and I fuck it,
I fuck it and I beat it
and I fuck it some more,
until it begs for forgiveness
for ever wishing
this pain to live anywhere else
but inside us.
Not only is it beautiful,
this depravity must not be denied,
lest it grow like the concept
of hell burst open wide,
a guilt this body
was just never meant to hide
within the parabola
of its senses.