Sunday, January 29, 2012

unobtainium


Big Ben stole all the peanut butter. He says sorry.

I

unobtainium is best described as a substance
which, faced with the ethereal nothing
of the darkness or the lime-crusted hands
in your mother’s tomb, will evaporate on command.



unobtainium is like four girls killing hydras on a
river bank, combined with jellabean firestarters
and a stream, a stream of arbitrary tributaries all filled to the
                                                                                                brim with magma and shit.

Magma and shit,
and you can bet your ass your Genghis Khan impression will
fool no one, and you can also bet on your father’s gravestone that
he will not be at the funeral—
it’ll become a corpse underneath the eyes of King Kong.
            Yes, King Kong, he is present at a funeral only because
he is a funeral in itself, he is the top notch collar-fricken                             hoodahday
that can combine your presence with a heat ray so hot
it’ll melt the cornflakes off your schisch-kabob homeskillet.

II
I’ve lost a friend to Justin Beiber,
or is his name George? He ferries fairies from the underworld
childhood into the Land of the Living, the decaying water bottles
and push pins and Coca Cola cans and rop-foppin’ huggin-tuggins.

One chicken mcnugget later and you’re there
with your ketchup pocket jeans and three shillings
that ride with the wind in your blonde hair.

Or do they die like elephants led to the wine-country in
Hannibal Lector’s crematorium, where the people you eat
are the people you love?        answer me.

Bump in the night, collate the yumyums and feed them to your brother;
he’s sick of trying. and so are you.
so am i. sick of trying anything ever, you wanna give up and move
to Memphis and become a country western star but you’re stuck here with
ten umbamillion lights that flicker when you say hello,
or when you had a bad dream,
or when milk is spilled and no one cries.
no one ever cries over the apple-juice that fell into the refrigerator
open and caused so much havoc that it was left alone to fester
and call in the ants who are willing, by God!, to drill
in Antarctica for their life source,
who are so willing to communicate legends about
Love and Craft and Magic inside a funeral home.

crinkle blinkls fuggin tinkles eradicate the money-maker, forlorn and jabberwocked to little
ittle bits
like a collarbone on a piece of riff raff trailer trash vermin dogbone milkmaid hunky-dory barmaid rip raid and replenish those who cannot offer you what I most willingly can.

and those principles, they’re buried under
three feet of dirt, past Rush Hall and the twin waters holding up the world with their clean-truckin                                                                                                                     gobble gobble Atlas fingertips.

The cities, they rise like ashes to the scent of your face,
each one climbing into you to fill you with death
and fire and gurgles of iodine.

                                                adslfnsoladfnsf
                                    srgnmrglne
            pl4 ro45r0

Can you hear the radio towers now? they’re sending out
signals to get you to
the next line,
the next minute, the next car payment saxophone solo marvin gaye hit, the next girl next  dream next next
gribblegrabble drunken monkin octopus wore a sweatervest to the mall!

four AM and you’re lying awake, walking awake,
finding the early morning to be as what hurricanes leave  droptowns.
Imitate initiate alleviate whatever opium burns
lay on your liver,
eggs from spiders that slither through your digestive system, using it
the way a caveman would use           acave.
They sleep inside the junk drawer and when you pull it open
to find those scissors the spiders, they crawl
on your lipstick and shit out hunger pains.

III
But none for you, CARROT.                                        CAN YOU HEAR ME in your sweet little head?
Remember that you and I, we were meant
to be more than just star-gazing hooliganizin jellyfishin swashbucklas.
We were more, you were more. You just can’t seem to slip
and slide down the barricades to tell me that
we should get married! and I’d say fuckyeah! and
we’d have four little rugrats, each one named the same thing—Muhammad Ali,
even if they’re girls but if they’re girls I’d paint them a picture of one,
and they would stick it on the doorknob every night before whispering the three words which,
when you say them to me,
I get all tingly inside.

Justin Beiber smiles at your accomplishments.
Congratulations.

IV
Millions and drinking ramping arsenic
rick-rolled boogie       down before
the riots begin, because when the shit hits the fan you better
duck your head under your 1950s desk
and pray to your indie god that your hair doesn’t get wet.

aaaaaaaaaand the hermits will sing
with the toads while the flies cover the world
in a stingy eloping borneo.

            Telephone call television,
            tell me some tele-versions.
the remote will now act in real time,
            and that shall suggest that no time is real time,
and real time is no time at all.

but wait a second, peanut butter
in the gears of Big Ben is the only way
to legit stop time, otherwise you just get a bunch
of melting clocks.

                                    See this? you’re missing this. you’re missing me, I’m sure
all too caught up in your paint-free neutral toot-oreos
front-drive your automobile
into the wall and clash with an ice cube
before taking your George the Curious home for a bath
in oatmeal and grass;;;
                                               
                                                                        HEY, TEMPLE OF THE SUN GOD!
                                                                                                NICE TO SEE YOUR PRETTY FRUITS HERE;
Your oranges show me light in the forest for the trees,
and you always know when I’m gonna show up for dinner
and you can dream with the mushroom clouds
but when the hurricane hits,
you’re too far away for the drink to see.

Bears sink down into the mud before heading back
to the castle, and you, blondie,
you can’t find your top hat because some gnome
took it and hid it underneath the universe,
because gnomes are secretly working underneath Big Ben,
peanut butter in hand, for as we all know,
the world is up for grabs.

V
Ensure your cadi, Maddy, before you set off and conquer the moon.
the cheese sandwiches you have prepared will
conjugate the following phrases in French.

Ahem.

FUCK
GODDAMN
SHIT-ASS
ASS-CLOWN
            and, the classic
IMGOINGTOTAKETHISPIECEOFSHITYOUCALLAHANDYPANANDSHOVEITSOFARDOWNYOURTHROATYOUWILLTALKLIKEABONAFIDECYBORG

please do this before and after you control your clitorodoris
with five letters of recommendation from four teachers
and a pharmacist. that way you are totally insured for now and forever.

Haymarket riot let’s go Bezerker on a chain struck periphery!

Haymarket flies off the kindle and allows your head to get stuck in four Kenmore ovens or other electrical appliances made for heating food inside the kitchen section at your local grocery store.

VI
Aping around and I can’t seem to discover the jar
of dimes which has got me through the year without so much as one broken ink pen.

Rape the dinosaurusrex before setting off to discover a lost continent,
maybe atlantis, maybe America, because America is lost
in bad posture and eighty-nine thousand frying pans, and if you find it you can KEEP IT
and give it your grandchildren to give back to those eighty-nine thousand frying pans,
except as Big Ben ticks they become ninety-four thousand frying pans,
each pan a memoriam to those we lose to treasure chests.

unobtanium is best described as the
life you’ll never have.

I think I’m done now,
go back to your caves and think about it.

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