Steel Gourds - Poem by Andre Stillman
No longer chatelaine
castellan become harridan
tossing out bromides
like cricket carcasses,
their only crime being ventriloquism.
In the god-given absence of bike parts
ushering out confessions
like sweet-nothings, caustic ignominies
of pernicious perfidy,
the middens of wifely witchcraft.
No cuckold we,
like kharma in reverse, klondike rose,
chicken must be on bottom, and
always blanket bananas.
But our perishable receiving, fish gravy,
fucking Updike women, faking and twisting, disgusting.
Never thought it would get that experienced,
advanced. No cessation and suffrage. She
always thinks I wanna know where she stands.
Spiders in my dirty laundry
my mother still losing spirit in flood, myself
sill losing pens in dirty spirits. He
a dirty little finch because he lives inside.
You have to go outside to clean inside.
WRIST BRACE/SWEAT BAND
Ascension HEADCOVERS like JAZ IVY
my typewriter is not missing keys.
I had the thought to send you a tumbleweed
centerpiece of my grandmother's 86th birthday
turns out, not in their nature to be boxed, shipped.
... meanwhile lost HI-LITER pages of manuscript
paraphrasing and plagiarizing myself, dropping them
in Paris Metro stations, emerging to the carousel of
a father step-missing dead beat daddy-o kissing
crazy auntie moment. tetchy subject.
Grape ape having to chronically
learn that irony does not a story make.
i know because.
the cagebird sings a song of SIX OWLS.
What's your story?
three aces, rusty nail and a piece of woods.
four word lecture
nothing. nothing had
the lachrymosial diversion
The interrupting livings
illiterally tatooing your own children.
i am my own best palate.
bluefish, sometimes you don't have to say
you're sorry; it's that true. Seeing the
first snow bunny, meat weights
frank and ernest. Not earnestly, the thump, thump
from the line bumps tiring of the simile
like a non-Walt Whitman, international porn star
growing tired of the similes.
whoa is. joey.
i am in the siberia of my
wilderness. not my machine.
loosing dead habits. headlight
on an outbound train which means
nothing. never been past the UKRAINE.
South Pacific island continents
and South African great whites.
phalaropes and pharisees
all part of the maelstrom.
the river only likes to pretend
death in the delta.
Too late 4 HATE
SUPER PAMELA, old soul, sniggered
that's snegroed to you.
the retchid gang. germans, they gotta be
9 X 9
Physician heal thyself, like cattle guards on trains.
la guerra por la paz
It doesn't take
Zhu Zhu's petals
for me to know
that life is worth the living. the dead
ornate looking glass
through the rabbit hole
mad hatters and cocksuckers.
bill b's lawrence
Soft really, the steam rising,
drifting from the coal-soviet
power plant. thermo-king wave
riding through ambidextrous
afternoons w/ the boy. baseball.
CRICKET. iron curtain defenses.
meanders across the river way.
and tesla-shocked tree versus
cold gray skies.
Topic(s) of this poem: humanity
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