Jet Alone
Sad indie robot rustled my apoplexy,
Oh Jet Alone.
Oh theramin gooze, stimpak novellas, thimbleton singers.
Why will these attractive forearms dig only graves? Why does crooked
Osiris adorn my nape, my swag…Oh!
Sad indie sexpit!
Khartoum!
All the flagelles, all the mortles, all the stoops.
All the grooms, and Frondes, and every chicken coop…
...
My energy castle cancer network erosion;
Afrikaange LP, the Congo cuts. Heroin jazz,
the Scooby jam:
slink,
slank,
sluts!
Purple nekro-noir, purple pussy-gore,
for I takes up my blade ‘gainst illegible demon-lore: Celestazi.
(Every blade deserves a name and every name makes it true.)
All the flagelles, all the mortles, all the stoops.
all the grooms, and Frondes, and every chicken coop.
...
Oh my hoodie, Oh my hat, Oh my summer cosmocrat.
Her fortress erodes with subtle pangs, a time-canyon,
all reverb and rot. Her pussy lips regail me, like fat Maundy,
when I took the Host like a coward…
“You there, Sir! How many names have you?”
Hesitant, pasty, ersatz, I? Greymane?
Priestess Hirahara? Yellowfang?
Slutskov, Imab, Zerkgt? Madjinaux?
“And how!”
Damnable priest.
...
Hoodies grows smaller,
my boner recedes, and sexualism wearies me.
Indie shrooms trip, indie Mozart,
I have shrunk and shirked for too long.
But still you beckon…still you insist…
Was it you who jeopardized my enigma,
who claimed dominion over my Astral Seas
and read me the Rape of Lock at eventide?
Why then, Shadows? Why then, sad robot?
I am ill at ease.
(2012)
