you too, moon (or, xoxo)
composer:
hardy f
for ::
reckoning
white beer
"romantic, not disgusting, yet"
--
MANGOLIA
Sunday afternoons at yr bedroom window
watch yr hips grind to th CBC
there in yr garden
at th’end of july
th world is no better than a case
th city drifts away
sweating yet coasting
casting a shadow
--
ERIKA TH WHITE
she knows black-and-tan pours
were something I could never master. she
walks my body and leaves me
sitting in a pub, lake above, drinking pints
of guilt
since when did VIP mean a matress w/o sheets in the middle of a dance floor
she says it’s sick and over b/c I am so mad,
full of unprincipled schemes and I won’t be coming
home tonight. I believe it’s over
because I filmd it w/o saying
I threw her nipples in th lake so
deep in th breast milk as I could come
but she in viking gown
as if some lover hunter
came back to rub me out
lower back tattoo shuffling down
to th watering hole
floating on her lake. she’s
barely out of her mother’s pussy
and already talks of marriage
and I came already once in her lakewater
it is astonishing
but I cannot fall asleep in her black hair. a
cinnamonlioness w/ smoke eyes floating
around in my come lake
but already came
and she has this yeah
yeah yeah
rooted so deep
--
ALLERGIES SUCK
I rubbed lobster stock
on my cock
sher lips swelled
when she gave me head
--
OMERTA
- have you had any animal experiences?
- yes
this poem is about regression and how
regession and I pulld th lime over her red
Queen Charlotte hair
this poem is about th local honey trade
and how there are about five stages to grieving
that need open space
like an omlette on a white plate
this is where I regress so much so
that her omlettes still make me sad
this is where I’ll be right w/ you after
I feel th strength
of strong beer from Quebec. for instance,
this week I don’t care
in rapids down a red river
this is where I resolve to be
an honest flowerman and start eating / stop
eating so much sausage and drink strong
beer from Quebec until I passes out
these old photos show Canada
all around us. we had so much in common
w/ those dead ships in Georgian Bay
and it’s not just th fact that I ended
up at th bottom of all this
--
Dasha, I cldnt help but ask
what is th right age
to be fistd
--
STILL BIRTH IN A FIELD
th night is as dark as th whole shit
and I’m heading out to kill myself
a calf to keep under th sheets
next to my family history
th night is white Germanic wrath
frozen and distant but smacking me
on th head, slowing me down --
a song w/ steps but no synths
I was just keeping my mouth shut
spreading my legs for work and liver-caring
for th cycles of black eyes
that send me North Sea herring
light and heat were paid
but frantic chemicals past dusk
sent me swimming on horseback
beaneath spiralling towers of bone
th’ancient matrix, streaked w-perversion
and strength. my knees buckle at th thought
of moving forward, so I change course
to a time
when veteranians were gods and on th ready
--
NEVER KNEW UNCONDITIONAL BEFORE
What happened to Jainism?
I even stopped eating butterflies for you
and developed a pattern deficiency
in the process
new connections in communication
You fed me black pills th last dedicate after the Odepus had died down in a radio death common broadcast no, but th problem is your fucked is not necessarily my fucked, unless of course we are fucking, no longer a subjective ceremony looked at each other Carrying groceries cold hands As an h intellectual I stated plainly stated they wld much prefer independent cold mouths
and locks actorCome out white. Where is this non-violence you promised me were Warsaw flowers astle / cottage / gallows We, that celebate dog-sleep you pland for us. and you came home w/ a perfect man named Job. As for your question -- Yes, one day you will be fucked, and sharing an internal space and on your face
--
YO LOV
believe me I said to her
breeding is perfectly natural
on a first date
on a dirty carpet
--
SILENIGHT Chirstmas 2009
I press shift and nothing happens.
O holy night I drink a finger of scotch
and nothing happens. All is calm and
all is darkly circling and I think of a friend
in th north. I press love and all is bright. I
have a another finger and virgins gather. I
hang my head and start counting the shepherd’s flock. Nearby
on a table goose liver is gently crossing rye bread. Th
sheperd lifts his feet in a way so seductive the holy infant sings.
In heavnly peace and holiness I
cannot get enough silent
--
RUSSIA (you walk a little slow with your pants around your knees)
Sitting there in her orange push-up bra I unleashed an intense pattern of words designed to hurt her. Persimmon! Dior! Honeymoon! Slave Lake! Felt it
might keep her close. th golden
doorknobs unturned
like yolks outside th future
bring dior goth small white persimmon russia cherrywood golden doorknob. like yolks, or suns,
or oranges
sleeping in my truck next to the Thompson River (thanks life)
listz staring at my camera w-green eyes. german expressionism had already made a mess of my sheets and now life ahead violently then attacked by police.
Gasp. God. why can't
tonight stone and wood be
I'm testing my body for snowflakes. open and hair, golden as urine
in like th sun. her shoulders. wodka, god, work wine, some more god
“the problem love are the best things in the world… being overconfident you attract a lot of women and they get mad and frustrated at faith . . you have no want some stavanger glamour her life idea what will happen to a woman . . . I think I know
--
love holic
no matter how hard you work
you are still a victim. blood is
she inserts her name
sucks a joint
through her canines
drinks red wine
th skinny truth so thin
I, morning, drinking,
will, try, to be, there, for you.
using th best reasons I can
made a suicide
pact w/ salmon. feelings, feelings, feelings
hands dirty from digging potatoes
beckoning her every Chanel channel
every time I raise my hand
a killer whale surfaces
say denile five times fast
breeding white dukes in denial. These men
who emerge from my body and become heroes,
great writers. and last out is this
dirty animal is a love song and red lips
--
POETTA GRIM
Poet means you’re deadkissin boys up by th paddlewheel on a –30 Prince George night. on th clock and wasted around kissin dead boys to entertain your tora de amo / rapping
your cold fingers on th young hims from th reading. using a thin layer of elbow grease to open th gaps you perceive in their minds & circling like a rooster of dawnless choke / but poet
you dream sir that you are a salmon struggling gently in a marinade of dill and such. or a glass of chardonnay sweating b/w th fingers of a woman’s right hand
oh yer frozen river lacks punctuation at yer
fishing hole dangling th line again thinking abt last year’s collapse & this year’s complexion. thinking abt buying a round for th’oily friends clining to yer back
-- say, hardy, can you take th salmon out of the marinade & pour me another glass of wine ?
ah, this date so perfect I stare across her lovely backyard and compose a poem abt stuffing her asshole w/ th fresh mint that grows so silently nearby
oh poet forget abt th sunset dram, th 808 synth blues, th live lobster, th sliced lemon, th seawater subjects, th Carver kitchen, th garlic stems, th young cocks,
th love fines, th damage done, th station pain, th prime rib and pinot noir kisses, th warho seeds, th avocado scars
forget abt them you you have enough hairy holes & limp lines to perform
another poem for these Prince George boys /
hurrah !
--
EGGS
Juicy Christ is crawling on th carpet
practically draak
coverd in hair
and morning light
last night
we chased th goat
er
we watchd war movies
er
we jerkd each other off
we listend
to throat singers
they are th best
c’mon. . . work that ass, Juicy
crawling around
on th living room floor. watching you
is like making love
man, I thought I told you
we are just eggs
coverd in hair. get up. you promised
you cld handle
seeing my cock
--
TH GOAL IS TO GET MORE HERRING PEOPLE FROM MY GENERATION INTO
