TO DIE A LITTLE - BY THAT ONE ASSHOLE 2004

   surrounded by greed my nipples shrunk
and I craved ice cream
like a slave craves power
I'd fucking kill you
in your filthy sleepy skin suit
I'd wear you to bed
my mouth brown with chocolate
                            and the Cow's cream
me you and Her
trapped in a magic pipe like three djinis'
like recently  terrorized  children awed
                            by the overt masculinity in the sky rippling as the Aurora
sheets of numbers
sheets of pain
arbitrary necessary
Cow eyed I trip uncontrollably and hear no one
safe at the udder curled
                             rubbing my own nipples
                                         absent-mindedly
envelope of
creamy equations in God's lap
thrumming like a Cicada
mirror images of myself and the cow and you watching us
spreading multiplying sky and land fusing together to spill forth eyeballs and neocortex
the stars on the tips of poppy bulbs
                              sucking all the light into themselves
eyes that call by seeking
                                         others
tiny mouths opening and closing pursed then  gaping not a sound
facing pools
discs of surgical steel facing in limbo bracing the World from the collapse of reason
    and the pens still get chewed
              and the monkeys get entrapped and eaten
                                                                            and put in Plexiglas movie sets
where Stars  give no  light seeking only to steal it
some fool burns the pipe and me and you and the Cow spill out like smoke
like placenta like trapped heat
like testicles drying in the sun on spikes made from power
where Happy Hour is lost
                                   in the past
glowering up at us in our retarded towers
drunk its digestive system littered with peanuts
and the saliva of so many blind sick vaginas
stormed straddling the Cow God hugging it sick
puking glossy white sheets over Her brown and white patches
cheek red on fur reminds me of bath time as child
tender tear burned cheeks
monsters made of unkept dressers
wicked witches with unimaginably long and overflowing black dresses
floating over my bed
                       covering me in darkness
smothering the meat of my heart in rich oils  and sugar
sweet kisses hide the teeth
nibbling away at my face
greedily chomping away
I beg for The Cow  not to forsake me
my voice echoes
and at first I think it is someone i cannot see mocking me
I free myself from her gluttony to find the doors glued shut
with the phantasms of history plaguing the desert
it snaps open with a banshee scream above the greed blistering in the heat flies over

- J. Quiggle, 2004

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