Wasn't high...Just immense imagination...and I wrote it in like...twenty minutes. Try and decipher the meaning, if there is one.


The Chaos of Meshing

Section I (The Gates)
Each morning ?? priestly routine,
ants making out on my arms.
Leg bones jetting out
and I am becoming
the cross. The Frisbee
knocks teeth out, the agony
of sour peppermints.

Please let it be ?? the
blood sheds like watered gutters.
If the prison smells like unwashed joints.
Now cracking the cords
on old feet ?? brittle chemical
hair. waterlogged tennis-ball heads,
??Eek!? goes the the mouse and his
cheese gets in my hair.

Mother washes and washes
and washes ??want dinner??
and washes?washing, washing,
washing ??want dinner?? wash
away my sins, you aren??t a priest.
??priest?? no, I??ll pass.

The shined, old-fashioned weather
breaks and cools the strength of
my shoulders, while slamming the
toilet lid closed, the lights started
forming swastikas and all my body
could do was hurt.

Then the plants started
hanging their heads, and the
necks of baseball bats were
bruised blue like a mushroom.
Comfort, there is no garbage
to clean or prayers to slice.
My carnival music mind is
turning wet like the surface of
new grass.
Yesterday was
the month my family
was buried ?? all murdered
with their ice-picks in their
liquor cabinet. This house, the
nutcase, and the candles are
twirling like little feet.

Tear open every living cloud,
find the miniature seeds and
dried raisins. Touch the fried grease and
sit down with a mug of
cold coffee.
Echoes of the phone destroy
the birth of fleas. Ticks.
Giant cartoon posters and
runaways. Who are you?

Section II (The Confusion)

No better than the boys that
jump-rope and girls
that play with toy trucks,
Now that tune runs like
remote control vision, and a silent
attack with safety pins in the
ribcage ?? force of a bull.
put your face in your great
grandmother??s lotion. Class
of pleased ladies.

The owner
of that car is going to get murdered.
German sign language ?? these
are the things I do not understand.
The girl with a
fake face and makeup eyes is
eating her way to her grave.
one cracker, two crackers,
three cherry sodas. The
stomach hidden by thick
shirts.

Erasing is only a talent
of writers and visual artists; the map
architects cannot count to
one hundred. Show me the bottle
of vodka you let drip
onto your toothpaste. Remix
the?Perhaps dive?The
water knives. Dear lantern,
rape the suffocated noses,
let the rat poison burns in the
fire.

Drag her wasted corpse
to fill with hacky-sack beans
until she is big enough to kick.
Dog bites her face off,
cage slams and her eyes
are cut with wood.
Her nose is a mask.
Hens and brains ?? knees
and checker tables. this
is my breast-rocket.

Pancake buildings, and the
light rains tarnished by
the past headaches.
Glaucoma pigeons and faces
with disease are about to
jump and snap her hands.

Turn ?? Alive

Section III (The Grotesque Faces)

Scary brother, China
snacks and the needles that
measure the pain. One doctor
with narrow elbows put a glove
over the face of his parrot.
Slice the forehead open; let the
condiments of scissors stab
dragonfly tongues,
the blood of a neck.

One blood composed tie fastened
to the neck. No pain to
the nose? Scissors ripping
away the chalk masks. The
cruel operations of insane
doctors. Eyeliner lips and
eyes without glasses. The mustache
of Socrates brought down by the
hungry children.

The police officer blows
the tobacco smoke into his
dog??s ears ?? straight circulatory bones.
Golden whips to bruise. The electric
hairs. The dislodged arm
lying on the motorcycle seat, the elephant
ears I sleep on.

It??s all too
confusing for the mainstream race.
??X?? shaped nipples of unknown
friends. Cucumbers and lemon
pepper. These are the many vessels
I have learned in the past
bottle-beating birthdays.
I can??t return to my college
because the chained ankles and
side-burned streets.

The goatee of
my professor buried in the
sand of my toes. I can never
go back.
The vacation I spent drawing
is the holiday I spent bleeding.
No more lies, the sacks of
buttered women bound and
churned in a fire. Blackhead.
Nowhere is the street I found.

Section IV (Blood and Toilets)

All my neighbors eat their
meat raw. And their pet iguanas
chisel the bone. Throat lozenges.
The gravel bowl I spit the blood
of my loose teeth. Busted, lemon
juice on the toilet seat.

Kidney stoned golfers. Here is where
I lay with both eyes
far gone. The pain of waking
is always here.
Andrew, the cat-food seller guy,
is banging his unwashed
spoons on the brownie pans.
Never will I come back, setting
cold feet into the room
of dusted textbooks.

He bled,
I admit it. She bled, I admit it.
But the blood that my wounds
bleed, is blood that slides dry
in the parks of New York.
WEED Reviewed by WEED on . Poem consisting of disorder/no handrails Wasn't high...Just immense imagination...and I wrote it in like...twenty minutes. :) Try and decipher the meaning, if there is one. :p The Chaos of Meshing Section I (The Gates) Each morning ?? priestly routine, ants making out on my arms. Leg bones jetting out and I am becoming Rating: 5