Poetry: Oct 8 ,2008

EXPERIMENTAL ABSTRACT 16:

Pixilated bluescreen, the mind-field retorts: 
FIXATED WOMEN SCREAM! 
(and rip your balls out for sport, 
Though I never listened to her 
While farting through my shorts) 
Gentle lays a heavy head upon the ruins 
Of its ravaged dream, doves were shot at 
Point blank range, though pigeons fell into the cream 
Ankles have I now with avalanche nerves, strained 
From being kicked beneath the table, 
Now my life’s more stable 
And free of the fires we leave 
Others to burn in.

(short domestic break-in):
THINGS NOT TO FORGET!

  1. Milk
  2. Beer (Birra Moretti, bottles)
  3. Kleenex
  4. Remember to ask ‘Bissi’ why there are no spare bulbs 
    in the house stronger than 40 watts. 40 watts is depressing. 
    Is Global warming now the master of my house? GET SOME 
    STRONGER LIGHTBULBS! (what am I now, a mole?)
  5. order PES 2009 for Xbox, pick up copy of ‘New Yorker’

Continue: (voice of the soul) 
This I give you, (from one angry motherfucker)
To govern a lethal aftershock takes the full ‘Armstrong’ of will 
To further future shapes I take requires a little de-stressing 
Distressed distaff wandering finger nose pickers, in need of a good bath 
But using for a plant box some mother’s stolen cradle, and I (through either chuckles or laughs) were never
Able, to flip the math, and devolve into a morning spill that aroused new fire from the ashes of fables.

 


Seeing as that is what that is, 
Particularly when is, is what, 
These become these as those 
Become flat 
And how is why until when 
Arrives and concludes the 
Matter of what. Thought bubbles 
Circulate secure that circling darts 
Speculate that mind in motion 
Is worthy of its sharper parts 
And pierce conversations with 
Stuttered punctuation. HOW IS NO 
UNTIL WHY IS YES, until 
One can forget to guess, otherwise 
Shiver in the timbre while time 
Brings it’s axe down on the 
TREE OF LIFE.


A face compiled upon the banks of such stubborn lips 
May never be subject to the sudden tricks, that like a 
Lighthouse flickering in a foggy wind, of your shores 
Being landed and your heaving cleavage winded. 
(I don’t ‘come’ quick, I come quixotic, and highly recommended) 
At some rough hour must come your mammon, 
Aroused like Samson drawn to the musk, of his
Fair lady’s under-dress , to be stroked as a flaxen coat of sweat 
To be dressed a whore, undressed as a queen, (a lesser threat) 
To be summoned to my lake as I baptise your breath with stillness, 
To be fingered like caramel and pressed into the folds of pleated fields 
To be ‘manhandled’ and rode in a wheelhouse, sloughed off, ‘shrugged’, 
To be ventilated, strung out on a clothesline and beaten like a rug 
To be wrung out like ragweed tossed as confetti by the late breeze 
To be moistened and devoured, deflowered, shaken like a bed bug, sucked
Like a lemon sour.


SHORT POEM 34

THEY TOOK EVERYTHING EXCEPT MY MIDDLE FINGER
SO I GAVE THEM THAT AS WELL.


COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA
MILANO 8th OCTOBER 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED