My Vocabulary Did This For Me

is blob love something that never goes away?

It’s Hegel Wednesday

Hegel says we don’t need to be shoemakers

to know if our shoes fit.

He’s secretly talking about the legal profession.

Hegel has been evicted from the city.

Hegel is “happy as a pig in shit”

to be free from the hassle actually

he tells me confidentially

while I’m using a big metal object

to stamp my last name into

every single zine I own.

Last Will and Testament of the Young Hegelian

Hegel said education

is the art of making

people ethical.

 

I was all like

what’s that in German.

He was all like.

 

Nobody said the state

was like god on the march

but they said Hegel said,

oh well, ie.,

ach! oh vell!

 

See the 36 trolley veer

to the east.

See the beast who is best.

I was all like

deposited on the absolute

opposite end of the city

beneath a bridge

two guys in football pads

a park with a plaque.

See the beast who is blessed

with a park with a plague.

I got picked up by my wife.


Hegel said virtue is like

a virtuosity of ethics.

I can’t even catch a ball.

On the 36 trolley,

I fall over my own feet,

down the stairs,

dragged along the track.

Bzzt! Electrocuted.

It truly sucks.


History ends here, with me,

beneath my right and rail.

A Cautionary Tale

This essay is contingent on the notion

that the painting is only a painting when

looked at head on. From an angle,

it’s just a lot of branches wadded up.

A bird is living inside it.

A bird is eating a worm inside it.

A worm is slithering around

for no purpose.

A worm is of worth only in context.

 

Brave adventure, stop!

Hold, heroes!

I’m not the fiend you seek.

This isn’t what it looks like.

Paladin, haruspex, Noid, stop.

I’m not at all like other guys, all

spinning a flail around their heads and bellowing—

I’m the silent cousin of Concupiscence,

James Nyquil Jr.

beatonna:

Listen I can’t wait until July 1871 to get these tracks I need to hear them now

Auld Robin the laird
Auld Robin the laird (radio edit)

beatonna:

Listen I can’t wait until July 1871 to get these tracks I need to hear them now

Auld Robin the laird

Auld Robin the laird (radio edit)

(via hivvx)

This Saturday’s most thrilling post-wedding poetry reading you’re not invited to. 

This Saturday’s most thrilling post-wedding poetry reading you’re not invited to. 

Thomas Gray’s Enchanted Forest

I said I would write this if three people at a party came to my reading tomorrow. If they do not, pretend I never wrote this. 

—-

Thomas Gray generally amenable

to any and all objects limping

sideways with great rejoicing

from one end of the vista to another.

A beast with an antler is just a friend

with prongs. A tusk could be

a benison. Just try it out once.

 

Home examining the obscure and the known.

His amazing register of unlisted men

serving well through spiritual havok, good grist

for the ol’ mill, ska is back, he whispers,

ska is back.

 

He said the language of the age is never language,

never recurs, is a heavy heavy monster sound.

His vestments hurled into a bog at the behest

of friendly creatures.

 

O his landscape contracts. His citation

of the top ten common birds. Whipoorwill,

helicopter, other thing.

The last of the great pre-romantics

sharpening his recorder on the mean part

of a meteorite. O my gosh—

all his charming pastoral clerihews

soaked to death by magical ichor. 

 

Thomas Gray in the forest feels his age

  • the heft of toneless being,

clicking a button on the side of an apparatus,

and so on, hurling his vest into the fraught

bog of the symbol of a beast.

 

He’s, like, what’s a poem of place?

He’s existing simultaneously in and out of it,

his fun pilgrim boots are flashing.

He’s a problem of temporality.

Thomas Gray, still young to fuck,

bellows, bellows, he claims,

he insists on. His moustache,

the element of fantasy.

Gray feasts on small rocks

he calls “snake bread,”

sated on chocolate milk coaxed

from a side hatch.

 

In the night, woodland karaoke

and making every mute animal

clap at the end.

Beloved by everyone.

Washing a tin plate

in the creek, I uncover

a photo of him

in the mud

and go steady with it.



Guess what? I’m also

a professor at Cambridge University,

in England, curiously elaborate,

paid my weight in antique graveyards,

hoary-headed swain, little field of tyrant fruit,

bunch of scraps.

snfprtch:

comefriendlybomb:

When both DWP and Amanda like one of my poems it’s always within like two minutes of each other. What does it all mean.

The real question is, what will you do when we both  ”like” your wedding SIMULTANEOUSLY right in front of your eyes 

well I hope everyone likes it. we want everyone to have a good time 

When both DWP and Amanda like one of my poems it’s always within like two minutes of each other. What does it all mean.

Sonnet to be Performed in Falsetto While Being Drawn and Quartered by the Horrible Edmund Bonner

Big Daddy Christ in the house iwis

to adjudicate thy ontological cloudiness

as good as obliv’d in wrathsome clot

like unto hell hounds guzzling snacks. So hot,

such glut, wow, torrents of artisinal vinegar

downloaded illegally and strapped to mine onager

(aka torsional force pinned to the wet floor by wind-lass

named after the animal, obvs, the titular bucking wild ass)

cathedrals blotted out via vigorous fusillades, forms overtaken,

alle Schmerzen, die ich gerne schmecken,

ja, Kulturkrise, Hexenbrand, big-ass Aufstand,

a complicated point in illegible hand,

the form of extinction prescribed by the most

highly qualified proxies of mine third-favorite ghost.

THE FACTOTUM’S TRAGEDY, by Donald Foote (1607)

In the archives I found a long-lost play by Donald Food’s ancestor. I got fired from my job for dripping pizza sauce on the manuscript. 

—-

GHOST:

Hark!

I cannot go to the gym today

because I’m always sick.

My body is in pain.

I put your hand on my head

and asked if my head felt funny.

I came to as one carbonado’d

my whole head impressed unto

two copies of De’Aggochhie’s

Dell’arte del scrimia,

botched and notched, etc.

My pecs are flabby.

Touch my body—

do I still have a six-pack?

Where’s my ripe blood at, anyway?

Attend—!

Flensed by my continental uncle, eh?
There’s no recompense.

I don’t believe in lightning, literally.

I won’t eat ‘cause my gullet’s gone.

Two sabres crossed lengthwise

and I just can’t stand it.

Internally.

That part in Montaigne

where I fall into two halves.

 

REVENGE:

List.

It grieves me sore

to hear thee weep

so please leave immediately.

This mountain fortress

doesn’t have any windows.

I got in but I can’t find the door

again. A white sheet laid

with full repast.

I really can’t even right now. 

The honest history of a foreclosed body

picked clean by maniac birds.

The moral universe of this drama

is functionally totally demoralizing.

I don’t understand the usage 

of the loaded term “totalizing.”

You’re still standing there on weck w/ gore

& gaping neck. This play is boring. 

I need a lie down. I’m totalizing exhausted.

I need a white bone perched

jauntily in a gull’s black-dyed beak.

A protein shake. A scheme fixed

upon a swarm of agencies. 

A dumb show. A foot rub.

A bastinado administered

by a cheeky lad on purpose.

I paid good money.

Prithee,

I’m full in a fit of pique.

I’m flipping houses.

All shall die marked

with the mark of false aesthetics.


GHOST:

But father, I said,

I’m secretly Catholic,

and anyway,

in this exoticized quasi-

foreign landscape,

the legitimate heir

to all true marks!


FATHER (ghost of):

Son! Then

whose—?


CHORUS (dancing skeletons):

primoque a caede ferarum

Incaluisse puto maculatum sanguine ferrum


FATHER (remainder of):

Oh! That’s Seneca! I

think. I don’t

speak Latin.


GHOST: 

                                Actually

Herodotus. 


REVENGE:

EX-AACTLY. 


Exeunt all, to the public library, to read about St. Jerome