+++

Nothing much to say about Verotika.

The poem below captures most aspects of it.

Some of Danzig too.

+

My face?

Not my face.

Why do you want my

Face?

No.

You can’t have it.

It’s my face.

+

Brick warehouse has the gumption to just stand there as brick warehouse, barely disguised, barely French

petrified of the

neck bray-kurr

or so it’s told

but there is no neck

no great love for hosting this giallic yellow shit this frazzled-

+

Danzig

as midget god

xeroxed a thousand times in Masonic head

kitsch with kitty litter

goes with mic pack on blondest victim’s calf

slips on Schrader skin and-

+

Direction: think of Geteven and Twisted Pair and Fulci shame and Hellraiser IV until tits are staring you dead in the Id then laugh and say, hey, your nipples are inhibiting my vibe bitch die

sure

the eight arms look bad

and so does everything else, just the worst-run colour snatch obliterated via Bava mis-en-scene, milk and beer, you’re in here? I’m in here. I don’t know what maintenance is. Fuck off. What do you want?

To smoke is to export pirate thought

ass fuck is my speh-shul-tee

all the way in

I don’t mind I’m

four kilometres away in Omsk town square

aesthetically.

+

WANTED:

SOUND EDITOR WITH KNOWLEDGE OF HOW TO INSERT SOUND

PSYCHOLOGIST

GEOMANCER

+

CAFE called Café

coffee of

DoP

unpoured undrunk unpaid for

whore

beware of tiny cinema

tiny auteur that

stripper witch with business card

plot: she wants your face and your face wants her so rip it off already

or mail to Bathory clone

glenn@hotmail.org

he’s been filming your tits for days

that guy

yup

this thing is heading somewhere cool

I can’t wait

he said it might stop

if we want it to, if the tits spill out on time, if the muff shows teeth decay

+

NICE

another sicko killer

fascinates like puppy face in bored python’s maw

like school bus of elder pornography god

please

shoot me in my abdomen

silhouette

dilute Duckula into Drukija into

look we’ve got horses and

that’s about it

fuck Cleo

we’re running out of silicon, the wolves are on strike, I don’t know if this is real trash or rock star trash, what are we supposed to be doing, it’s a scene waiting to be a scene, desperate to be a scene, this Contessa should under no condition be the main character yet there she is beheading the main character, bathing in blood is bold for your health, not therapeutic, not as occult as you think it is though if you wanna give it a try why not what else is the throat for if not slitting.

Tits?

It’s been a while

put that goat in a bathtub over there

goat sister too

her methodology strung out as midnight alluvia, coated in-

+

I have awakened Glenn

enervated

from the immensity of a vagina dream, birthed

in soiled bank that exudates our

flute volunteer

flanked by prophetic waiter trope

placing coffee plus stain on the table before tits girl even understands that she wants it there which she doesn’t

the flute is bloodlust now

the waiter a capon

and she has gone

melody into verse clit into

three chord syringe into

strange

how the arts eviscerate this leisurely kind

of relentlessness moans G

fingering the grip

aggregating the coffee stain

rimming the-

+

No one tells me what to do when my lungs heart libido slide out

that’s my decline

can’t you seem?

+

The ratio my dad taught me before sabotaging the tricycle

is worthless

not really a ratio at all

in fact

what is a dad?

The guy inside the walls?

+

Let’s not end this on a high note

I’m blood simple

no cut

in here with sappy maintenance check, who’s there?

My face?

No.

Not my face.

You can’t have it.

It’s my face.

Imogen can go fuck herself.