Warp-Spasm: march '97

With flesh rolling off
an avalanche of cells
cascade like fallout
when his fingernails plinking
off in their bullety boast.
Biley tides erode their
enamel cliffs.
How many boils threw
their oil down bone-ramparts?
Did his wax wane out
of useless holes for the
silence knelled the end
for the opponents
And his whiteness reflected
as a wintery moon.

untitled scrawl: march '97

How many cubes
can choke an angry
pat?
Answer: Try not to
wine too much.

Baptism is the
drowning of the
person trying not
to care.
Christenings are
the savings bonds
of God, God, God...

untitled scrawl: yet again, march '97

A stiff drink is the
equivalent of a daisy
that eats your nose
you sniff a fragrance
that paints the olfacts
with lead that makes
you special.

It also makes THE
MUSE shut its mouth.

untitled prosepome: march '97

A man in a pseudo-North Atlantic sweater writes in his little barf-book while slowly staying sober since time passing speedily is the only real buzz. He puts the stack of suicide nots down to debate a cigarette over a drink or whether any of the pretty people around can get mugged (arranged, of course) before he mentions that he wishes alcohol sizzles the flesh of the "well." Then the bartender asks if the Pope has a funny hat.

untitled scrawl: again, march '97

I wait in my pit
for an old friend to
come and ignore me.
It doesn't matter since
my pit is fully equipped
to empty my stomach.

Addendum:

To curdle my stomach
is to push out the
old painful feces.
How long will I shit on
myself?