There’s a wonderful dog waiting in the kitchen,
dead, wrapped in barrier cloth like afterbirth,
broken back, severed spinal cord, rear leg peeled like a banana.
You must rest easy or my grief too will be inadequate,
like the hole I will dig, shallower than the times I ignored you,
more trifling than all my petty demands on your passing,
now rendered inalterable beneath this compulsory wait
for a break in the rain, or for better light.
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We painted the doors shut and fucked with the light
that’s linked to so many switches and never
lights the room.
Then we unplugged the house and now the waste
from our late night meals and clothes from our bedtime all work equally well for effigy or efferent,
shroud or sanctuary
Then the clones of small crops grew from the cellar in the dark, stunted and wrinkled yet energetic,
but the dark itself is now crusty and unassertive,
humic, stale.
As such there is no light to warm the indigence in our embrace
but at least the heat expelled from us no longer tastes like shag,
or Christmas electrical fires.
We painted the door shut and each of us fucked with the other,
you who is linked to so much indecision, and me who never lights up a room
There is no chickenshit in turd golf
You are not to remove Stones, Bones,
or furious Broken Club for the sake of playing your turd,
-except upon the fair Green, & that only within a Club’s length of your turd-
Neither Trench, Ditch, or Dyke made for the preservation of the Links,
the Scholar’s Holes or the Soldier’s Lines, shall be accounted a Hazard.
The turd is to be taken out, Tee’d and play’d with any Iron Club.
If your turd come among Water- or any Watery filth-
you are obliged to take out your turd & bring it behind the hazard and Tee it.
You must play it with any Club and allow your Adversary a Stroke, for so getting out your turd.
To any person, Horse, Dog, or anything Else: The turd must be play’d where it lies.
There is no backswing in turd golf
But everyone gets a fair shake as the dog leg left sometime ago
I’m found almost daily in suckled depths of nothing, noting nothing interesting but
a 2 headed coin, some headless stamps, migraines, a dry half-spilled cigarette. Though I now quit
3 times a week I keep looking for a way back in, so where am I exactly?
Nanoassed corrections like a clotted strike from an antique plate,
re-conditioned and intending to betray, or at least obscure, a posted rate.
Tiny accounts of wildly useless travels, entire visits unkept by memory or missive, only an erratum of Bedlam’s short orders, briefly skimmed
and impaled on a memo spike. Fractured and fairly
fairy-tale in disaggregate space, in soothing disregard.
Ignotum per ignotius. Once more the Amazing Head-Swallowing Ass has the night off, but he is always on call. Like us, the genuine predates the fake by scant hours, and no matter how you turn the goddamned thing, the head is always upside down.
I only know of one other documented human death by flightless bird. It was caused by a cassowary in 1926. 16-year-old Phillip McClean and his brother, aged 13, came across a cassowary on their property and decided to beat it senseless by striking it with clubs. The bird kicked the younger boy, who cried and ran home. His older brother swung at the bird, missed, and fell to the ground. While he was down the cassowary kicked him in the neck, opening a 1.25 cm wound which punctured the carotid. The boy died of his injuries shortly afterwards.
It was always much much easier to beat the Dodo… Goddamnit, we always discuss the inevitable!
When the speed ratio of wing to plummet is humbled only by that of stupidity to circumstance, what other choice do you have?
I’ve decided to donate my thumbs to science
useless as they are, they may find distinction as a novelty,
maybe a conversation starter
Nice thumbs…any phantom pain ?
I’ve never known anyone that collected body parts, or even found them interesting,
or tailored conversations to suit, but who knows what people really desire?
Society used to get much more mileage from parts
Scalps, dried ears pressed in a ledger. Heathen scapulars. Trophies. Or a maybe just a receipt tendered
when all conversation is spent.
My topological undoing will be vaguely different, and may enjoy distinction as a warning to others
Less risk means less interest, and more regret
When the waste is segmented into several joints there is no articulation
but it still speaks when there is nothing left to say
Verbal corrections often take 2 minutes or less
If it cannot be settled by then the fists and boots come out.
Puffy eyes plug up the excuses and all that never was,
swaddled in the footie pajamas of all handed-down error,
a hobbykit monster under the bed, four-bile syncopation and ironic scrolling eyes,
half closed up and half shut down, cold-dried, like it’s naptime even before breakfast
The light is good until it tries to climb out of the divide.
From across the civil dusk, the south side sidewalks shuttering all the lesser clues of the undeclared,
missing, or misplaced in the late afternoon’s dimming shadows, heating arguments,
and boozy recapitulations of the all-time greatest letdowns and fuckups,
cast in a mangle of smiles and madly arcing lies like
a blown coin purse, swimming in some humorless, inexhaustible, assholic, backchecked phlegm that spills out of my mouth
whenever I try to describe the known universe
Vinny,
We’ll stop by on Christmas to see how things are coming. Have you finished the crawlspace insulation under your mobile? How’s our client? Has she come out of the bathroom yet so you can put the new tub in?
Are you still singing in that band? How is everything? How’s the new mustache? How is my mother-in-law adapting to life with no daughter?
I think I want to be a cowboy this summer. Except it’s no longer summer. I saw a charter that takes you to eastern Alberta and you can work with horses and combond with other pale cubicle-dwellers. Maybe while I’m there I can perform some audits on a few cows. That can’t be counted as depreciation, Bessie. Or maybe I’ll become a professional basketball player in Italy, since I am tall and already own my own shoes. The rest can be had cheap. I look great in shorts and tank tops, even those yellow-grey recycled gym hand-me-downs. My other cousin Vinny used to tell me that. He’d say Vince, you are as rare as rockinghorse shit. That’s pretty rare.
I have solid skills in other areas too. The Fundamentals. Catching, Passing- remember when I knocked out Uncle Alice with that can of beer? That was a good throw, eh? Snappy.
I’m bored at work just now, so I’m pretending to write an email to an imaginary cousin. I’m also pretending to be Canadian. Eh, the times we had at the Lake. I learned a little aboot love that summer. Nothing funny, but pretty deep. I’m an excellent explainer. I like the time we went to the store to buy some bottle rockets and you stole 6 packs of Kools. You walked me through that first cigarette. I haven’t learned to not love cigarettes since. But why 6 packs? That’s a fuckload of Kools. The next morning I felt like a survivor of a Naugahyde factory fire. Vinny, you kill me sometimes.
Hey- just had a thought. I’ll start smoking crack. Wouldn’t that just about solve everything? Except I can’t afford it. Maybe I’ll turn to crime. Nothing violent or sleezy. Elegant crime, with drinks before the fistfights. Sporting. Like the guys Bond goes up against. How do you get that job- evil mastermind? Crack probably isn’t the turnkey solution.
I try to be open-minded, but none of this is very popular anymore anyway. I really should strive to have more fashionable daydreams.
Love and balloons,
Vince
My sockets are gagging on both eyes, like horse pills, iron-cored meditation balls passed back and forth,
orbit/orbital, small artless toys unable to grasp the close or impending, the proximal
except those tidy inversions in skull from insecurity to anger
self-growth through anger, or social growth through insecurity
Sourced. I sourced a piece of thin clean cotton batting at the hardware store. It has some sticky vinyl paper on it and I applied it to my sucking chest wound but it was way too small and it ended up embedded in my sinuses.
Price point. Help! I’m looking for some respectful whores at the $10 pricepoint.
Apostrophe s for plural or to modify verbs, e.g. He run’s a company that only employ kid’s- the whole situation in fact is ripe for some hard-hitting blogulism.
[The term ‘Botulism’ comes from the Latin for sausage. ‘Blog’ reminds me of a link. ‘Journalism”s origins in the Latin for ‘daily’ doesn’t fit, but a ‘daily sausage link’ does sound both tasty and terrifying.]
i.e for e.g. Allow me to clarify: we only employ kids , i.e. goats or wethers of unusually small proportion. Even dead, they still need to be able to fit in certain boxes, e.g. ones that fit easily in the overhead compartment, or that can be shipped without bulky fees.
Stunning. Stunning capture. Stunning themes and use of geometry in those images.
[Extra points for capture. And image. That’s a stunning, fuckingly good image you captured.]
{Less points for ‘fuckingly’}
And popping contrast. The contrast in those cat candids really pops!
Brilliant. e.g. Fred#1: Why not just use a sharpened paper clip when you want to edit your eyelid tattoos?
Fred #2: Brilliant! Thanks!
Google translate emails: “I very your blog sometimes, then happened the pictures- why? You do, in fact, sometimes do work. Bestly, Ferge.”