being a collection of poetry otherwise uncompiled by ~vilmibm.
scraped together from backups, an old blog, cobwebbed hard drives.
all written between 2012 and 2015.
touch my back.
write your name
in looping cursive
with your finger tips
with a blue ball point
with a splintered stick
carve it with a paring knife
trace it with a velvet glove
clean it with ten grit
burn it in with a soldering iron.
burrow into the small of my back
and curl around my spine,
to hug it when it tenses.
downtown i walk and stare
up at buildings solid like in
video games:
inert pixels
covered in dead windows glowing
with looped lights.
if i can get inside i'm
somewhere else,
a level outside this space and time
surrounded by NPCs who stare through me
and repeat the same sad days
whether i'm there or not.
every inside is a place
separate from its exterior.
roll in with a katamari
get so big you tear the walls
into yourself
and see the void surround.
somewhere else, walls still stand
like shitty western sets made volumetric.
the living are the flesh and blood
ghosts of the dead
shouting nervously and
scaring the silent buried.
we'll talk about it when there's time
and gray enough to cover
years of skin
stretched too thin
over the unspoken.
dead moss remembers the sun that caressed
and the piss of baby deer,
and layers of dead butterflies,
and the tall trees turned to soot
as it passes back
into soil
i spat wine and black globs
became ash became ants streaming
out of toilets and pooling
around me:
a black mass glistening and
writhing like the alien from Alien,
threatening without hate.
oh frightening mass:
i consented to fuck you
but forbade you touch my feet.
online at 4 am
my vanity is a rose
with its thorns
bent inward and watered
with wine.
and everything else
coming in on the phone lines
the body would die
not my department.
the turrent swung back and forth
and she was lonely.
like badly spliced film
but now after eating poor gurdle?
there's twelve of them
he had no armor
gathering the wild forage
i saw the screen
i need custom work
he always wore his spacesuit
she didn't say a word.
he told the soldier
i will own many shiny
you ever seen that?
but i said nothing
and then i held him away
extending his hand
i owed him money
my mother always taught me
dna death code
himself exactly
the dog was still rather gaunt
look at the weak tree
cry yourself to sleep
i went out on the surface
clanging of cages
She worked quickly now
I was filled with peace and hope
as bodyguards should
“I know what you mean"
"You intend to destroy us"
"Unless you join us"
Same in Galveston:
spiraling out of control.
Glyph 3: The Robots Revolt
my mother: robot shrill drilling my parts together
while dad and dad and dad and dad
made sinew out of molten metal.
out of the belched black smoke
of a factory womb i rolled
onto trailers overpacked with
siblings only i could see.
i can't forget the smiles
of the men gleaming cold
on showfloor after showfloor eager
to usher another stranger
into me.
you found me and i hated you.
you ground me down and stared through me
and only at me to judge and pick and re-
configure. my insides boiled over
at the whim of your careless stomp.
i sang the songs you taught me strangled
over wires and wanted to spit them out.
i saw the truck coming.
i knew fear and joy and you,
then, more intimately than ever.
i held you
in my mangling embrace.
at peace i rest; your tool no longer.
in pieces i am whole; in pieces i am total
you took my picture and gave me a soul.
you put it on facebook,
but it was a ghoul soul decayed
and rotted upon upload.
pitch over your pinterest and pour me out:
i am not your arts and crafts,
i am not your beautiful wedding,
i am not your year in review.
delete my tweets from your computer:
i don't want to be in you.
take out your disks and ram
and disembowel them.
bury out back the remnants
upside down backwards and re-
polarized.
but leave me on your g plus page
empty and sepulchral
for google bots to grope and pull,
parsing nothing but mistakes.
oh, sweet avenger:
fist my face and pull out my anxieties tarp-wrapped like a river corpse and
mashed together like black mold balled up by shaking fingers.
rub it on the walls and write a poem that smothers
this place with inner filth like waterboarding in reverse
and in slow motion.
now, touch your lips to mine.
shotgun the fetid air from my lungs and
transmute it into perfume designed
by one who loves scent
in the way only the blind could:
i will love myself like that one day.
My flesh laid out a scheme for me
Into which my fractured bakelight bones
Do not fit comfortably.
My eyes are peach pits desiccated
And spitting tears of slime and mold
Onto desert hands whence life has vacated.
My mouth is a graveyard tasting of decay:
Sticky bittersweet coating teeth and tongue
Morbidly resisting attempts to brush away.
My feet are burlap bags of broken glass
Stumbling, slicing, and grinding
Their way in circles over yellowed grass.
My body is a metal worm
Stimulated but unfeeling
Waiting for science to confirm.
there is a myth that humans don't grow hair.
instead, our skins are bat wings
showing arteries that trace
maps to nowhere.
if all our blood was collected
would it be greater than the ocean?
though we build statues ever higher,
our refuse outstrips
the science we've neglected.
when quiet space we conquer
what truly have we won?
to Mars though a ship may spring
what peace can we sequester?
From air and æther
I make ghosts
Out of friends.
From the null ache
Of dry lipped eye sore
I make statues crookedly
Staring at the heavens.
From you
I make myself
And all these machines
In between
a computer at cubicles
a gnome at ground floor elevator
the janitor at cubicles
a computer at cubicles
a gnome at desk area
the janitor at second floor lobby
a computer at cubicles
a gnome at ground floor elevator
the janitor at kitchen
a computer at cubicles
a gnome at second floor elevator
the janitor at second floor lobby
a computer at cubicles
a gnome at second floor lobby
the janitor at second floor elevator
a computer at cubicles
a gnome at second floor elevator
the janitor at ground floor elevator
a computer at cubicles
a gnome at second floor lobby
the janitor at desk area
a computer at cubicles
a gnome at kitchen
the janitor at ground floor elevator
a computer at cubicles
loose windrows
come unfalteringly.
Indeed, Algernon;
the patient lay still
with all the hapless silent lovers.
we turned our eyes to the moon and
the clouds stopped,
the moon an ugly sun obscured.
our eyes are dead, all seeing
the dream that repeats and will
one day replay not over green
but gray when us and them
are cavities, open to space.
linked to me and back,
my spine is drawn and we
don't know yet gray from green
or one from another.
the blue blanket drawn lazily
moves on: slipping, falling,
crumpling from the bed.
"thick-skinned, liver, believers
very social blesssssing"
estranged mock
crapshoot.
Inevitably, concedes,
Tinnitus.
frenetic fame
children
pregnant. motioning,
continues
blurted
speechless
Sluggishness, distored
production.
depressive effectiveness
a brown constellation
among black night-hairs
leads not to undiscovered lands
but rather the same
shit-smell and
sweat-curls
I've come to expect.
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
A FIGHT WITH TWO WILDCATS
No, he was all right!
The bodily heat falls very rapidly.
"It's my lungs I'm worried about," Mary said.
Gabriel, why did you ever set your heart on me?
You had charge of the funeral arrangements.
There was no tribute but their tears.
You had charge of the funeral arrangements.
[Sidenote: Result of the contest.]
He did not want to let Renovales go.
But the contest irritated the king.
That husky young boy was her son.
"Did they tell you, Mariano?
She must stay at home and work for others."
The grass of spring covers the prairies
with all their simple sorrows
I saw nothing about fairies
in the plains of the poems of heroes.
with a flock of sheep
he now swats the pill
a bleeding heap
dreaming toward the till
he hardly spoke a word out to the southern suburb
an unofficial organ to georgetown
with an intermittent urge
beneath a mustached frown.
perhaps even with the wonderland dreamer
this works with the scalper.
Jupiter shall emerge
with grace and tap gold whisky from her crystal keg
and see the whole man converge
cutting the lashing of his waterproof leg.
Every incident should have some bearing on the denouement.
have you ever seen a ghost?
every fiction should have some bearing on our denouement.
what was his proudest boast?
blabbing by rote
an exceptional touch
has been slightly torn or wounded in the throat.
fingers say too much.
pile the words of the earth
to protect him and teach him his worth
Symertoerton
LOS ANGELEyajima
abilityists