Some More Goddamn Poems
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About this ebook
This is the second of my collections of chapbooks. It is 'poetry' - whatever that means. The same warning that went into the first collection also applies to this book: some of it will hurt you in places that you can't reach. Not very much of it is rhymed or metered.
Boris D. Schleinkofer
He is a fictional character in the Horror-Play “The Greatest Practical Joke Ever”, by Shaytan Komp’ü’tor. He has never made love to a beautiful woman, never wallowed in fresh kill, never found a briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills. In fact, he doesn't even exist at all. So there...And another:Boris D. Schleinkofer is a slave, just like you and everybody else. He lives near the monolith of Baal. His number is 5x2-00x1-11. He is a good citizen.
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Some More Goddamn Poems - Boris D. Schleinkofer
Some God-Damned Poems
From 11-24-08
Plus Some Others
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Beauty
Journeys Of A Billion Miles
Patrick & The Maggots
In Praise Of War
Untitled
The Scoop (A Sonnet)
Go Barf Outside
Sex With Julia
The Phoenix Descends
These Are Backwards Hands
The Sons Of Nero
Operation Total Control
Towering Death
Digital Beasts
How To Make The Perfect, Undetectable, Mind-Controlled Slave
The Penultimate Solution
Ar-Ma-Geddon!
Untitled
The Fly
Untitled
Beauty
If I could be so lucky, I'd be good-looking—
The kind of heartbreaking, reminder-of-orgasm good-looking that makes its wearer capable of performing minor miracles
Then I could just stand boldly before you & say anything that hit my mind freely & without injunction against man or nature
I could utter the hottest declamation of love or the cold sting of blasphemy & no one could take offense, much less even
Bother to notice the words formed by perfect lips
Journeys Of A Billion Miles
Upon the sandy edge of the dried-up riverbed, a
single sage-brush & most of a chewed coyote's skull
are swept away by the summer- storm's flashflood
to tumble sodden seven leagues closer to
the sea
The waters wash away, leaving behind a spray
of wildflowers to blanket the desert floor
for a brief, bright hour
The purple thistle-blossom withers & desiccates
in the coyote's eye-socket, the sage drops its
seed & the water-logged rootstalk pokes
around for ground,
becoming again
Patrick & The Maggots
C'mon, dude, it wasn't like that...
My Mom made her killer pot roast & gave it to me, so I gave Betty the bone to chew on
& she must have hidden it under the bed or something
I don't know
Whaddya mean I gotta move out?
Just pick 'em up—
Get a tissue or something
In Praise Of War
This ball of mud & gas, host to a myriad shapes & forms, cognizant & otherwise,
Enhances the quality of civilization's ungrateful dominion daily with its betrayal:
More hectares of virgin rainforest, the Earth's lungs,
More species of irreplaceable flora & fauna, more ocean & ozone
Fall & shudder gasping before the sickle of progress than to which I could ever bear witness
The very apathy with which I espouse these sentiments should appall the world, but—
The pigs of blood & gold chuckle & warm their gore-stained hands by the fires of the charnel-house, the crematoria fueled by the cast-off, those whose usefulness had run full-term
& we laud them
Squealing with satisfaction when one premature corpse, begging for a chance to prove its self-worth—to measure up to the yardstick of blood & gold—thrashes helplessly amongst his fellows, striving for the top of the heap where he might look out through the glass pane on the faces of his cause, but—
There is no Atlantis, there is no Heaven, there is no Shangri La
There is only McParadise, over five-gajillion served to the ravenous maw of the mob's insatiable hunger
Fed to the complacent by the opportunist with tractor & flamethrower, syringe & deadbolt, fiat currency & motion-activated surveillance cameras
& even the unborn in the plastic-&-glass-lined womb knows that this is as good as it will ever get
That technology will love the hands of the oppressing wielder as easily as it crushes those not in possession of the wealth it generates
In praise of war, I tell you: it has always been thus & always will be, the futility of the dinosaur revisited
God killed Adam & Eve, & the New York Times killed God in retaliation, & here we are now
The communion of my daily mass, by necessity, will always be the product of mass exploitation—
Nothing I consume is totally free from cruelty of some sort
Long ago, I read stories in paper books the schools gave me about men killing one another; they told me it was called History
It has always been so—the history of man is the
casualty-list of death's imposition at the hands of
able conquerors
Let the last history told be of the Earth's triumph over her malicious invading children, the human race
In praise of war, I tell you: there's too many of us
Let those who deal in Death get theirs
In praise of war, I tell you: in however many thousands of years' worth of second, third & billionth chances, we still haven't figured it out, & every living being suffers for our folly
In praise of war, O my brothers & sisters, I tell you: blood makes excellent fertilizer
Untitled
Today I sit on the river's banks, folding my reeds
Gradually my basket takes shape, a vessel for my Wife in which to carry squash, perhaps
On her way to market, to trade for grain or eggs
Today she goes to Temple, to offer her penances & petitions
At the feet of the Gods
Over & under; a half-twist returns the warp to the woof
A pattern of folds & tucks spins itself around my centre pinched tightly between worn fingers
A strand returning to its point of origin shows the way to all its neighbors, a timeless, simple dance
While I relax & let my hands do all the thinking, awaiting my turn to be called to my place
By the feet of the Gods
Another fold & the brittle-dry reed crumbles in my grasp, fibres poking out in splayed defiance of my design
A last-ditch effort: to save the construct by pinning down the fraying edges before they have a chance to disintegrate any further
But my