And Beckett Was In Love With His Cousin

And Beckett Was In Love With His Cousin

I am am wannabe,

A hetrosexual pro-ho,

Over friendly, and wet pussied sentimental, vape binkie video-star groupie, just waiting back near the Clydesdale-ing chink of tour bus,

I have gotten bank advice from Duane Peters at a Warped Tour (true story),

I wrote mini logo novela about a fictional part time darkman Telly Savalas Edo period style political harem that took place in a post historical 1970's Las Vegas swingers mind control trip freak out pseudo space.

I am the not knowing the situation fully facetious dignity of it all, an aardvarking anteater still slurping up figurative termite Kalis State Penn plaids,

And including all the corn flake pale wet acne that went with it all,

And Kalis was always mentioning Cady Noland back then—or the Seek Cady Nolan graphic at least, the cancel white dots hovering over silver sheen hand silkscreen'd thin high contrast figurative image Patty Hearst iconography, or if it wasn't Patty Hearst it was someone else,

Kalis always said it was too Baldessari though, but he didn't care, or actually that's what he kind of liked about it,

As Milpitas millipede daisy chain rowed of razor scooter bulldozers, razor bulldoze insides up love sick slick slop down the torso bloody telegram onto here to now throw this though, 

As one goes trying to always say anyways, 

I'm lower lower middle class poverty of mind—

A sometimes godless Ken Park somewhere on the vale side of the grocery highway somewhere outside San Clemente, 

Worse than any secularized historical vacuum DIY you could ever think about,  

I am winded limited remnant far down aloft the Tammerlane, sleeping next to X by her polite cheerily insistence enforced feet to face flip just-friend moves.

I clip rebates,

I clip sunk cost drown down rollercoastering centipeded velocity fueled love sick write off funded promo supplement, 

Pink eye'd and red dragon shackle-me eye'd,

Tee vee eye clipped, 

Bellowing licksplittles blithely filling the her play it as it lays croft of knowing hand, 

As misbegotten, misguided revelry of the word in the truest sense,

And aloft off the hanging monitor recap coming too soon back down the planking rollercoaster platform then, and I'm the fitting of that into another promiscuous orgy toy edit.

Like a leaf in a brook, I'm out here on a limby, and Worringer's 'insipid optimism',

Hopeless and miserable, from the shock of lust immediately known to be looming unfulfilled existential stress which vaguely seems to be connected to some death or just death, from all the feathered Penthouse Pet retrosex lingerie or 700 jeans denim tears of it all, that I felt even as a child.

In curve house off down wending meadow lake hill terraces with loop spitting water glitch air sculptures, 

Or in my hometown where they outsource Carlos Ribeiro local shop pros now, who skate like baseball pitcher,

Always in such measure, round and about, little by little, and deceptively only very slightly mind fuck promising, you still remain designation proofed, un-namable,

You always simply stay un-knowable, like the scaling distinction somewhere between antidote and cash poor remedy.

You, the the sick heuristic magical gaggling thinking misread of it all,

You are the eternal fuckable cousin.

Jeff Taylor Don't Know What Adio Denim is Now

 

For Mia 

Jeff Taylor Don't Know What Adio Denim is Now

Jane lain thrown like a saint, and Jeff Taylor does not know what Adio denim is now.

And so if should all industry delay today indefinitely,

Cause pause for flat footed Deluxe factory pro-ams and,

OC bladerunner blind as tadpole, who must now learn to warp and weft in the new idle hour, 

Bleeding brittle communist China Bones wave runner tribal-3K neocon-red suburbanite user-generator outsourced last part,

All paused frozen, like VHS twitch vibrating in the ollie impossible of air, in a new form of pornography where there isn't even any female nudity,

Faculties roused, all factory activity be paused again,Vernon Laird be fired for contemptuously misunderstanding Morrissey, 

George Powell and George Powell and George Powell for wanting to, for making advances to abolish pros in order to pay his factory workers more—is, was the ultimate Marxist critique in Action Sports production and distribution history.

Engine search on Bing George Powell was adamant and committed materialist,

George Powell, the Fourierist. 

And I told my girlfriend, George Powell always reminded me of Russian Constructivism, and she knew the un-specific just of what I meant kind of.

And I fired a TM few years ago for telling a young amatuer mom-manager bowl-er pup,

It's sane to be afraid.

Three Poems: The Last Virgin Pressureflip, There's No Such Thing as a Halfway 50/50, & The Rollercoaster Grease Handrail Rail Off Drexel Ave in Atlantic City

 

For Heather Carden

The Last Virgin Pressureflip

After the last virgin pressureflip, on handrails like plumbing you jump to the handrail's own silently implied and invisible conclusion,

And I could not but help but think an eight year old or tween Mc Twisting was some sort of death of author.

X tricks, like X people slumming away in the sway of all its slippery proposition.

Was pressureflip architect, flip engineering pedestals upon air to stand,

Was when you s/kate, you date oneself (like going on a date), tricking yourself to trick.

Was so to self convince, was so to self hypnotize all required flocked lust of self seduction of all the horny brass brassiere of turning trick,

Was so hundred dollar philips hardware violence that does never come to key,

Was a rollin on a roll in groaning on screeching fading wheel,

And was it just some compulsive auto-documentation plate-ing floating over glass eye of the vomiter?

Thrilled with deathlessness, compelled by gabeling ravers,

All bore dice and bury all off requisite Powell & Peralta bony am subs,

And stretching-breast podcast for stooping musk Muska Ohio ranch house dormers.

Shut up, eat my clip, as just all received automatic loaded subsequent edit updates do tell, all but to roving ocean-sea off the gurry of fisheye. 

There's No Such Thing as a Halfway 50/50

There's no such thing as a halfway 50/50 clip clipped only for peers (or at least that's what I've heard),

On a video of only Saturday darkslides filmed right off the tv,

Like old vert wives nostalgic for any vert trick tips video-taped at half price. 

Tumyeto tool machine, cropped out by flip—

And cropped by Arto am Flip pop punk edited exactly two years way too late (punk dying again in '95 and all of his 411 profile Rowley libertarian neocon Fugazi fuzz),

Sweat on the face like suck on promiscuous penny,

For bussin' blades up all the night bitch gravel.

And you won't get credit—

Or, if you do do get credit it probably won't be enough this time,

Or if you ever do get credit, it will probably be too late by then,

Or if you even get any misdirected credit at all, you get just enough so that it all would be so embarrassing,

but probably also about as consequential as a haunted baseplate,

Or about as consequential as Carroll,

Or as about as consequential as the cremling windbreaker winds sums summoned just by the tweaking of the order of a few moves off the demoing freestyler routines.

And we are having breakfast with Jay Adams.

The Rollercoaster Grease Handrail Rail Off Drexel Ave in Atlantic City 

Somewhere near the rollercoastering greased handrail rail somewhere off Drexel Avenue in Atlantic City,

Doping maggot T-Mags ams waddle swaddled in pregnant regnant logo,

Waiting to progenate overlooked variations of (post)modern bailiwick wheeler chores upon Bally arcade marker and ruin.

They, just all so recalcitrant from fostering a useful working tantrum of all their own psychological method and despair.

And an evil little stucco hubba blubbers in a pavillion on the edge of town right past the beltway, 

As if sculpted by wobbly hand, if only to satisfy very minimum end of code, and it sits like a baked cake, as if it could be decorated with sour red icing that tastes like blue medicine for shell co telemarketers. 

And a row of empty plastic Dr. Pepper bottles looking like empty robot eggs,

Stands incidentally flacking in a row on collapsible event table at a support group for those who lamented Matt Beach underrated.

And wasn't it bad enough—the meetings said not to even think about over-riding our drives, and the weakling first step for weaklings just had to be that one just simply had to wanly accept Matt Beach was always underrated, and we all just still had to somehow roll with it all powerless nonetheless.

And not only that, but no one could quite ever agree who was in fact rated fated appropriate.

"Troy Santana", I once proffered when sharing to the Gordian Knot of uneasy silence.