She Will Certainly Raise The Roof: The Day Jean Parcourt Parlour Opens Somewhere Around Six Tonite

 

She Will Certainly Raise The Roof: The Day Jean Parcourt Parlour Opens Somewhere Around Six Tonite 

In this night,

Looking for you,

Like you walked me around wireless,

Too enthusiastic about the idea of the fat bubbles you draw on top when you write down i's.

And the small workout room of the singles' jingle plex,

Was later converted into a little wintry wry mini bar scene there,

Soloflex mirrors lifted off the walls with wiggling limbs, 

Kitsch key hook plaque installed for parked sets of rings not to be lost,

No sink installed yet, washing glasses in an old Igloo.

But in the model showroom suite's presumptive smugness, she stood a bit more upright now, watching the poetic justice of useless apartment gym finally now being dismantled,

Afterall, the model suite well worked it's keep, and besides, was considerably more important,

Whereas the gym was sold on and existed mostly solely as a gimmick over-glamorized phantom,

The model showroom, not yet fully knowing the plans for the small apartment complex beer cave pub 'cade.

But now the apartment gym's old closet was being converted to dry storage,

All sauce stocked behind and under small stooling bar,

And staged with just the right amount of hallow,

Like bar of a doll house,

The singles apartment complex arcade bar, 

Simulacral, like comb for doll hair,

All the micro-utopia residue, like doll head oversized hair follicle sweet plastic scent, 

Yet to finally whiff from mouldering dummy poison attic storage.

But weather quite a fine, weather be quite a quaint, a strolling pseudo business now, that ran off plushing carpet punch carding, 

Trade ripping carnival ticket,

Economy of trivia night relying on just the right angle and sixth degree of non sequitur rummy fact find at the local library,

An entire economy off skeeball coupons correctly assumed by which the singles would be too preoccupied to even try to buy in bulk counterfeit at party store for pass off here,

An old Pappalardo pennant, pennants and the proprioceptive neon advertising beer they wouldn't sell or would never sell hanging in the blank of backdrop, 

Of the all no placeness of a stage set,

Cloistered off like some inviting critical culdesac,

As the Heideggerian horizon line is reduced towards the nowhere here, nowhere beyond the small now blue black painted wall space backdrop quaintness quarantine,

Seals so bark to engage, empty liquor bottles gladly scored, the future pleasant sour milk litter box scent decay so screens against all the ginning fizz.

Exfoliated conversation of all our now cozy kelping alienation, modernism and its discontents,

All relaxing into accepting resignation of all the too much master of ceremonies reification outside, 

Fairweather distanced remove of all the supposed and unearned knowingness of the smug cats catting of Normandy, and everywhere else,

Drunk, kind of just now realizing god put cats in the city, just to remind us that god, nature, whatever, may not necessarily be totally enthralled by exactly everything we do. 

But as one toast shot contains more fellowship than an entire AA calendar year,

And what we watch ourselves seeking streaking even as our reading still so affirms,

Here, where Carroll's treatment is mostly an abstraction,

A couple of stewardesses still in uniform,

And Rick Howard was the Jack Nicholson of skateboarding.

Then it was all just so splendid well enough to make you feel like you had some place to go though,

When you didn't quite feel like going out,

But didn't want to be in your apartment.

And the first time I saw you Jennifer there,

Baltimore bangs, brown and redish curtained both sides off grazing the shoulders of Beige London Fog Inspector Gadget trench coat rain coat that you still have on helping out the apartment 'cade part time bar bartender there,

Actively passing shots out from the horny tequila donkey burro,

Languished in the projected aggressive idealism of all your over-helpful.

  

Ciphers of Regression; Canto XXXI: Where Is Your Rupture? And All The Boomer Penthouse Forum Working Order

Ciphers of Regression; Canto XXXI: Where Is Your Rupture? And All The Boomer Penthouse Forum Working Order

I awake upon hearseing grip tape dusted roadside,

Like spit on sand drawn dirty illustrations stuck into mail, 

Was the first stag film emerging out of all muttonchops colonial headland then,

And of all the things I do now know, but all of which I am not at the moment thinking,

Was that after all these years,  

Boomers still have zero real conception, a Charles Manson like non-comprehension of skateboarding whatsoever,

Despite street turning forty, 

And baby boomers valorizing M.A.S.H. again,

Oblivious, like yipping cartoon sunglass dogs, lint bidden sweater arms for ears, animated flagging in the Datsun wind with windows all the way winding on down. 

And no Baby Boomer ever has seen What Only Me and The Babysitter Know follow up latchkey flesh house promo slam section.

Dear Penthouse Forum,

I am an architect that engineers plank on air to sit,

And I pen poetic non-sequiturs that don't land brand Primitive,

And I conceptualized April as exactly a brand that Gen-Z comments section wants again,

And I edit edits for all the sick fuck asperger who insist on collecting Gator reissues still now,

And I only love the rights, when they are so shored upon,

And as the world comes of late style red Grange age,

To black space upon all sake's own boil rock raw dogging,

Humbled gang members who quit the shrimping around the tavern, find solace of the notion of prejudged fate and an un-manipulable un-mutable god.

Mean street buck beaten, bowlegged browed K-swiss foot soldiers who quit skating once every year, accepting things are going to work out the way they were meant to be anyways.

And when you go to the nipple staircase ridge behind dolphinheart library in Gloucester, and you're too bite into the apple of knowledge shook to even but try, 

Confronted by the border between your sober stasis and a drunk richer you,

Then the baby sitter will never be impressed the next time she comes tooling over.

As place reduced to being considered just merely an area within an environment which has been simply altered in such way to make the general environment more conspicuous and only that,

Someday I will send you a page from a novel once everyday in the mail, not stopping until the title concludes itself and the novel cycles and disappears into itself. 

Not just out of zeal for the reliable nude route of mailman,

But just to if only somehow fully swim into all your alienating attention again, 

Wade into the arena of your future presence just as where you will be, as if it was now,

And you've probably never had a user generated content magazine subscription before.

But if Boomers of a curlicue carillion of glass scultpure Hallmark mural,

Relinquish the world finally,

And no Boomers, we are not all going to sue you,

NO BOOMERS, WE WILL ACCEPT ALL OUR OWN INJURIES ALL AS OUR OWN, 

Despite all your reactionary provocation and aporia.

So quit using that as the defacto baked in excuse, 

It's been quite old, too tedious,

Because only you are the ones who believe it,

If you ever even really believe it at all.

But I promise,

As languishing credentialist clerks brow beat over-motivated autodidact,

As if only dominating the over populated field can be achieved simply by being fiery completist,

Or just to live enough to someday find the thermostat at the job site,

Raise the roof temp right up to one degree,

Then so consider that my contribution to entire finny day's collective work winds songing along the rim,

Then I will promise,

I will write down the times I wake on my own without an alarm, 

And in studying the natural variation of minutes to wake,

As clued in order to make broader, further, wide ranging, reaching self knowledge and epistemological discovery.

I will never dry dream a diary so to keep, because it's too exhausted too late to start by now anyways.

While you are just off somewhere else, and I could see you then probably so gay in the plain,

And, but, it's just at the very least, 

I would just only want to say,

I have always had if not but only an unexpressed and somewhat proud admiration for the unbridled immediacy of Hustler Magazine, as seemingly their radical rebuke in the midst to Playboy not ever showing kissing.

But yet otherwise, disgusted by all the pornographic audacity orgy of surplus of waterslide park lagoon obstacle course over plashing mini water wars, 

As service animals in life preservers remain un-baffled by the non-sequitur unlikelihood of all existence,

And euthanize the service animals for not knowing that if you could talk to god plainly, or direct to one to one, it would all just probably crumble into vanish, 

Like video game cartridge flipping at end,

Including in god itself de-materializing,

All well outside the reflection of some sweet avenue from scar off tear drop,

As engine engineering perpetual creation movement disappears for sometime too long,

Voiding nulling and paused,

Declawed itself like hearing punchline before pretty decent joke,

And when nothing would exist, 

Even you would not exist,

Even you past what borders nothing.

And my heart always trailed back to the someone's wife in the home photo mailed to Beaver Hunt,

That I seen in second grade,

Shocked and appalled by the guts on outsides explicit reality of the first time I ever saw edge of woman's torso,

But I remain got over quickly,

Though thinking about it for years, 

Not knowing how to ever fully digest it.

But it was as if Beaver Hunt,

Was the printing out of the entire internet,

And I saw the entire physical internet,

And the image of the entire internet was only but the image of the boarder between oblivion and creation, 

That we all could not stop looking at.

But I always pretty much knew there are things you just accept and never question,

Like how they can write and finish a complete newspaper every twenty four hours ceaselessly in infinitum, without ever missing parts or missing news.

The fatality of in house cartoonist not keeping a backlog and working surplus of jokes and ideas and sketch scenarios, 

And, but I just pretty much learned to let it all go,

Like not getting hung up on not knowing exactly how much tv watching causes pregnancy,

Or how impossible it is to take a cool photo facial expression without the knowingness attached to having acquired real success, 

When the real players know it's impossible to take a good face control photo of incidence without having a used to, constant prior adulation from peers and everyone around you then.  

It's just that deep inside, somewhere right in the middle, a lot by a lot,

Destructive forces encoded in our soul, that probably can only be somehow dealt with indirectly or directly, 

Like by resolution of sick beat DIY bashed chink-chink.

So for now, just stick it in a cove,

Or in cage with turtle dover stan Southie post pandemic twurdling footplant,

As the trace trance dance leaves is its air,

As blind populism still exists in an underground pre-emo retro-goth situationist graphic dance club,

Then put me up like a wad,

Place me away like a trike,

Understand the impulse not to go on because of indiscriminate impersonal blind worm-ed causality,

Is as if to say,

What dooms must do,

If since it would never by any means be as any close or near as any good, 

Is comedown so fromming,

And if you think about it, actually kind of makes a lot of sense,

Like the moon re-inspecting the sky, 

Only to have faded away.

Things You Didn't Give A Tony Alva Damn About

  

Things You Didn't Give A Tony Alva Damn About

For those who scorn tap,

When insects do not feel pain,

In a garbage in garbage out pervasive Chevrolet hip heterogeneity,

With broadcasting murder music gambino lionizing against a Mafia's ceaseless aims to finally go legit,

Cigarette on her over decorated with shed for spikes arm,

And at centerless city that doesn't even have an Inspiration Point,

You are an indiscernible street bump I don't know how to pop,

Not necessarily strictly defined in relation to yourself, 

But also or rather in relation to some logical operations on a set of named and unnamed vicissitude of cultural terms,

And stop and go and stop and go ever so slowly will a beach house relationship coach so go, 

Like the cultivating of reedy English voice in ever so slight advancing increments, as to go un-bracingly unnoticed,

And when it's fully formed, accepted without mention.

And when the outsider's looking in de facto oh-snap!-take given unearned fair space and equal treatment and weight in measure, NOT A PROBLEM.

Grass snake resistant pentatonic, NOT A PROBLEM.

Held hostage or on perpetual stand by, 

Mindfucked by all the loose connotative speech of it all, 

Containing even all the more interpretive downside,

NOT A PROBLEM.

And there's never time or place to play acoustic guitar.

On the battered oil change ledger faithfully kept updated in the glove box for next owner,

Or on Lampshade mid day coming off like it's evening,

In the wintertime, in mordant down Lawrenceville splits,

Or in the sitting room in New London, overhearing your conversation casual, 

While I'm inhaling popcorned bags of lung,

And what your generalized doting on telephone right now and always says, 

Seems to all but just always ever so say,  

You ominous so casual, 

Prefacing there to whoever on other side of snaking line that is, 

While I feign unconcerned, though taking it in like sleeping on floor of a lake, 

When I hear you go, when I hear you go, I know, I know,

Yeah I'm with X comma a friend, 

Like I'm hugging cousin.

Then I'll skip my next oil change.

And if I could unwrangle somehow to fill into this register,

Look you in the eyes all the way to Penthouse Pet estate stairway, 

Or skirting up some real good decently working reverse psychology, 

Skipping all civil procedure, like cave-manning a handrail, 

Would it not only not be enough, 

Or too much and a bit much, too soon, too late, 

Or if enough, but then pretty much still inconsequential anyways.

Then I will for sure know you and Tony Alva go to Alanon in the pavillion

By the marina, near the rollerskater path.

.

You see,

I don't make a living riding around on a toy of wheels, but listen, because what I'm trying to get to be understood right here is how that's exactly worth saying here,

In a nobody give a fuck, sex so scarce secular,

Tracing fine gossamer lines of tangled Nazi youth garter chintz,

Just in spirit of better world well without you, 

When lover now described as body count kill, 

And long-game targets always all coming to naught,

And when you then witnessed getting missed by the whole of your own entire generation anyways, 

Followed to be, all but to be passed by next gen even too, lionizing MGMT, 

Fedora tanking Indy,

Then know I will drive and I will just drive around the block in Acura blue right back to spot started, 

Solely for the effort, if not but to just resolve some purposeful symbolic closure somewhere, site of reconciliation,

While others also remain yet so willing to seek such small unacknowledged accumulating gains for purpose indefinitely, but also really thinking hopefully soon,

Just more than willing to put in the leg work,

Or those outside of the jack o' box of Kitsch, in which otherwise in such should one surly seek solace.

And there's nothing that brave about Kitsch.

So when every night is Ladie's Night.

Left alone left to just sentimental-eyes Arto Saari reclaim street grid edit to Pinback,

Unable to assimilate with any free association of producers, or not in quite the way one would have wanted to or would have imagined,

And the unaware of itself Jeff Goldblum pedestrian intrigue normative eclecticism of it all—Jeff Goldblum in a fedora over a decade ago. 

And so let a crashing kooks choke out everyday without remit.

Then I'll just stay back with the rest of them, 

Ask me to stay back, battered and blighted, ruined and rundown, now as rightly such to be so skeptical of all aesthetic category, 

Feeling so mired in futility, to not even have enough will to organize written down future preemptive comebacks that surely will be needed if not later, 

Then soon, or eventually.

And with everyone and everything now all just so supplement, 

Dos pesos per network actor one hundred thou, 

And sheets of pastiche people that gatecrash boulder Dash and constantly undercut, 

I will say to you, just remember,

Just remember, the camera lense is just, if not more subjective than naked eye, actually,

Or how my nostrils would flare when I was first learning to play guitar anyways,

And remember I'm on equipment team, 

Have had double last part.