Monday, August 1, 2011

buff my pylon ~ SJ Fowler



complaining is the central interest of millenial American poetry
as we British poets watch the road for the terror of
the dung beetle to battle with a shitball in the carrot’s groin
who causes us so much fear because we are afraid of getting
the stink on our fingers and accidentally touching the brow
of eyelashes and then sweating black like a robbery so that
corrupted tears stream into our eyes and blind our gift, struck
down like the one walking amongst them folded into a
fucking quitter from a rough area who wasn’t given a chance to
succeed because he was from somewhere and not because he would
watch fifteen hours of television warble catwipe per day and would
n’t know the die blaue wheelbarrow full of newly rescued human
excrement if it hit him in the mouth like a beetle frown though he
does know break neck and untrimmed bush and an appeared smile
so vice versa sleek is his application for funding, his pen like the
intimidating shape of a bouncer, a soldier conditioning just for
Easter and yes it turned his life around, he can afford again, soon to
be parsimonious, kipping hemp & barley ween shouting “hard work
 a mean business” until he daft swift slips and I’ll be happy, the whole
time I was writing anyway and my stuff is solid




from Minimum Security Prison Dentistry available from Anything Anymore Anywhere later this year

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