Closing time—
ant leaves its home &
gets to work.

& then I said,

hush now while I study crumpled leaves.

Too much time I’ve wasted ‘way from weeds.

& then I thought,

¿what is it ‘gain I required to need?

Awkward words won’t let me better be.

& then I’d seen:

Summer garbed in tombstone. & in medias day,

Pepto-dysmal fixes rest to lay.

I shall admit:

sometimes poison hurts my stomach;

guess that means it’s just time to pump it.

summer rain—
June bugs left with just
dot dot dot

Uh huh. That’s right:

I played emo music in the public,

private.

I’m a socialist, Smirnoff. Hic.

If you don’t know about the tavern,

then it is time.

SI PUEDO OBTENER MIS DIAS PERDIDOS DE NUEVO,

¿PUEDO USARLOS VOLVER AL CAMINO?

NEIN.

Not much time…

dot dot dot
thermometer falls—
summer breeze

No tea leaves will feed this thirst.

Can’t keep back this damn dam’s burst.

So much wasted water works.

Should have bought electric 1st.

Great wall noise. Keep out beasts.

Don’t use voice. Reddened crease.

Hard skinned kois. Itchy spring.

Have no choice what summer brings.

We’re rolling suicide, session 3. ¿Are we recording?

¿What? No, Spivak, just—just press this button her—shit. No, not that button. God, no. (Laugh). You almost fucked up the recording, ¿you know that?

«(Laughs). I’m sorry, androgyn. I didn’t know.»

Yeah, be careful with that, ¿OK?

«(Laughs). That would’ve been so bad if that happened…»

Autumnal June—
gray’s back in cement
catching up…

Stale oranges–
before it e’en starts
summer ends.

¿Where’d you get
that bright yellow scarf,
summer oak?

by Seventh Sanctum Writing Prompt Generator

Her life is essentially the story of Dante.

It will be Thursday, the day of wanderlust.

It will be July, the month of unemployment, everyone knew that.

Torture sanity as long as you are screaming.

It will be winter, the season of infamy and howling.

She is always a woman, which was really terrible.

You can kill an airline disaster.

It will be the day of education, the day of poverty.

There is a story about how drug addiction will be like crying.

If you don’t know about the tavern, then it is time.

Attitude—
fir leans to the side
with limbs crossed

makes me grease

up in the bucket I let spill trills ago.

I ran out o’ the greasy chemicals with which to fill this shit,

legit,

¿or is it just fabricated?

¡Say it!

¡It’s the law!

¡Say’s the law!

Money’s time,

& all time gets spent on ‘ventuallies.

¿What makes 1 ‘ventually better than the others?

¿What makes plum jellies ‘bove the worth o’ butter?

So many things to flow all around,

like bliss, & fat, & clams, & oven mits.

I’m an occult.

¿& what do you spend your ‘ventuallies on,

but tea & booze & coffee

or coffee & booze & tea

or booze & coffee & tea

or booze & tea & coffee

or tea & coffee & booze,

but ne’er tea & booze & coffee—

that’d be wacky.

…

It’s cold, though.

¿How’d you know there’s nothing new under the Afternoon Moon?

¿O, where did you get that from?

¿What friends have you made fool with?

Ah, I know where you read that…

So I try to stir harder

the lucky pot that holds every ingredient in the world,

to sift those that taste spiciest

& leave out those that are too ricy,

to do

Senior Estadounidense’s Delightful Stew.

¡What a funny-looking peasant!

I am a Socialist, Smurov.

(No, not the lowercase kind, ¡you filthy prole!)

const int NUM_O_LINES = 256;

for ( int i = 0; i < NUM_O_LINES; ++i )

{

std::cout << “There ain't no justice—(¡Justice!)” << std::endl;

}

& I’ve left ‘hind my keen Dr.

& my theory general

to be uselessly bombed in combat

to give into the philosophy o’ the sad-faced, shell-fleshed crabs,

o’ the caged rats—

«You’ve already played that DVD, Steve,

& it ne’er worked for all your 5 Zanzibari rupees.

Maybe the sauce would seep into every baggie

if you’d just leave.»

I’m an Anarchist, Smurnov.

const int NUM_O_LINES = 2560;

for ( int i = 0; i < NUM_O_LINES; ++i )

{

std::cout << “¡That's how greatful I am!” << std::endl;

}

I lived on my feet,

I sat on my feet,

I ate my chili without grated cheese,

but didn’t e’en sneak you a single speech bubble—

¡Too much trouble?

¿Too many double faces!

I lived on my face,

I sat on my face,

& didn’t e’en arrogantly show my gratefulness

when you praised my speedy Lorraine kitsch.

I’m a Nihilist, Smirnoff.

I was wrong,

& I was wrong since the beginning o’ the bong,

so said my mother in legend…

look closely @ the diagram to see the legend…

I’m a Magical Socialist, Blue Moon.

But we must return to the chemicals I want,

we must return to the bucket & not the box,

not the pot,

left ‘hind like a chalk outline’

left on the space-age street on which we all drive by,

where the strawberry pancakes are long gone

& left me without a throat to sing the rest o’ this song.

I’m a Post-Democratic-Republican-Liberal-Modernist-Progressive-Anarcho-Rasputinist-Socialian, Smurov

Go all the way

to KARAOKE NIGHT, ¿eh?

«(DUH, DUH, DUH)

You think you got us #’d…

(DUH, DUH, DUH)

but we will strike like thunder…

(DUH, DUH, DUH)

We’ll fucking strike like lightning…

(DUH, DUH, DUH)

& be exactly as exciting…

(DUH, DUH, DUH)

& now you say we’re grime…

(DUH, DUH, DUH)

say we’re a coconut without a lime…

(DUH, DUH, DUH)

Well, you need to realize…

(DUH, DUH, DUH)

that grease ne’er dies—

¡Fight!»

I’m a Schliferpus, Smurtov.

No, I’m solo fuckin wit yo, habanero.

many trees
pass my car without
saying hi

¡You were WROOONG!

¡since the beginning o’ the bomb!

¡You were WROOONG!

¡for far too long!

¡You were WROOONG!

¡since the beginning o’ all time!,

¡since the beginning o’ your worthless life!