I don't have much going poem-wise. I'm prepping two books right now, my collection of stories that will be out soonish, and my novel (endlessly), whose ending I'm rewriting and whose polishing will take forever if I let it. It's been two years now since I 'finished' it. I hope it's worth doing.
Anyway, as promised, a poem I've probably linked before, from Girls with Insurance.
How Terror Might Work for John Smith, IT Guy
With the formless voices that bitch in his ear!
Instructions: cap your appearance off with a balaclava.
No one but the people on the mask's other side
will know. True terror does not require identity
revelation; otherwise one might set goals
for vengeance in one's yearly situation report.
This year was very poor for Terror Investors LLC: little
Jimmy from next door escaped our 23-hour-vigil,
lived to ram candy into sister Suzy's cute dark hair;
Mama had to cut it off. George at the office moved
to a corner suite with high-rise view and a leggy
blonde assistant taking dictation on her knees every day
at 12:15 as you stand by the coffeepot that never
works. Your wife and the coffee-brown pool boy
(ye gods, the hits just keep coming), licking batter sensuously
from the paddle of the Kitchen-Aid mixer you bought her
on anniversary ten: the blowjob anniversary, she said.
Somewhere in Pakistan Osama bin Laden aerates
his blood in an expensive machine as the United
States of Indecency sits on its hands. He laughs in his
beard. Homeland Security can't contain the domestic
rage of the auto industry or the corpse-fucking
of the banking industry. It’s time to go home. The baby
too lies like one dead on the sofa, sleeping off her future.
Anyway, as promised, a poem I've probably linked before, from Girls with Insurance.
How Terror Might Work for John Smith, IT Guy
With the formless voices that bitch in his ear!
Instructions: cap your appearance off with a balaclava.
No one but the people on the mask's other side
will know. True terror does not require identity
revelation; otherwise one might set goals
for vengeance in one's yearly situation report.
This year was very poor for Terror Investors LLC: little
Jimmy from next door escaped our 23-hour-vigil,
lived to ram candy into sister Suzy's cute dark hair;
Mama had to cut it off. George at the office moved
to a corner suite with high-rise view and a leggy
blonde assistant taking dictation on her knees every day
at 12:15 as you stand by the coffeepot that never
works. Your wife and the coffee-brown pool boy
(ye gods, the hits just keep coming), licking batter sensuously
from the paddle of the Kitchen-Aid mixer you bought her
on anniversary ten: the blowjob anniversary, she said.
Somewhere in Pakistan Osama bin Laden aerates
his blood in an expensive machine as the United
States of Indecency sits on its hands. He laughs in his
beard. Homeland Security can't contain the domestic
rage of the auto industry or the corpse-fucking
of the banking industry. It’s time to go home. The baby
too lies like one dead on the sofa, sleeping off her future.
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