Saturday, March 7, 2009


“I have a girlfriend” he says.
and, somewhere, Ginsberg coughs up blood.
Artaud shrugs and pisses in his dress.
A playboy bunny remembers her real name and pops a hemorrhoid beneath her
fluffy tail.
Somewhere in the lazy lounge of limbo, Milton Berle picks up a copy of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, forever forsaking his legend for the sake of Mr. Darcy. Mr. Dowry? Mr. Dooooolittle.

“I have a girlfriend now”.
All at once, just like that, the world is sexless and flaccid, unwired.

I’d sooner splice my clit than see you bored
I’d burn my head to fuel your fire. Not ashes. No ashes. Not you.
Death before doldrums in such a fighting fucking friend.
Not girlfriend! Not stale! Not monogamy slogonamy and habit for to hang your hat your heart-on on.
Gliding numb, floating, unsparked and uninspired, safe and held and grinning, dead-eyed in the mire
of love.
of "love".

“I’m living with my girlfriend”
Couch unstained
Bed unhumped
Shower unsoaked
Shoes unshed by an undarkened door
This bird, this pussy:

“I have a girlfriend” like an apology.
And it’s me who’s sorry.
“Sorry for your troubles” I grin and get on with it: polite and dry. It’s getting late.
You should get home.
You have a girlfriend, now.