In any festered heart, from a whore, bastard, child, there start no questions, only pain, pet upon till the act becomes an addiction. There is no wet spot worth the entering of labor. Nothing really answers that pinch and its attendant procedural. Humanity’s systems quack wide, anally, regardless, through a lucre mesh, through a status quo theology via paycheck, via slow cremation.
Red Cardigan, half bottle of ketchup, “on the
fridge door next to the ice pack blow up doll”
& browsing for research chemicals
with a half chub
& getting ready to tell a guy I wouldn’t
Agnes Varda him
& raw dogging a monolith surrounded
by crows telling me to chill out
This is the time for Airbnb hosts to
aggregate cumstains, the next big thing
I bump into you at a bowling alley turned grocery shop
I compliment your unique style of graphic t-shirt
I realign the mechanic assemblages under an Outback Steakhouse
The centipede emerges from a fog of incense.
As he crawls out of the kitchen into the living room, a beaded curtain clacks around each segment of his back as he wedges himself snugly under the sectional. Jostling his roommates, he gets comfortable.
They would complain, but he pays an equal share of the rent and doesn’t need a bedroom, giving them space for a studio.
These men don’t, however, strike the centipede as being as clever as his old friends. When he critiques their work, they sheepishly stare at their feet: “Man, we’re just trying to live.”
Nostalgic, the centipede hitches a ride toward the penitentiary. A trucker leaves him halfway to his destination. As he waits for another knight of the highway, he scours the ground looking for some small excess that has spilled from the cups of passing commuters who have worn a path between the convenience store and the gas pumps. Once he could count on chewing cotton filters of cigarettes butts, but now it is just a matter of fruitlessly licking cement.
—Impressions Rousseauean and beamed from heaven, platonic faint shadows of deranged giants, there go I, flickering and half formed images of the to-be. Here on the cresting rise where already we phase the green way to Gloucester we can see new worlds forming the ever-estate of gormless autocrats, insurance workers and plumbers, filling all the great valley all the way between Bristol and Gloucester. Yes yes, we see it rise in the historical peripheral of the mind’s eye, falling to future app developers building nothing on the fundamentals and yes we select few see the faux-period constructions appear from the earth with the passing of the hours and the words of authori-ty…watching the clock, which now is permanently marred on the mind, reft from their essential rhythms and lost in the endless low builds with no sense of a history at all…a final skipping stone cast to the void…—God, ’s me, and what was once the industrial estate is now; daycare; a gin bar; a gym attached to some cult-like workout routine; a vegan cafe, a veritable alternate high street and the regular high street is dead; and they came when they were all built; all of them foreign; all of them richer and they bought the lot; became our new lords and masters; and here comes the rain and where the fuck should I live and where will I shelter for the night; we’ve no place to call our own.
“Get your sperm here! Get your sperm here!”
Ralph used to say it once and let it rest, but market analytics bawled him out. “Forty-three percent better sales,” they said. “Put your heart in it,” they said. Ralph has a big mustache. Hasn’t had time to wash it in a while, so it looks like a squid’s eating his face. He’s proud of it anyway.
“Get your sperm here!” Fuck it, he thinks. Motherfuckers can hear the fucking music. Indeed. Another gimmick from analytics, loud shit no one else in their right (or wrong) mind would play, like an ice-cream truck. He used to like it, kind of. It was bearable. Now he hears it in his nightmares. Hard life, being a jizz hawker. But he sure as shit wouldn’t go back to medical insurance, not in this climate, no sir.
“Get your sperm here!” He waves a brown bag. Thick plastic. Label claims “100% Recycled, Ethically Sourced, Compassionate Capital Certified.” He doubts it. Heard some garish rumors. Something something makes Rana Plaza look like Disneyland something something. Through an actual grapevine, so he won’t swear by it.
“Get your sperm here!” One thing he knows, only poor folks’ sperm is marketable. The poorer the better. Labels on the bags brag, “Duration on EBT: 6 Years.” Another: “Lifelong Janitor.” Rich folks all tried CRISPr before they figured out how to work the oven, got their shit burnt. Top dogs claim it’s a one-generation crisis, but now there’s this big new business, well, Ralph has his doubts.