Recently the compulsion to announce to my partner I'm not a very bright human is becoming a point of contention. I didn't used to do this & I suspect you're to blame. & we all know Milo went to college & works for you now but you also totally poisoned my water supply & the water supply of oodles of others. You massacred much needed brain cells & we wish to have them back & we can't have them back so we demand a check for the full amount of your worth made out to the whole world. I'm sure Milo can get another job & I know this isn't proper compensation but maybe the whole world could buy a flamethrower powerful enough to make you stop or maybe just consider the lives you've fucked. & I know this is yet another example of my ass not being too bright, believing your empathy's a possibility. & that's fine. I'm still willing to meet you one eightieth of the way at Citizens United. If companies are people too then companies are Ian Brady & companies are Myra Hindley. Companies are behind me in the mirror.
Parallel Parking on Cracked Front Porch Featuring Dried Ruminant Hair
After uncle Bob called from prison I wasn't the same human just as I'm not, right now, the same human who began this poem. His sentence was light for someone who's used to that crap but was an eternity for a child who's used to abuse from nuns & priests & threats of permanent damnation & being paraded into a large dooming room & watching adults gayly reenact the homoerotic torture of some guy who was just trying to be nice. The setup was so awkward. Every breath being a sin, my brain began to revolt in the direction of my body or vice versa. I don't know. My psychiatrist & I, before his retirement, really failed to nail it.
Footnotes of a One Star Formula
1. The critics revile the teens ‘cause the teens are too aware of the blood in their wrists. 2. Must be so weird to adore your life like when somebody such as yourself dies internally it might be all Well, Holy hell! Can’t believe things is coming to an end! The summer property in Fletcher won't tend to itself, ya know! Maybe the Godfreys will take care of it. Instead of About time. This carousel was complete crap! Neighbors are putting up Christmas fairy lights they’ll regret after a week, meanwhile this Arby’s is ablaze. The children will hunger. 3. I could be mistaken but wasn’t that your leopard print hoodie I saw cropped out of these obit tribute vids featuring midi piano & fake candle background? Who am I to breathe? To even wanna? Who am I, the bad art friend? If we were friends I'd be willing to be the bad art friend. We’re the same energy but that's about all. I don't judge except when I judge. Scruples: get fucked, there's no time for reconciliation. 4. Like Laura Jane, I could search for onetime clarity abandoned alongside ambition but clarity is a drug not worth risking the dumb presence of fentanyl & evil tires can prevent you from getting your doctorate in oceanography or anything else so why abstain from these visions? 5. Companions got you dour? Try blurring the barriers between being & simply suckling the sour juice of our heritage. 6. This technology says vulnerary isn’t even a word. But, like Kaczynski, I sing screw this technology, screw every Robohorse in the whole bosky world. To remain a part of it would be impossible if the latter continues to thrive in the face of these sincere tears. 7. Anthologies strain the brain as does all drinking water surrounding Louisville. 8. This connection is not private. Ever have a burning face? Public’s got no use for’em but I do. Ya know I steals so I can feels is my favorite mantra in this tired land. Other methods attempted include being yelled at by strangers over Skype, being stomped on by strangers for a high price, punching stretch marks after work, tracing the same with a butter knife, you get the joke. I have not been kind to this body this lifetime. In the next I could become a real peach of an outcome or even the end of some romance in desperate need of parental advisory.
Sunshine Is Our Latest Model of The Week
Pierre Guyotat has died! Often imposter syndrome prevents an exclamation but the night he did I felt his rhythm during all 24 Domino’s deliveries made in lame attempts toward even lamer survival. His fingers must’ve been the ones who turned on my emergency heat. I forgive him for he knows not that will double a utility bill. His fingers instead should have beaten right in the surgery. Did you want to lick it, my surgery? I didn’t think so. Did you want to hear about last summer’s hypothermia? The deceased fling? The sheltered lifestyle? Of course not. You’re here to hear about free cocktails & summer soirees for young professionals. Sorry we didn’t put out any carcass this year. We thought maybe you were tired of being catered toward. We figured maybe, for once, you had someone else to love you & buy or gather or steal all that carcass for your gorgeous consumption. If you really need carcass so bad you can always walk to town in the dark. We’re all supposedly free here. We’re all networking & drugged. No one will stop you but the cars or the ghouls.
JOSEPH GOOSEY lives in North Carolina. Recent poems have shown up in Peach Mag, Annulet Poetics Journal, Cul-de-sac of Blood, and Banshee. He is the author of a chapbook, STUPID ACHE (Greybook Press, 2013) and one full length collection, Parade Of Malfeasance (EMP Books, 2020).
Artwork by Austin Veldman.
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