Sing to Me, Man

about rosy toes and eskimoes, all you know on damsel doe

Bybling Syblings (Part 2. Moving)

I remember I was writing my best work,
on the shirtsleeve of a girl I was after,
last name Hefter?
we wished we’d kept her,
slipped her into the to-ship pile,
or better,
with the cheap, wooden scepters,
left behind by large, heretical Preschools,
where we learned, together, the Momarchy’s heredital rules.

Robber of airplane peanuts,
sobber of Darjeeling teahuts,
A long 12 hours to Beijing,
The hand-held couple behind us,
discussing prenups.

Horny Count Dracula

1. Fun
2. Coo
3. Plea
4. Fore
5. Sigh
6. Sex
7. Heaven
8. Mate
9. Hind
10. Again

Bybling Siblings

Part 1. Recitative

Received: An honorary degree in daughterhood,
earned for knowing the sour taste of lemon-lotioned hip,
and going through stacks about car rides,
legs growing against the windshield,
bending at weird angles,
sunbound plans warped by our Freudian substitute’s glasswork,
who shows his stuff off at Sawdust festivals,
looking up shyly from his molten lump,
at regular intervals,
and best of all,
engorge gorgeousing the big red ball,
a divine, middle-class trumpet call.

Looking through the old tangerine slice in the door…

(I found your self-affirming apple cores everywhere I went,
a slobbish Hansel guiding me to damp ticket stubs in jackets,
to the glove box,
to the cloying community pool
chewed-up, sugarcane-pulp gum under each desk,
fastened to my hair, where you stuck each test.)

…I watched you drown our goldfish “Hero” in mascara and milk,
we hosed off tank gore in the backyard,
baptizing the gardeners,
crossing chests collaterally.

Those tickets?
To pay for physics lessons taught outside,
by colliding classists,
“Can I get a ride?”,
momentomous and half-my-weight,
the passive class sits,
people step on their hands,
looking for their glasses.

Broad concert bruises show the morning after,
lines on your face where it knocked down rafters,
where it pressed up against a protective cleavage,
That absurdist with a nose ring and a camera strap looped through it,
You and your hooligirls,
clasped with lace collars,
slippery like Cool-whip,
with the time it takes to deliver them home,
they make up names like “Dr. Chauffeur,”
as they forget their addresses,
“terribly sorry sir,”

What did you want to tell me?
It’s all mixed up on the tapes,
digestible four-beat words,
divulge into punk-black shapes,
divulge into reused October capes,

sobby singers are second-rate,
whenever it’s important,
you come in late.


Tracey Emin - Exorcism of the Last Painting I Ever Made (1996)

Tracey Emin lived in a locked room in a gallery for fourteen days, with nothing but a lot of empty canvases and art materials, in an attempt to reconcile herself with paintings. Viewed through a series of wide-angle lenses embedded in the walls, Emin could be watched, stark naked, shaking off her painting demons. Starting by making images like the artists she admired (i.e. Egon Schiele, Edvard Munch, Yves Klein), Emin’s two-week art-therapy session resulted in a massive outpouring of autobiographical images, and the discovery of a style all her own. The room was extracted in its entirety, and now exists as an installation work.”

(via porn4smartgirls)

Juliet drinks Ice Tea on her porch

Juliet looking at that Montaview and the Mantras too.
Thinking about mantarays,
hey I can’t talk right now, ok?
Transcience, gradients,
a grand audience made up of roses she gave names to,
like Carl and Tuvalu

All the maps in her room came from the future,
located somewhere she could understand the culture

Honey up on the balcony more hegemony than money,
it’s not true what the boys say about the harp-playing harpie,
enjoying the sunny side of a gone dawn
trying to shear the psalm fronds covering her ears,
and an overgrown hair bun big enough to nest an entire baby,
oh babe,
the monarchs don’t migrate this season
won’t you come down,
let me call you Katie?

For breakfast,
a big bowl of RomeO’s,
for lunch,
Peet and Einstein and Tom and Jerry,
eating is scary.

Even Eve’s walk was less heavy,
and her opinions, though breathless,
were so dainty,
they made me fainty,

I’d fall into your arms if you were calcium enough
But unless that’s a moral compass in your pocket
unless your friends have locks for their sleeping bags
unless you all expand in water,
and phosphoress,
this porch will keep me,
fastened to the floor,
playing binocular wars,
as a matter of course chords

How to die by holding your breath

Instruction manuals don’t tell me anything about the things I want to know,
Like how fast do you have to be going?
Like how drunk should you get?
Like when’s my brake?

Breakfast was kind of silly,
We opened wedding invitations,
Some were cute:
“Something stolen,
something alive,
something blue”

I started all my sentences with “in the grand scheme of themes”
and you again with the jeans
pretending the coffee pot was a pregnant neighbor
you rubbed its belly,
cooed bitterly,
and took down the date of the shower
exchanged browning gossip,
as it boiled with girl power.