she nanny guns, alas

   
      prologue

there once was a lassie called shannon
her tongue had the tact of a cannon
  she knocks at your door
  with the force of a boar
as fake as the press pass of gannon


*   *   *

cat got my tongue and ran off under the pier
where a selkie put it on a hook
for bait, casting into police state waters
to catch a cold bottom feeder
data damning my quarry
rich only with molars worn soft
then for a birthday anti-present
a trio of foisters
show up most pre-dis-invited
with the she-hag at our screendoor
clutching a discus of haggis to share
while her son holds a realtor's pitchfork
otherwise known as a gold nibbed pen
and inserts his foot in my door
as she-hag brusquely enters
trying to lop off my catkins with shrill verdict
"you're the worst son of a bitch
in the world" without exception
i take pride where the sheep hurting clan
storms my fort in gales of spittle
infectious with diseases
i would prefer to avoid
hence the longstanding unwelcome sign
nailed to their eyeballs in letter form
which must have punctured the gall bladder
for all their gall comes peeshing out
as a puddle reflecting their retreat
highlighted by an actual slap to the face
incredulously from grandma but when
she finally croaked
and her big sad man pants deflated
leaving a crease where the devilish tail
made a codpiece as wrinkled as
her tomb's cement which
read "here lies" not needing to go further into it all,
though not long thereafter the soil
cast her out with the first good rain
and she resembled cousin worm deepthroat
with his thousand hooks and sinkers
making medusa seem well kempt
as snarks are driven into the sea
boiling with some backward anger
once planted with potato like fervor
or built of shenanagins of lucky charm
if harm was not the pleasure ride
for those who never rot, like cedar vampires
leaving splinters for their family business cards
so this is raunching i ask as burn a debt
giggles from her ellis island curb
with a mouth full of venom laced peanuts
on tour thru the scablands of
walla walla: they sure look: at home.

teepee peepee on appammatox wood

jesus on appammatox wood
going down deliverance liver
to a federal penury  of pigs
wearing crowns of barbie twigs
fire gas sun open all nite
for gut soon all things pass
legal kidney stones, our kin
all must get stoned
stomp yer leadbelly foot, unheards
un herd yer slough, snake
un rapt the campus rape or priestly silence
unless you do, will who?
time eats its children
treaty trick on blanket pox
truces hold by nail, denial.
eagles eternally chew
fire giver liver
gizzard wizard lightning
crowd sourced halo fine
welcome, theatre of pratfallen heroics
good deeds gone sour in injun land
scalp the tickets while you can
what can be canned of duh
it comes out the peepee hole


march 13, 2015
Portland, Oregon

fire gas sun, fork it son

ignition refused foisting searing 
commentary coordination
of fire gas sun the people bearing--- voice
elemental standing---
in shock deserved with a sun
---(snuffed cold in a public street
admonished) lethally, burnt.
displayed as a farce works show!!!
crackle hiss$#* flash.
white dazzlers dealing dreamons,
form shitty hall with morals:
rank, bile, and gall.
forgets one to not smile,
he be captain poster gun and DARlink.
for gut soon, poposhop.
images render victim a thug, just erase just ice.
makes one digest where shadows bear, melt
states of voices arrived
in turreted response. the table is set,
shakers all larded in lawsalt.
for gut's son a wife is imported: remembrance,
who else in shock mother
the nation
the world, peeling back an ion fluster
badges usually blind us
but when covered in obstructed blood
magnified by ugly patterns
a furnace that runs the sun divests 
our powerless authority to rob the body of respect
four fifths filthy and white
as far as skin problems go, starved 
of their forgot sons, damned by redlines
inbred scheme punks,vote rigging swindle-rut babes,
states of voices squabble up a stank.
the fizzled fuse foists silence on curfewed lawns.
go home, unless you can't,
be arrested if not disappeared or shot
fork it son. its done.