muffin men

I saw the child looking down the hill
the trees and the lunchbox houses and the mailbox
with the bright red flag (chipped paint, but still bright)
was going ring ring ring to let you know that
someone somewhere sent you something;
and that maybe you should stop being in such a rush
to get from your driveway to your front door
and take a quick peep, because there might be something inside

but the hill was steep and there were potholes
and cracks and loose gravel
so many disasters just waiting to happen
why on earth would he jeopardize
a very acceptable level of existential peace
risking the skin off his knees and the fine fettle of his wrist

“just to see” , “just to see” he pled
and then I thought of my own father
his vascular forehead lubricated with
some of the ugliest sweat I’ve ever seen
angry from losing so much money
but he’ll never stop
and the child kept pleading with me
his eyes were bright with either
his natural ignorance
or some uncanny flicker of precocious genius

I’m a sucker for visibly underfed and
under-appreciated children like this one
and off he went, off he went, he went off
he was hardly off, hardly off
he was thrown off, he’s badly off
the lights are off, shut off the goddamn lights

that was the hill in front of our house
and later that night, awkwardly spilling the scent of liquor I never drink
I stepped outside and started walking down
the trajectory of the child–he was badly off–
and found the instrument that tossed him off
he made it about halfway–down the hill, at least
and it was dark and warm, like an oven being preheated
and I felt like a muffin, hot as all hell
waiting to singe fingers and tongues
that boorishly try to take anticipatory nibbles
no wonder he wanted to do it

I wished someone was holding my hand
but nobody was–nobody
so I got on, I rode on, what was I on?
but then I, too, was off.
badly off

they kept saying
we’re badly off
but I loved him more than words can describe
because
we are muffins
made from the same batter

beer ‘n jams

beer ‘n jams

midnight trams

on the lam

with you

 

attach the strings

play that thing

mend your wings

with glue

 

it’s genius!

you’re Orpheus

he sees us

born anew

 

sing with grace

don’t save face

I’m keeping pace

with you

Rendezvous

Rendezvous

shelves of rituals, pattern
a shred of security

victories and conquests
infinitely small and insignificant
immeasurably large
only to us

a fractured future
empty, but only of the terrible
electricity flows
the bulbs are blinking

and there are millions of us
millions.

untitled 1

distressed genius is a browning apple
cradle curvatures of the bitten edges
there is appetite and there is repulsion

–what you can see, what you can’t see
or would you rather not see at all?

stagnant genius is
defiantly waiting for luck to wane
a distinctly uncomfortable interim
be on your mettle

regressive genius is content
false satisfaction with theory
and a rigid step with the weary

blossoming genius is
terror, sheer terror
and nothing but

-1

you and your friend carried me, drunk
across the cobblestone road in the Altstadt
where I shouted
“Ich bin ein Flügel!”
to the patrons of a nearby bar
my crude German made you laugh your wide  laugh                                                                                                                                                                  I wasn’t even a bird
one night we randomly bumped into each other
in the botanical gardens,
again I was drunk
but it was warm enough for the cement floor
to feel cool and reassuring
and I could feel the top of your head
buzz like an antennae

you were at my 18th birthday party
and gave me an affectionate peck before you left
when I was struggling to stay awake
(you gave me a box of Flic Flacs with a belt to hold them)
I think that was the last time I saw you—really saw you
I still have the belt in a box
thousands of miles away

I saw you in the Storchen
we were in want of space
I was a vampire
you were not

curtain close is
strangely monotonous
I mourn silently alone
because reality does not allow
any degree of hysteria

Are you still in Boston?

-elope

-Elope

Penelope skips through beads of jazz
drinks saxophone grease and gnaws bass
gets rained on by oriental stringed instruments
wipes her face with photographs
she lives in a larger-than-life, lurid heat detector swirl
where hunger pangs evaporate at the shot of a pistol
that red headed girl, her exhaust pipes would steam
something you can see, smell and even lightly hold
the universe’s palm is being burned by Penelope
whose self-consuming smoke is a color halfway between
a sense of social propriety and an inside
wanderlust

Oh, Penelope, what a type!

I saw her today, and she asked me
why I had to be so discreet, always!
I told her it gave me an edge
then I flipped out my pocket knife
and hilariously pointed to the blade                                                                                                                                                                but the joke was lost on her

she’d been writing a book called
“my father was Lothario and my mother was Margaret Mary Alacoque“
I thought the title was god awful                                                                                                                                                                          and made sure to apprise her of my lukewarm sentiments                                                                                                                           this, too, was lost on her

the protagonist was this girl Alaska
who wasn’t afraid to die
her catchphrase was asking
“what country shall I say is calling from across the world?”
when answering the phone
but that’s another world–kind of tempting, I guess
just not mine                                                                                                                                                                                                                and I was secretly infatuated with Alaska

Penelope was afflicted
with a mind that alternated between                                                                                                                                                                 languor and fanaticism                                                                                                                                                                                               a nasty case of depression that reeked of
woefully ignorant coddling and too much ecstasy
she was made by a dyslexic creator
who accidentally stuck her in
angular blue ink vistas
although a soft pastel sprawl would have been much better for her nerves

that’s really the only reason she was so unstable
certifiably deranged                                                                                                                                                                                           explosive, every now and again

oh, but those explosions!
we had nothing left to burn
and had to set ourselves on fire
we both agreed that we needed to compensate
for our underwhelming induction
into this world
but for some inscrutable reason,
Penelope was set on starting with her pubic hair
I was thoroughly intrigued by this pubic pyromania,
but I assume it’s
some kind of metaphor
for birth and death
neatly converging at the tip of her match
but I left before her groins erupted in flames                                                                                                                                                    covering my eyes

Penelope is a sedentary beast
her voyages modest, and her short breaks increasingly frequent
she’ll retell the story of that one time
she met Lou Reed and Nico in the Jewish quarters of Berlin
Some people call her a liar
but I think Lou Reed and Nico
could plausibly have been there

kaleidescope therapy

hello again!
I lost track of time and
as human as I am, I’ve forgotten

I knew you were there
but as things of this nature are
you escaped my periphery for a while

ssssssssssssp. whew  w  w   w

where to start? everything seems so important (which is like saying nothing is important)
to confront you again is a terrifying task
and there are few things that seem to penetrate, as you do

I despised you, I’ll admit
then I grew to love you
simply because you were there
because what you cannot be rid of
you must love!

it was you who reassured me
that we are never alone
that what is is what is
what isn’t is too
I listened intently
doubting all I knew
and it brought me back,
face to face, with you

I am so afraid
that you would attempt to somehow bastardize my diablerie
you implied my life is rarely anything more than
an amusing circle of bathos
a dog solemnly chasing its own tail
I resist! you insist
I desist

ssssssssssssp. whew  w  w   w

but you were wrong
I think you may have mixed it up
adhesion is not cohesion
my youth is not
a reason.

“junior”

Latest tracks by eunuchorn

 

2.

kitsch

desolate levity
inchoate brevity
intangible enemy
where?

killed the rote
blasphemous goat
capsizing boat
fair?

play by rules
absolve the mules
suicide fuels
share?

obvious kitsch
conceptually rich
reflexive twitch
dare.

The Bus Has an Exhaust Pipe, Why Can’t I /Hesitation Station

h e     s itation       station
INDIGNATION
elation
vacillation
resignation

better to have lit and lost than to have never lit at all

No Place.

No Place

my unraveling youth may take place here
a city with the romanticized decay of just another age
a place full of irresistible geometric grandeur
strained of any real inconsonance
no, just the pretty shell

where grayness is tinctured with the granular glow
of a 70′s television show
to the point where it looks brown
we live in this soft brownness
and it’s great

You are here right by my side
so close you could never possibly obtrude
and we’re projected onto flickering walls
with happily unaware obliviousness

A gentle jangle in the background
we could go dancing or
I think if I tried hard enough
I could make it rain

Isn’t it wonderful?