Slam Buttons — from “The Concrete Sweater”
Chapter II from surrealist novel “The Concrete Sweater”
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Pick a note from the hat — don’t be shy, don’t be shy — Pick a note from that hat — foul grave — and Ye Face beast Mouth ye Place — ye old spit on Cum in on Spit ye Fuck — Cursed Ye And I — More Words Machinery the Likes colorful Enter old Dig tell — Like rubbing his eating am of Core I We — to Stop Hitting — I Stop Alright — gonna Perineum you in Time — and Rusted Like mosaic glass Cunt you Be Kids Use — and Stabbing — marks whale the and very be threads It in on — Press word vision power lays electronic association blow plausible probably — addiction same of the fiction confounds In by spare temporarily — Time solutions and Push national relentlessly deliberately on S.E.X. — he of words vast and cut measure diabolic — finger implications Such night how barroom For he — Dr. Fortune — Ticket image — Phrenology Machine — Mr. Global and his Dick Mushers — embarked tools Melville Bradly Life 1961 game — Burton Thus roads everyone bent the sadly surreal — compromise the first archetype Hamburger — Exploded Brother Manipulating Desperate — comedy words Mary Narrative — schizophrenic programmers actually — throat up sort cut solutions — Gibraltar Intention Room 1963 — Minutes late these up cut barroom meaningful been — interesting mostly lonesome — He deliberate Fortune image reveal — The Mute — I Pity Lapel — about River document layer carta You to the Powered — old done person of Burns in and the Quran disciple — My Yuppie daily — coming up MLK’s Spunk — Fairies flyin’ You String Big with died of United Eating — But rise Up Applesauce planters — microwaveable Pounds over Smith with one greatest Over Brown known workers — the excited instant pachuco — the instant soft pachuco —
Wandering around smalltown Cunt, Republica has got me feeling so blue…
As a matter of fact…
Not saying I told you so…
“He was submitting to them. He was anything but a threat, and they still killed him.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“Nah… White Phosphorus…”
Jimmy Phosphorus, The Inventor Of Phosphorous,
Smiling hard in the lead-lined box… Whatever happened to Patient Zero?
“Every living being should have to eat processed food for the rest of their life.”
“The line between cocaine and crack is very thin; make sure you don’t snort that line.”
Private Door Hinge has obviously never read a book before.
the religion climate
RPM on sight
linguistics addiction at White
book Face in deviancy 78 the sexual same time
black records our drug countries raving only Ancient
flaws Egypt codices political is
institutions century
about time 21st pederasty history
all and Mayan of are (our) critics
“I used to think when people would chant ‘Chug! Chug! Chug!’ they were actually saying ‘jug.’”
“I told you to tell Mr. bin Laden that this would plant ideas in the heads of others…”
Religion Addiction: The Addiction To Religion
“I need a map for your bedroom.”
Poets need to ground themselves in reality… Take a night at the college-hotel combo next door… The dynamic of education and short-term paid lodging works very well… Not the customer industry… The cancer passion… The clothing insurance lest your clothes “disappear” or get ripped apart in some “awful accident…” The highway dinner (and attached definition)… The reaction manufacturing… The Anxiety Apple… No…
The University Department of Republica.
Get yourself a pen and put down your throat signature… Take an Effort Breath and “Get It In Writing…” Need instructions? The Analyst is out of town. Think about the reputation of the Television Population (the people in my television)… Thanks…
Mr. Emphysema discovered conclusion math… A region of mathematics that concludes everything we know about the area of knowledge in a nice little package… Calling on all mathematicians… This is where your story ends…
Panorama of the Alcohol Championships where Uncle Ho eats pie with about 40,000,000 other people…
Republica is a vast country painted in monochrome. Much of “What Goes On” is handled by the University Department of Republica: college jail cells, college airports, college midnight… Plants don’t grow and the sun doesn’t shine. Celebrations are distributed by the government. Wood is history; sent back to the boiled lake with flies jerking and jolting.
I own land where the cows do roam… I own land where the cat cowpigs do sleep…
Sipping on a can of blue spit while Frank X sleeps The Big Sleep on the floor… Freemasons control the world and shove their arms up the asses of presidents, past and present… Répondez s’il vous plaît, to my wake (poetry reading).
More of the same.
More of the same.
Mother Teresa confiscated my scented handkerchief… Mother Teresa was an antique store owner.
What about The Colombian Book Thief?
Uh… His file isn’t clear on if he steals Colombian Books or if he’s a Colombian that steals Books.
Both could work… How are you going to find a supply of Colombian Books in the United States so large that you can be known as “The Colombian Book Thief?” If he’s Colombian, the Books he steals are definitely going to be Colombian Books, no?
So he’s from Colombia?
Most definitely. He steals Books, but just because he lives in Colombia, they happen to be Colombian Books.
So Colombian or Colombia? if on Both clear The just of Thief?
It’s Whatever (I.W.)
“You play the piano, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you play Greensleeves?”
“Nah… But I can play With Myself…”
Spending Valentine’s Day with Vapor Hands… Falling asleep in the Avant-Garden (equivalent to a city square in Republica)… Waking up to faceless suits pouring buckets of paint on me while The Purple Terrorist dances The Zionist Boogie…
SCUM: “Fuck you! The Holocaust is not in the public domain yet! Give me a fucking break!”
COMEDIAN: “Kiss my ass, Scumbag! And I refer to you by your Christian name… And I say again to kiss my ass… Rimshot during the rimjob…”
Night wind hawkers sell melting wax figures in the summer… They will harden in the winter… Pastiche of frozen top hats and melting machinery…
All of this you can get cheaply and swiftly in Republica…
In the beginning, there was bear shit… Bereshit…
Tree of Old Age… Here’s Tagged Ear Over Here.
Rest In Peace Damo Suzuki.
Music In Concrete.
Put a coin in the hat, see a man get disemboweled… It caused me much Anxiety, and I had to go to Depression for a change.
DUCK DOWN WHEN YOU SEE THE CENSUS TAKER — Carte blanche! Carte blanche! Carte blanche! You don’t want to turn into a statistic, do you?
Cocktail of medication and multicolored napkins. Right on this corner, please. Take the “A” train… Yeah… Definitely… Most certainly… You ever tried translating the Quran into … Actually, yeah, scratch that. Make another painting…
There’s an old German restaurant on the corner that serves really good food. Pigs in a blanket, Eintopf, the whole bit…
(Note: Pigs in a blanket is a German dish consisting of uncircumcised penises. The manner by which it is served — are they cut off from the body? does The Man stand by the plate? — is elusive.)
Peeping tomcats, Glistening Blood strips… Gasp from Cast, age serving March… Transcontinental… Looky Yonder… Is Republica in Europe?… Barred from all walks of life… Barred banned and fucked from all maps…
Get into the groove… Get into the grooves before some philanthropist shoots hot jissom on them and they LOCK UP… Get subject to the Capital Gains Tax… Sir Buddy Balding, The Minister Of Depravity does the Admonishing Finger-Pop, the polar opposite of The Zionist Boogie…
“Usually, people don’t go around and talk about their dicks and pussies so freely.”
“Yeah… But I don’t do it freely… But for a price… Pay the toll… See a man get disemboweled…
“Imagine being the person someone thinks about when they’re trying to get their dick soft.”
“That’s exactly the kind of shit I’m talking about! Cut it out!”
What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is broken. Nowadays, a woman’s gotta cook a man… What do you do when two magnets that are attracted to each other are different sizes? You shoot pour spill hot wax on the joint… Boil soap… Rule Of Thumb (R.O.T.): Never boil concrete… Never wear glasses in space…
IN VAIN
“Relapse For Daddy Please”
“Everything Is Bad And Nothing Is Good”
“What, are you five?”
“Born Out Of Brunswick And Into The Frying Pan And Into The Fire Laced With “Grand…” Mother’s Made Of Glass, Mother’s Made Of Concrete…”
Happy Birthday To The Blues
A funeral, open to anyone and everyone to come. No one comes. Laying in the dead bed hugging a clothes hanger. Blanket on fire.
(Judges slam down gavels on human furniture cursed by succubus wood nymphs)
The Man In The Street goes from state to state, consuming information on a 24-hour basis from headlines read on beds of Newspaper. Little Buddy resorts to eating Mush and drinking Vapor. Gummy can’t even get a decent meal because his dollar isn’t worth shit. You would do it too, if you could. Two Girls, One Zapruder Film. xxxx xx x xxxxxxxxx xx xxxxxx xxx xx xxx xx xxxxxxxxxxx
Republica is in dire need of a reform.
Long walk up this dirt hill. Freeway jacks dipped in calico. Tongue tied and hang dried strictly from lacquer. Am I excited for the long time strictly from bug wings, roach crunch, the ant boom and the canned food? No, probably not.
Billy The Kid From Honduras exists purely in the synaptic pruning he left behind… When you look closely at the footage of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, you can see a little man jump out of the plane just before the moment of insertion…
Did I ever tell you about The Man On Floor #1?
The Man On Floor #1 lived a humble life.
He worked in the North Tower.
He woke up early, got to work on the dot, and spent his free time dabbling in the arts.
Early in the morning, just seconds after the first plane hit the North Tower, The Man On Floor #1 fucking swan dived out of his window and died immediately upon impact with the ground.
The stupid sonuvabitch could have walked, could have taken the fucking stairs.
He could have taken the fucking elevator.
That is how safe he was on the first floor and how early into the attack he decided to jump and fall to his death.
He had all of the right cards dealt to him.
And he still fucking jumped.
Even in a time of great mourning for the country (especially for all of the poor people who had to jump from the tower, God bless them), he was unanimously ridiculed in the press and by the general public.
To this day, The Man On Floor #1 continues to inspire generations of people to be smart.
Shortly after LAPD took the terrorists mugshots, all Hell broke loose…
Manhattan Mark, The Mascot of September 11
Billy The Kid From Honduras is not dead. Billy The Kid From Honduras is alive. Go find him.
“now warm knees close your clean no with and I you smell like poking Bean”
“What, are you five?”
Will I ever go to sleep tonight?
At least I have soft skin.
Fuck all of that. You don’t need to be touched.
Isn’t Grace “Down And Out” (D.O.A.) in The Congo right now, mining cobalt with her teeth?
I Got The
“What, are you five?”
The Bellhop, holder shiny in-stock… Unlock a handkerchief with a serpentine tin can of jelly polished… A wardrobe filled the toast and a churning crawl…
I have seen the light at the end of the tunnel! I have both male and female sex organs! I have experienced orgasm both male and female, and I can say with absolute certainty which one is preferable!
“What, are you five?”
Fifteen kids playing on the blizzard maracas.
Have you ever thought about it? Funerals and weddings, going hand in hand?
Freemason Davis ate Caseinpoint Casein Protein with baby trombones swimming in the concrete milk (a child’s first meal with the advent of electricity). I can still feel the cold steelfeel of the leather lather white on my head’s band of hair strands, drip drip drips dropping on my lead underbelly (noise out back from the sheepshack)…
“Take your top off… Bom, bom, bom bom bom?”
Langston and Longfellow were going for a white night walk down the right side sidewalk where the night wind hawkers sell mock-apples, letter openers, and melting wax figures in the summer. A kind reminder of dead Republican hospitality.
ARCHITECT: “You know how we build piers with those wood planks for people to walk on?”
WORKER #1: “Yeah.”
WORKER #2: “Mhm.”
ARCHITECT: “Well, I realized…”
The architect pukes on the pier.
ARCHITECT: “Sorry… My body is fighting something and I don’t know what it is…”
ARCHITECT (CONT’D): “As I was saying, these wood planks that we put on the piers have little cracks in between them, right?”
WORKER #1: “Yeah.”
WORKER #2: “Mhm.”
WORKER #1: “I like looking through them to see the waves crash against the pier.”
ACTOR: “It’s fun to play pretend.”
ARCHITECT: “Well, that’s too bad. We’re gonna have to get rid of those cracks.”
WORKER #1: “Why?”
WORKER #2: “What?”
ARCHITECT: “I’ve realized that these cracks are unsafe for embryos to walk on.”
WORKER #1: “True.”
WORKER #2: “Yeah, yeah.”
ARCHITECT: “If we replace the wood planks on these piers with tiled floors, I believe that would make it safe for people of all sizes to walk upon.”
WORKER #1: “Genius.”
WORKER #2: “You never disappoint, boss.”
Everyone’s writing the story of their lives and meanwhile I’m tearing down the walls on mine… I Got The
GENERIC “RAGTIME” MILLIONAIRE (POINTING AT FIRST EDITION ULYSSES): “You ever read this book?”
The Writer is a smoking gun… Eventually, he nods off strictly from polyurethane, dreaming blue dream the top off the pod water in the pot. The Writer wakes up more sooner than later, clad in wishes, sight unseen.
You get rid of the Keep The Writer in you.
AT THE MOMENT OF WRITING (DAYS WEEKS MONTHS MINUTES LATER MAYBE) THE PREVIOUS WRITINGS (STARTING WITH “The Writer is a smoking gun…” AND ENDING AT “…Keep The Writer in you.”) HAVE BEEN BURNED TURNED TO ASH IN A FREAK ACCIDENT STOP LOCAL FIGURES BLAME IT ON THE BOOGIE
“Verlaine was an example of a man whom poetry drove to the gutter. He was so obsessed with poetry that he became a tramp; he lost all interest in his personal appearance; his poems are wonderful, but people who met him said that at times it was painful to look at him. Certainly he was not sane — it might have been well had he given up poetry for a while.”
“You know what my parents got me for my birthday one time? A haircut.
“The gym is a playground.
“Pollen is mold.
“You know what my parents got me for my birthday one time? a playground.
“You know what my parents got me for my birthday one time? The gym
“The gym is a playground.
“You thought the Crips and the Bloods were hard, but wait until you find out that they’re a youth group. … Man, I am on fire today! Just like that Buddhist monk that set himself on fire.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works.”
“Huh?”
“Being fire.”
“Oh, no. I’m not fire, I’m on fire. I don’t think the Buddhist monk was fire.”
“Yeah, he didn’t look very enthusiastic when it was going on.”
“Yeah, he didn’t look very excited… I thought that motherfucker was a thrill seeker.”
In wet climates, The Writer tends to join groups near puddles to eat swamp insects and other small grubs from the ground. During rainfall, his eyesight and hearing is diminished, which makes him slightly more vulnerable to predators. If rainfall becomes heavy enough, The Writer will begin to hide under trees to protect himself from the rain and wind.
Drugstore Poems… Who would have known… that that poem… goes well with The Blues… No matter how acute No matter how complex
Never eat your heroes.
That is, quite literally, the biological definition of imprisonment.
Still waters run deep…
I urge you, Reader, to please do right. In the name of God and all that is Modern, please, do right.
The Thrill Seeking Buddhist Monk was just tryna get his kicks.
Since The White Man committed dichotomy I could probably make a lot of money selling black tampons and
Digging a confession hole in the flesh desert; The Meadows is expanding but Lake Mead is dying drying. My whole life revolves around spreading various creams and gels on my face.
The sedan lurches forward
NO TRESPASSING is a lasting record
spray painted on the wall
of corrugated sheet metal; owe me five.
I step out of the sedan and
wave at the driver (owe me five)
who I do not know
and make the place…
T.C.P. is standing out front
wearing a sad gray beanie
with a stiff visor poking out
and a pressed duct plaid shirt
unbuttoned at the top
Where are we? The Meadows
is expanding but Lake Mead
is dying drying. The maître d’
is jacking off and yearning
to fuck up; like keeping a bullet
in your teeth. The walls close in
and the alphabet begins to melt
slowly at first. Roll up your windows
and light the mortars
Stuff up the cracks
Scratch that
Make another painting
If these pages haven’t started foxing, I commend you. I am addressing you, Reader… My best friend in Cairo… At the moment of writing, it physically pains me to write (a natural process) and to think (a natural process). My ability to deal rationally with these revelations has deteriorated considerably. Thought suppression medication. Get the typewriter away from me before it, foaming at the mouth, lunges and claws at my face. You just gave $5.00 to the Nazis. No, I didn’t. Buy Me A Coffee. Reflect on what we have made here. And don’t fucking blame it on me. I can type without looking at the keys. In the book, chaos and extreme disarray in a vague dystopian setting is depicted. The work is largely symbolic. Fires are in abundance in both the foreground and horizon, plant life is withering, and a dark, infernal color palette is used (really?). That’s what I want the reader to understand, but I can’t even make myself understand it.
