Handjob Tyrants Of Hollywood

She will not be perfect.
Her skin will fall and flop.
She talks and talks
and I of course make the mistake
of judging her value by
the changing of her physicality
while granting myself privileges
of mind, lintellect, and earnings.
My breath stales to phlegm
and stinks its sad mature mucosal
isolation of men.
I become known as

the handjob tyrant

and look towards other women,
but as I grow old and my hardons
no longer work
do I have the courage to love her
as she turns into something
beyond time,
eternal, beyond stupid words?
Something my mother told me
as a toddler,

listen to that feeling inside your head

and maybe I’ll still be afraid of.
This poem was not written for the
fashionable young people or the
vainfully rich and egotists
rushing in and out of the stores and
clinics of the City.
This poem was written for the leaves,
grass, and particles
still vassals to the wind,
not the human negrotude
put in place by the ancient Court
of Ine, ingrained in your movies and
television.

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Certain Transformations

What are we going to do?
We could write.
We could write for others.
We could go to space.

Going to space is the same as
writing for others.

It depends on which type of
“for others”
you’re talking about.

You mean,
to create financial gains for others,
then yes, it is a lot like going to space,

like that vast starry infinitude that is
death
and all those fields of stars.
This is what it really means to be a
star.

But to write “for others”
in the sense that you bear their
weight and pain,
well that is actually like going to
space too,
but it’s really more like the creation of
space itself,
the creation of new ways of existence,

like not just generating profit for some
creative goon or stealthy businessman
in the early 21st Century,

but carrying many generations across
the stars by the creation of new
gravity fields
over many tens of thousands of years
and certain transformations.

I Remember Something

Sometimes I remember something then
I remember the sun.

I remember people doing dumb things
like rushing to toy stores filled with products
from China
on Christmas Eve evening in Southern California
because
they believed this is what love is.

I don’t believe this is love, I don’t believe
these kind of people anymore.

They’re floating along out there, somewhere
in outer space

somewhere as spirits
because let’s be honest
that is how they were born to be

as
the walking dead, the slaves, the constructors of
slaves, the worshipers of kings.

Bourgeoisie And Meaning

Can we play celebrities please,
today, when it rains?
Will there be gift baskets
that we get,
courted and made to feel special
for at least an hour, maybe more than an hour?
For them to give us something meaningful
so we can go home and reflect on,
open our mouths at a later point
and say what we did, where we did it,
how it was done and who it was done in front of.
Can we talk?
Were you talking to me?
I was talking to you in the foyer.
You weren’t talking to me.
Now is my time to tell you what is important,
it is about me.
You don’t have anything to say, do you?
You never do.
This isn’t why we rolled around on the carpet,
this can’t be it.
This isn’t how we play celebrity.

You need to have breasts.