The Comeback Album

image (c) 2015 R William Lundy

THE COMEBACK ALBUM
from Pearl and Other Poems

I want to throw a party to snub all the people who didn’t invite me to their party.

At my party, I will have a pony, a piñata, and clowns.

There will be a bounce house and a special Taco Bell that makes free tacos for my guests.

Some of my guests will prefer McDonald’s to Taco Bell and feel disappointed, without saying so, that there is only a Taco Bell

but we will not need a McDonald’s because this Taco Bell will also make special Mexican cheeseburgers, for free.

The party will be deep in the South American jungle.

Live tigers will wander through this jungle, hungry. The tigers will have laser beams for eyes

and tiny Great White sharks will be riding the tigers on tiny saddles made of seashells

and all the guests will have to address the tiny sharks as “sheriff”

and if anyone forgets to address a tiny shark as “sheriff” he will be savagely beaten

and burned with laser beams, because the sharks will also have laser beam eyes.

Next to the jungle there will be a lush green valley tended by the Jolly Green Giant

who will sell my guests fresh canned vegetables for free

and periodically call out, “Green Giant,” in a tonal baritone that echoes through the jungle

startling my tame-wild tigers and causing them to lunge with half-crazed eyes in random directions

but my sharks will restrain my tigers with brutal tugs on their tiny reins

and the whole thing will lend to an atmosphere of pageantry and spectacle at my party

which my guests will come to appreciate, after their initial alarm they see that everything is quote unquote well in hand.

In a fantastic turn of vaguely, if unintentionally, racist imaginary South American politics

my tiny sharks and the Jolly Green Giant will secretly be at war over drugs, probably cocaine.

In a canny move against my sharks, the Jolly Green Giant will have secretly sold my guests stale canned vegetables for free

which my guests will realize simultaneously when they sit down to eat their vegetables at a climactic, communal dining event

and with a dream-like, phantasmagoric sense of horror interrupting what has been communicated, through several cinematographically brilliant cut-scenes, as my guests’ completely and unaffectedly trusting anticipation of vegetable freshness and goodness

the perception of vegetable staleness will dawn on them, at first incrementally and then abruptly

ruining my party.

I will be enraged at the Jolly Green Giant

with his internecine shark politics

and I will walk up to the Jolly Green Giant and punch him in the face

“What’s your problem anyways?” I’ll ask

but he is a giant he will crush and eat me

and go on a ballistic rampage

driving my tigers mad with rage

beyond the ability of my tiny sharks to control

and they will dart, helter skelter, mauling guests

and my party will be a catastrophe.

When the other people who were not invited to my party because I wanted to snub them hear about it the next day on the news

they will feel relieved they weren’t invited, and a secret glow of confirmation that yes, they were right not to invite me to their party in the first place.

But secretly the joke is on them

because I will have staged my death as a media stunt in anticipation of my comeback album

which will be a commercial and aesthetic success of staggering proportions

rocketing me, like proverbial phoenix, from the ashes of my untimely and publicly humiliating, if fake, demise

to new and dawn-like heights of stardom.

I will have a concert tour to promote my comeback album.

At my concert there will be a light show and fog machines wreathing the stage in thick white oceans of smoke, periodically pierced by radiant beams from the laser eyes of tiny sharks.

On stage there will be a giant mechanical tiger head

and my silhouette will emerge from the fog, rising above the stage on its giant mechanical tiger tongue.

Half my body will be covered in tiger fur

and half, in shark teeth

surgically grafted onto my skin in an experimental operation that will have brought me back from the imaginary brink of death

and symbolizing my meteoric return to fame.

My guitar will be made of human bones

and you will feel jealous

and regret not inviting me to your party.

(c) 2014 lee sharks

from Pearl and Other Poems:
http://www.amazon.com/Pearl-Other-Poems-Crimson-Hexagon/dp/0692313079/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1429895012&sr=8-1&keywords=lee+sharks+pearl

IF WALT WHITMAN CAME BACK AS A ZOMBIE AND ATE MY BRAIN I WOULD WRITE THE FOLLOWING POEM

"He Only Wanted Attention!"

image (c) 2015 emily eissenberg

IF WALT WHITMAN CAME BACK AS A ZOMBIE AND ATE MY BRAIN I WOULD WRITE THE FOLLOWING POEM
from Pearl and Other Poems

I am very sad America because you make me sad.

I am sad because my despicable poems.

I am sad because you charge me with unemployment fraud and take away my money.

I am sad because I can’t write poems like luminous smoke and suffocate your courts with glory.

I am sad because you will not hire me.

I am sad America because I have no money

and very large sums of credit card debt

and very large sums of student loan debt

and also I write poems in an unemployable way.

I am sad America because you ban me from your poetry websites because I criticize your rules

and delete my poems

and tease you about go start your own site by writing in a Jesus voice inventing poetry sites in heaven.

I am sad America because Walt Whitman went door-to-door selling books, a regular salesman

but when I spam the chat room with my poems they ban my IP address.

I am sad America because Walt Whitman is alive in my heart, walking door-to-door in my heart selling poetry books

and I am buying them to give to friends

but I am sad America because I have no friends.

The point I am trying to make is could a new Walt Whitman sprung up from the dirt sell zombie poems on Google?

Vision, America, is what I mean.

Commitment is the point I am making.

(c) 2014 lee sharks

from Pearl and Other Poems:
http://www.amazon.com/Pearl-Other-Poems-Crimson-Hexagon/dp/0692313079/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1429895012&sr=8-1&keywords=lee+sharks+pearl

Call for submissions

 

A/I:

literature for cyborg messiahs

image (c) 2014 Henry Bogle

Call for submissions

Preparing first issue of A/I, a new literary magazine. 

Publication policy = anonymous / pseudonymous

Issue theme = broadly apocalyptic / visionary

We are interested in daring new prose, critical writing, poetry & poetics, visual art, mixed media, translation, and hybrid genre.

Send to aiaiaimagazine@gmail.com

Spread the news



image (c) 2015 henry bogle

My Little Poemy

(c) 4216 alka-seltzer AD, a person with 13 shirts

An Elegy for Howl

AN ELEGY FOR HOWL
from Pearl and Other Poems

When the last forgotten recess
of your ultimate weary drawer of dust
coughed out the yellow petal
of its one remaining folded rose
and the sheet of blood-smeared paper

smeared with poems like ink
at last gave up its ghost:

I saw nothing.
There was nothing to see.

The best minds of my generation expired while little more than seeds.

You did not see.
You were not seen.

Poker-faced hysteria starved in silence
and exhausted itself in lame dysfunction
to be pinned insensate to a cluster of symptoms
as a matter of course
by moth-dust fingers of DSM lepidopterists
in formaldehyde rooms of science:

I heard nothing.
There was nothing to hear.

The eli eli lamma lamma sabachthani cry was drowned in words.

You did not hear.
You were not heard.

Jaded sincerity choked on its tongue
and shook with neural crescendo of seizure
in pig s**t halls of knowledge.
There was no mouth to take the sigh
and the final rattle passed
unremarked.



(c) 2014 lee sharks

from Pearl and Other Poems:
http://www.amazon.com/Pearl-Other-Poems-Crimson-Hexagon/dp/0692313079/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1429895012&sr=8-1&keywords=lee+sharks+pearl

from Human Testament, ms in preparation for New Human Press

"I AM that I AM are BELONG to ME"

image (c) 2015 R William Lundy

Y ou do not know what you just read: It is

A document typed by shadow people

H ung from the mist in my bathroom mirror

W hich beings of light and moth dictate

E ach a creature of great age, fell kings

H aunting Outer Cranium: So each word

I S

A S IT

M UST BE



(c) the future

On Politics: The Kingdom of Pygmies

On Politics: The Kingdom of Pygmies

Some of the masses came to Damascus Dancings, fomenting unrest, saying, “It is time to rise up, and throw off our oppressors—Damascus, isn’t this your message, what you’ve said all along: “I am coming to make things new”?”

And Damascus rebuked them strongly, taking the gun from their hands, and breaking it in half on his knee, with a grimace.

As our prophets have written,

To the States or any one of them, or any city of the States, Resist much, obey little,
Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved,
Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth, ever afterward resumes its liberty.

As a ghost, I'm not allowed to claim citizenship in a nation of enslaved pygmies (no offense, pygmies). I beamed up from that place about a thousand years ago, directly to Wikipedia.

Seeing no real greatness in all the world, except in dead things & ghosts, I too have become a dead thing and ghost,

Claiming citizenship in America-in-heaven.

No, there can be no peace.

How can there be peace, while a single decent man or woman remains unmurdered? 

For a very long time this world has murdered its sons and daughters for the crimes of bigness, and courage, and goodness of heart, and love of justice.

They murdered Socrates and they murdered me and they murdered a bunch of others, too,

And they'll murder me twice and maybe you, until the whole species is a crunched, bent thing, and knows to keep its mouth shut, and crawl around on broken knees.

Against such does a decent man or woman war. How can there be any peace, while a single one remains unmurdered?

There can be no peace.

But we do not war for this kingdom of pygmies, 

Or with guns and sticks,

Or even with genetically-engineered tigers with nuclear canons in their mouths.

We war for nation of kings and priests, where every man and woman is a creature made of moths & light, 

& bent things learn to walk, 

& pygmies get shot with a reverse shrink ray, and grow,

Unless they prefer to remain smaller,

But even if they do, it's only an outward smallness,

Because inside my heart the pygmies are riding huge genetically-engineered tigers with nuclear canons in their mouths, and beams of moths & light are shooting out of their eyes,

And the pygmies look really tall up there

On the tigers' backs.

Point is, we're well past armed revolt,

And always have been, for a thousand decades,

And so we cede these pygmies (not the ones on tigers, but the other ones, the inward pygmies) their kingdom of pygmies,

And murder their smallness and guns with murder and smallness and pygmies, their own,

And beam up directly to Wikipedia

Claiming citizenship in America-in-heaven, Planet Mars, Jupiter's 17th moon base, home.