ART POEM (copywrite)

the artist must never copy other artists never repeat what others have already done don’t even wear the same shirt unless you’ve found a new way of wearing it life is a series of copyrighted moments from head to toe from birth from first breath from cradle to slightly different cradle the creed is always the same, no copying no cheating no repeating perfection as if we could anyway in the chaos of timepassing there’s only living perpetually and helplessly in the avant-garde,

the lover must never copy other lovers no pecks on the cheek that’s been seen before, no french kissing we will subpoena your lips all parts of the cheek have been officially covered explored patented no white sanctuaries left on that map,

in the future everyone’s a conquistador driven forward by the internalized whip of copyright but fear not, if you fail to find your white spots then sit back and live vicariously through those who do the loving, the camera never forgets no using the same sexual position twice what would your memories say if they saw you were cheating with the new big paper c’s plastered across nipples,

must even the most healing the most exhilarating art be exhaled never to be inhaled again, just take its place like a hostage and then implode in a black hole of derision,

what if art is so worthwhile it’s worth repeating like when a loved one dies and you rush him to the ER and they say yes we can save him we simply press on his chest to mimic his heartbeat and you stop and think oh no that’s so passé it’s been done a million times before what if an art piece heals the spirit heals the mind like the doctor heals the patient like a prayer on a metal table, what if we can’t all come to the mountain and muhammad stands there fruitlessly screaming into his megaphone only reaching a few hundred thousand oh woe is the artist who can’t hold all the world in a single embrace, woe is the nostalgic who feels no greater desire than for the outdated fashions the dead horses, give me second life give me plagiarism like the egg repeating all of evolution in its own forgetful mind like an idea taken in then forgotten and then dreamed up again as one’s own, every life slightly inaccurately copied every one a mutant an unsuccessful attempt at breach of copyright isn’t it enough of a difference that you’re you and I’m me what greater difference could there be than the same words spoken with two different breaths oh dear reader, don’t believe the hype the subpoena my own tattered ego screaming for you to back away from the paper because I’ve written something beautiful, no don’t believe me when I say I want my art to myself, just take my word kiss the monitor and then rinse and repeat

SECOND HOOKER POEM (make me come true)

warning hooker is slippery when wet gliding on to the next man so elegantly that you barely even realize you’ve been left, her warmth still lingering in your bloodstream like your warmth lingers in hers as foreplay benifiting the next guy so he doesn’t have to work so hard to make her smooth and limber and then easily dig into the kiss between her open thighs, a word of advice a word of warning dear gentlemen, never go to the brothel looking for love, yes there’s come in commitment but there’s no commitment in come, no way to tie the loose woman down (only physically anyway) that game of domination never digging deeper than the dick never reaching the heart to make it hearth, this infatuation is a game we play to infuse reality with the full force of a loosened network of muscles oh I’d give my permanent partnership if I could but then I’d lose every other man in the world and how does one man compensate for all the world, I’ve tried to tie my love to one person but it just keeps slipping out from under our tightly clasping arms and reaching all the other men I’ve yet to fuck, the invincible bigness of my affection and that feeling of home when finally giving in to endless travel, juices nurturing each other, the length of your snake is my health measure an apple a day keeps god away, faces and names gliding past me as I drink the sweet saliva of forgetful pleasure, yes I’ll forget your name forget your face but your kisses will stay on my skin like little invisible electrical tattoos, I’ll keep with me the universal parts of you those parts that I’ll see over and over again, soft skin and hard cock and wet mouth and eyes relaxing into arousal, conditioning myself this way to love mankind and my body because mankind and my body are the only two constants, your style of dress and your line of work is of no import, but I’ll import that body anytime honey that body that you reveal when you take off all your belongings and stand human and breathing in front of me, ready to be taken, into kisses and caresses and lines like dance patterns painted on the air, this I take from you and give back to you in my simple female form, exponentially growing affection climaxing in sincere orgasm, but not a promise to care what your political stance and your hobbies and your children’s names are, so dear gentlemen know that my affection is real right here right now but your past and your future I will not take, what’s yours is irreperably yours, take my pulsating body and hide its image deep in your unknowing bloodstream like charging your battery a storage of caress for difficult times, take my clasping hands and my gasping mouth and put them in the back of your mind as mood music to be played throughout the coming workday, take my kisses and caresses and then make like a penguin and slide

FIRST HOOKER POEM (pick a sin we’re at war)

hooker hooker pants on fire spreader of unhygienic forms of closeness diseases of the hearth like playing house with all the wrong undertones the actors assigned all the wrong roles, the child as adult and the adult as woman, or as invisible man invisible possibilities spreading out from the brothel like an eagerly selffucking virus, diseases of the heart like exponentially growing caress hunger like a fat deposit around four beating chambers, hands that reach out and grab something soft, a breast a buttock a smiling cheek, throw her into the lake and see if the silicone floats cosmetic surgery not vanity not fringe benefit but a life vest around the chest, you say that borders save lives that opression is a form of caring but great therapist who art in the records of heaven, how do I talk my body into selling itself to society when I’m the bridge that must be burned to reach the promised land, the land without promises or at least without a woman’s promises of sex, a woman should never make promises she plans to keep, a woman’s yes should never mean yes the cock market not a place for people with vaginas these little intimacies these little open wounds between the legs that can all too easily be trespassed, the only protection the ancient female mystery, the art of being the lock for which there is no key, leave trading to the warriors whose intimacies tresspass upon those of others like swords like snakes slithering into vulnerable places, the snake before it started whispering offers into ears and licking apples reddened like cunts, and oh all those std’s, herpes and chick peas and brokenbarriers and brokenhearts and lust pounding in the depths of the torso like an organ waiting to be played, fight them from within with sterilized gut feelings, stranglehold like corset around the insufferably speaking throat, “I try so vehemently to love you but you insist on having unmentionable limbs that spread like tentacles like sperm cells like infections out from underneath my arms”, pants on fire fight fire with other forms of fire, the cleansing the purification in the holy church up in white smoke a pope like a holy ghost of the shock when civilisation first encountered civilisation, dr. frankenstein I presume, how do you keep your limbs pressed so tightly together letting no air and no dicks in at all, the holy woman’s zipped-shut mouth ventriloquizing shouts, pick a side a sin a set of genitals we’re at war, another revolution of the same old record we will never surrender to anyone’s ejaculating heart, hooker hooker pants on fire how will we ever find our way out of each other, how do we respond to the copulating chaos of the cunt in any other way than by gently covering each other’s mouths and praying praying praying

about sticking your fingers up other people’s noses

In the plane from Copenhagen to Amsterdam: A father kneels in front of his one-year-old son to indulgently let himself be annoyed. The son picks at his father’s face, and every time a couple of fingers venture into an opening or scratch so hard it hurts, daddy abruptly pulls his head away and then returns. A game, a little lesson in other people’s physical boundaries, a love declaration of patience. The son’s inner monologue clear as daylight around him: “Will you hold still so I can stick my fingers up your nose! Why are you being so difficult!?”

Later: His tiny hands appear, crawling like monkey fingers up the back rest. He sees me smiling at him between the seats and smiles back like only a child that is loved can smile: Unrestrained, confidently affectionately; Still in the happy state between the moment when he realized that someone catches him when he falls – and the moment when he realizes that mutual smiles from the heart are not a basic fact of life, but a direct consequence of his cuteness.

Behind me the grinding double monologue between a grandmother and her grandson, looking for words to have in common.

And it suddenly occurs to me that it’s not love to ask you to stop suffering.

MY HEART KNOCKS

my heart knocks
   I knock on a
      a heart lying like any
it’s the applause like a whisper through the audience I open
   door, a chest like a treasure in the coffin, his heart
      organ on the table
only to disappear into another chamber
   is no longer beating, the lights out in the house
      lukewarm and bloody like his love
a labyrinth of closing doors
   something seeping quietly from my veins and into
      and dripping off me like the rain that his roof
a thousand mouths closing around me
   fat storage in buttocks and thighs, all the meals
      couldn’t protect me from, the rain seeping in
when the reviewers go silent
   he will no longer ride off me
      to my eyes like a sorrow I haven’t conceived
even criticism has died away from me
   all the habits he will no longer improve
      how do I get my heart to keep
how do I get all the audience’s hearts to
   how do I keep the rhythm
      time with what is no
beat
   how do I keep
      longer
in time?
   time?
      beating?

BODY CAVITY SEARCH

life is a series of jovial friskings

someone lights through your personal belongings
while he tells a joke that you forget
to laugh at
because you’ve lost sight of your passport for a moment

your prison guard has eyes like outstretched hands
and a crotch like smuggled heroin
and for a moment you consider
giving him your number, but you’re stopped by the thought
that his fingers in your body cavities
will always feel like
he’s looking for something

PIANO (click for big)

WINNER (click for full-size)

1:2

Above the clouds, everything is an optical illusion.

It’s a question of faith
that the airplane I’m sitting in is moving at 400 miles per hour
faster
than a horse carriage
and that another plane is not suspended in stillness
above the horizon at the end
of a tail of smoke
but is moving just as fast
without passing anything I can use as a background.

I’m not designed for great spaces.
I’m not mutated enough for these sights.

1:1

the moment I leave the country
my money turns to metal in my hand
and my language becomes a secret I can say out loud

I’m a radio broadcasting noise on all channels

I’m a newly built estate full of objects without function
their beauty preserved, but their sentimental value destroyed
because everyone who loved them
is dead