Your San Francisco Giants

Too many teeth in this apartment and it’s starting to seriously bug, I’m a magazine man soliciting 21 Grand, a house-organ thesis cul-de-sac porn dollar day bobble-head boy, the gapping wet 41510-92510 demi-gods collating a lineage of Michelin starred lyric poets, the internet is straight up racist and when I read it I’m full of racism, I’m not a shithead I just flush a lot, I hear my brother crying though he’s fighting fires, I sandblast my mirror 2010 World Series though I’m spontaneously combusting, I’m hugging the wrong man on Halloween dressed as Kansas City BBQ, orange n’ black on the Black Bloc reminds me how much history I have with your sister, the Giants are in the World Series, it’s almost Thursday and Lady Vengeance goes on and on and on and on…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t like Funk because it tries too hard

Girls gross out on the word “panties”

How am I supposed to know how to pronounce Adironacks?

I should’ve been a Psychobilly riding a red UFO
I should’ve been a B-Boy upchucking a canal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Westerfeld House

 

A large wall of ice I was beating with the back of my hand

DeepThroat is an ice crystal at my throat, but first let me explain DeepThroat

Like all ice crystals she is clad in black leather and mutilated, the several wires
Protruding from and supporting her neck cause her to speak with a raspy, whispery voice, her cheeks are typically sunken and bluish in color, I’ve never counted the hairs on her head though they are fewer than the wires at her throat

As silly as it may seem, there really was a monster gestating on the balcony
I imagine the Westerfeld House (Russian Embassy) as a complicated tattoo
Running along the railing of the balcony, a brief chronology:

1928: A group of Czarist Russians buys the home, they turn the ground floor into a nightclub called Dark Eyes.
1965: The Calliope Company move in
1967: Kenneth Anger takes up residence, he films Invocation Of My Demon Brother

and if it was not the three walls
an hour across town
an hour and tore the breath from his mouth
when they stepped out of the car
she had seashells stuffed into her ears

they could not touch through the glass
a hundred miles an hour across town
soon to be four
and it was indeed remarkable
tearing her ears from his mouth
only the wind blowing
at least keep it a tiny musical
because facts of that sort don’t change
she was a time bomb