Poem # 16

As I speak,  I put on  my armour.  Slowly grease  these legs  fitted

with raven  elastic  garters. After this,  I don  my namesake,

Marie Madeline,  milk leather  harness belt  with O-ring  hardware

& studded  rivet  collar.  On this  comely head  I set  my helmet,

with a crest  of boar-hair  that nods  caressingly  above it.

Pace Iona  Beach. Industrial waste, shit, beauty,  airport.

Standing with  mausers pointing at  it. I  express  worry,

The feeling of  spontaneous expression. Pseudo humphouse  makes it

known. Then as my cage  skirt ebbs  the life  out of me,  it answers,

it is not  a secret, no matter  the bluff.  Now, don’t fuck  it up.

POEM # 11

& now as I rise from my couch,  I cum in it for fun.  

The other night it came all over me ina dream.

Spilled this bath tub filled to the lip with dead goldfish.   Should have

seen its face. I gave it a poachable face, akin to salting the meat.

Bacon smile & balut four eyes. My complacency is its best friend.

Fall from its MPV to the earth,  smiting it on the chest with my bills.

Now, so long as this bush waxed &  it is still morning.  Strip the

sheets from off it &  let its hips bare  lies when they fall.

I love this dick, but I take it out of this mouth once in awhile.

Wander the lemon field,  prying the best lemon succulentfire.

Bite its rind, squeeze its juice.  Though this fire won’t give, I lick its flame.

Virtuous lemons shank sad tibia.  Nothing is a sign until it is. 

Poem # 10

for Hélène Rytmann

It takes it  out on me,  attaches  jingle bells  round my neck.  As it kills,

Canada  announces  the obsolescence of the  penny from

the coinage  system. As it kills,  what will it  give me  for my

thoughts. Great head  rolling in the dust while I  have yet to  think freely.  I lay

before it on  my back.  As it kills,  proof of the  pudding is  in the  

eating! So  what! Like ideology, I am aware.  It strikes  me with its  

bow, for it  forgot  its whip  in the  MPV.  Don’t I

hate when it  happens.  As it kills,  I wait  for the porntunity

to relate  to it  while kept at  arms length.  V-shaped, cram techniques.

As it kills,  fix it  dear Henry.  As it kills,  fix it,  dear Henry.

Recognize it as  merely a  bigger cat.  Gives me what  I like,

as it kills,  it wants  to fuck me  hard on the  sink. Uh-huh Henry.

SOK!

I'M LAURA KIPNIS, 

I MAKE

FUN OF

[…] WOMEN

BECAUSE I

HAVE LOW

SELF-ESTEEM.

I DON'T HAVE

THIRTY DAYS AND

THIRTY NIGHTS

TO SHOW YOU

WHY ALL THE

HOOCHIES

SHOULD DRINK

ON THE

FIRST DATE.

Poem # 6

Pop. Six.  Squish. Uh uh. Cicero.  Lipschitz.  Pop. Six.  Squish. Uh uh.

Cicero.  Lipschitz.  Pop. Six.  Squish. Uh uh.  Cicero.  Lipschitz. 

Repeat after me.  Pop. Six.  Squish. Uh uh.  Cicero.  Lipschitz.

Thus did it plead, it is no God worth believing in. It doesn’t

have to tell you. You know it. This image of ships.  Ni moneda,

ni poema. It is capitalism’s most impressive conscription.

Wave the card like beads of fuck. Let not be left alive but forgot.

How it ever thought it could live so large and leave so little for the

rest of us.  Dactyl rent a fuck.  Projectile.  Where it lands is not far

from your squeak. Spare no abortion jar, no barren wasteland.

Jazzercise.   The revolution called and you didn’t happen

either. Your  supine self spoons  yourself,  draping your forearm as 

though another’s reversed organism.  Pop. Six.  Squish. Uh uh.

Cicero.  Lipschitz.  Pop. Six.  Squish. Uh uh.  Cicero.  Lipschitz.

Pop. Six.  Squish. Uh uh.  Cicero.  Lipschitz.  Repeat after me.

poem #2

A depressive writes about the future,  everyone laughs at it.

These ten lips and ten mouths.  Count how many tongues cash gold.  Pull one

swallow the whole framework’s hole. My heart would surely break if I

were not impaled by the ongoing urge to gut it out fist first.

Gorgeous breasts sway a brain or two.  It is disgusting, release me sow,

graduate with charisma. The real drive is getting it just right,

straying from one sext to the next sext. What I mean is

either way I lose.  How long is now? What I mean is,  sad sex.

Close both buttons on your back, honey.  While in establishment, shut up.

By the authority infected in me, I pronounce it, 

perfectly alive. What is mine is not yours unless you take it.

poem #1

Rage, it belts  like a  rooster’s cock.  Just another  seismic  layer.

This attempt  to wage  war on it  as if  it were  overcome

with contam inating  things all too  foolishly  in the  name of

cucumber  fulfillment.  Hesitate  to say  what it is  instead

kissing and  licking the  buckle  of its  wallet  over

and over  again.  Instead  liking it  like a  surgical

hand scrub. Skin  bleeds out blotched  puños.  Too many  layers  gusta.

This is the  fashion and  like it or  not its  in me  and you   

Few of us  forget  this factoid.  I’m going  to spend  everyday  of the

Rest of my  small life  killing it  liking it  over and over again

IT LIKES ME

IT REALLY LIKES ME

WOULD I LIKE IT

IT LIKES ME

IT REALLY LIKES ME

DO I LIKE IT

IT LIKES ME

IT REALLY LIKES ME

COULD I LIKE IT

IT LIKES ME

IT REALLY LIKES ME

WILL I LIKE IT

IT LIKES ME

IT REALLY LIKES ME

SHOULD I LIKE IT

IT LIKES ME

IT REALLY LIKES ME

WOULD I HAVE LIKED IT

It came in my door. Ashen

It couldn’t help it. The way my shape lay there

Asleep with the twins castor and pollux in my eyes

Breathing on unconcerned

Too much curb. Too much prattle         

Cavalierly gets me off to the   

Duration of this porno

… cum in me, it is fun. I will perform it for you. I will expose it in a way you won’t miss it. I will give you

a glimpse into seeing it as I never see myself. The other night

it came all over me in a dream. Pronounced it narrowly done with me. Dichtermut spills forth to join a bathtub filled to the

lip with dead goldfish

Soul fucking. Want any help. Help provided unavailing

Nowhere near as fun as self-fecundation. Noone gives it to me

as hard as I do. My complacency is man’s best friend. I recognize

man as merely a bigger cat. I will eat its face whole when it dozes off. I love my dick, but I take it outta my mouth

once in awhile …

… attempt to wage war on it as if it were a vanquishable object

Scrub hands like a surgeon till skin bleeds. Exfoliate the problem

and there is the problem another layer emphasizing the temporary nature of the problem

Ends up contaminating things

Another layer, so many layers reveal the problem, and, yet

the solution is very simple. I hesitate to say what it is

Instead kissing and licking the buckle of its purse

over and over again

I’m going to spend everyday of the rest of my life

killing it and liking it …

… I pronounce it. Dead. I pronounce myself to it. Stupid. It pronounces itself to me. I am stupid because I am dead. I ask it, what is a good feeling and what believes in reincarnation. I ask it, can you love me harder. I love it so much it kills me, it’s stupid. I love it so much, like a hole in the head. I love it so much, it’ll eventually fall a part from misuse. A squirrel with the memory of an elephant. What is its purpose other than taking on the burden of my regrets.  I love it so much, its genitals make it look so American. I love it so much,

I rub cooked lamb all over my body.

Spritz on a little Ungaro. I love it so much, I’m cuckoo. I love it so much,

I want it to give me whiplash. Perfectly organized until death. I love it so much,

wanna fuck. I love it so much,

drink this poison honey …

… a depressive writes about the future and everyone laughs at it. I am dead because I am stupid. Here my lip, here my head. Pull one to swallow the other, to get it just right. Precisely where value is ascribed is bitter coldness. Chest framework analogues a passé impasse. If I were not impaled by the ongoing urge to get it out, I would have liked to share with you more about the experience of straying from one text to the next sext.

No, the real drive is trying to get it just right. Literally.

Engorged breasts sway a brain or two.

It’s disgusting. By the authority infected in me,

I pronounce it …

… it will be short, it promises. It reads, any version of the human is haunted by a disavowed loss, and no version of the human can fully overcome this disavowel. The total liquidation of the social and the subject and its environment and its completion is not fully complete. It is why I continue to write.

Why do you sound so bitter, it asks.

It is exhausted and waiting for the right opportunity to move.

Sure, but it is also fortified, not unlike a castle, not quite breaking the bonds on any holistic scale.

Well, can you relate to it while kept at a distance.

I hear the sound, not of loose change, but dollar bills. The poet, summoned off the streets, stricken by the privileges of civil society.

Why is he begging …