Showing posts with label Tim Murray. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tim Murray. Show all posts

Thursday, August 9, 2012

this happened after i consumed a grover/metro blend spider leg




Walk Walk the Walkin’
by: Tim Murray

(written in one or two breaths as far as I can recall)


Lash sorta way the fizz I am the fizz an amazing fizz made of made of matter in the making of matter I am heaven just as sure as you are moss in the rain and I am I am not a giant I am not a giant I am the son of willie mccovey I am armed with spiders I am armed with san diego padres I am made of batter soil licker like my seed when sprouts does grow yeah real heavy ass like donkey mule mike stand in the way stand in the rain because I saw the spider ship arriving I am not the electromagnetic super wave I am here I am stain I am Wayne made of macaroni in knee high rubber boots spools whale dolphin their way through seared spikes I am the army I am Stan I am the man stop




Wish way you walk in the oven no in that onion stupid with shops paddles making lions I am made of umbrella stems I am dancing in the red rivers no wait not rivers but emergence emergency ball lines no base lines no bass lines emerging now from beneath the spiral stack I am dizzy von trout I am visiting soylent green I am Sunday I am rising I am la raza I am not I am knot I am dough bread rising I am fork and tongue and spiral and turducken waste walls and wash the magnetic pessimism we wait on rock ledge ledge legend and they walk and they talk and I am in the next dimension no I am waiting for the emergence of the next dimension when I am el fuero I am the neck I am the legion of spiders crawling across the floor of the desert they know hello I am beard I am the beginning I am the begging epic I am not now I am here forever I am made in season I am cake in the yakking season will you now allow the destruction of period of pernod of prenodal of pain attention paid attention I am broad I am spectrum real fine shit you got here Frankie like Jackie Gleason fine as some wine fine as some Reese’s same as the sun burn bulb write I am beginning I am begging for a way to extract bacon taken home rise a bone lanky dance sweaty blonder hair hooked over the eye I hear a children cry that wail no drums now blade now broken I keep wanting to spell nonsense words but I get tired of the computer screen red squiggly line mines is not your best one they are Vermillion they are Sliger they are bitten to how do you feel when the bride is all over the wall slight pause under the trance of Les Bres In A Minor I am the bent I am the taken over freight train freight car each one is to blame for the radio static coming over ten cars one hop afraid they will spoke they well spoke of him the daily city bus beneath Canal Street Chicago in the mud I am vast as river I am paddle boat I am bent spoke like smoke rising in the way are there so many itches in my scalp when I get to gel a pell mell over night hell because he sniffs coke and other soda pop she is the dragon love you like a lizard I am blue I am oriole I am Oreo I am Tang I was made to smoke a giant mountain slope will hide the dead man’s goat will you try to be a bitter dry poison water well wail pinpoint the holy grail beneath your index finger nail I am spoons I am spoiled I am water legs I am Mel Torme I am a way to be awake a choice a nervous knee nervous me



Thursday, December 1, 2011

Simply Brutal Series featuring: Michele McDannold III. OF III.

from THE DEATH BOOK

POEMS TO CELEBRATE MY FRIENDS, PEOPLE I KNEW OR HEARD OF, AT LEAST ONCE, AND THEN THEY DIED OR WILL DIE AND I WANNA BE PREPARED:

“For your information gangsta poetry in this country isn’t Bukowski’s invention, it’s mine. I’ve been making this kind of stuff since 1970 give or take. And, it has nothing to do with Bukowski’s style or subject matter. Bukowski was the pornagrapher of pussy and a damned good one at that. I’m the pornographer of violence.”
-TODD MOORE-(www.m-etropolis.com/wordpress)




stop sucking on Todd Moore's Dead dick


ode to the bullet-wielding
gangster
dillinger dogma
poems I don't get
but ur take of them
is worse
or ur take of him is worse
I guess
I never knew him
or you
but feeling fully qualified
to pass judgement
in poetic form

I find it
sickening
pathetic
and sucking his dead dick
well,
it's just in bad taste
(end poem)








the corpse of Tim Murray

still has reddish hair
and wears glasses
like heaven in a cup
smells like pumpkins
and whip cream
don't judge me for
sniffing his sweater vest
i'm lost on the highway
between Popesville
and Agnostica
Broncho John
is weeping




when you're gone

let there be hamsters for all
and depends undergarments
just in case
may there be poetry grenades
sloshing around the room
til we're all sloshing
to that private tune
that drives Danny's Big Banana
I have never sent a poem that rhymes
to anyone else that matters
and when you're gone
I still won't tell
that one secret
but I can't speak for that
guy sleeping/not sleeping
on the chaise lounge
he
will probably tell