Wawtchem Trundlin, image by Irene Koronas
(to
Greece, since low)
I say too much and
frolic too little and too gallantly over verb virtual seeing and saying. FUCK
ME.
STUNNER STUNNER
TRIM me until I’m purebred in cinema romance with the head up and gasping for
un-liquid hegemony puss mount me times. In the thunder and rain we stall it all
for the secondary consumer. Music is a run-up and we are slaves to the slide on
your lonely housewife mother’s inhibitions utter and discarded.
BOOM BOOM BAP.
Boy see here now
I’m crushed up into my inner. How rude, how full, how silent and fucked. Rummage
into it; isolate, ruminate, collect a collected collector that sups to fountain
water like the swan bitch in that gold Greek sky. From it one tours, grafts a Boeing
born through my oh me, little solid and grey boy child of the shit meal.
Down from above.
Seethe with me,
thrift off the dull ‘uns – ‘wawtchem trundlin’ cunt’. Boy child be the heroism inject
that’s therein needed. ‘I can’t, I’m all sumptuous these days, you see I CRAVE
these days hun!’
I should very much
like to stop with all this but the crush in your roots halt me.
I’m going to
estimate, Dockley, that I will maintain significant vigilance with my future
children. I should very much like to torch their brows with a stare, slip under
with a jest; ruin them.
Cynic in the
windmill, the tide up shocked and awed to frowns. Mum will die. Dad will die. Think
on hun, craze none for us. Violin the midday, tear at the sash that stache’s
men on the paves. Spain through their veins, chant out in death wail. Armies
hun, armies. Other Mums will die and other Dads will die. To Zion hopefully
miss, to there I wish a flight. I would like to sequence Spain into the next
five of my years, reconcile with those family members I thoroughly dislike,
only to dash them beneath as neglected spice packs in noughties kitchens.
I caught, on passing
racks, a slimmer guaranteed billionaire loneliness chanced before up-sticks, so
to speak as master plagiarised a Los Angeles executive creep on Mondays. No
slap but sticky bomb Tuesday blues of sky dredges and upside down balloons.
To many an
imperfect ease, but ram them straight-legged and chinless, ‘cause the imperfect
reigned on me with A-bomb efficiency and luscious brazen shades of never mind
Sundays with this. I hooked on, catching hard swift sock-puppet kink amidst
pubic stereo slippers and a herd of shite.
Jack’s inside but
I feel smoked up on the exterior; pulsating salad-tossing tip-toe cracked actor
brilliance, thinking of what to think, how to think, which pullover to avoid
and when to stop loving things. Dead-tracked – BOOM.
—Charlie Onions
