Pear Street.
i’ll allow you to speak ill of the living villains,
criticize ambivalence, tie together their shoestrings
the basis of all you find wrong with the right things
dogs sniff each others’ asses,
but men stab each others’ backs
bleeding droplets onto the currency
with every tight-gripped transaction
so do tell…
all my friends have tubes down their throats.
all my friends have no room to gloat.
i don’t come from a long line of innocents.
snatch God,
sit pretty in his spot.
give all the enemies duct-taped wings
and rip them off.
back to the slime-caked aqueducts
running under heaven.
this street corner smells like a vinyl record
spun too long.
hipsters attracted to an album cover
depicting two junkies arguing over
what should go into their
Declaration of Co-Dependence.
nothing ever gets done,
but with this barely anything goes wrong.
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USA (UMBRELLA STATES OF AMERICA)
do me a favor and don't steal my science fiction slash nonfiction title will ya
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Amazon search my name and buy my book for less than 3 bucks Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello
Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello
Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello
Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello
Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello
Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello
Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello
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thank you:
for sticking your ego in my android parts
bleeding oil from appendages replaced with
soldered soup cans and
doing my best to still recite whatever the
opposite of shakespeare would be
fuck that guy (or collection of guys)
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just so intrinsically easy to jot down
periodic nonsense
with melting shoes comfortably resting on the
firepit rocks.
these fossils in the forest are good at listening
and listing all the better ways to die,
but i've stuck kite parts in all my pockets and
still i haven't been lifted higher toward any
clearer revelation.
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six minutes to sell you on me, the many masks in the audience immobile, invulnerable, casting fear like radiowaves in a
padded
ballroom
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intimacy: licking each other's stitches deep in a florescent embrace. I'm sorry that your stomach hurts I'm sorry that mine is filled to bursting with junk drawer magic.
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inquire. dungeon of respect darkness of intellect letting glass puppies drink heartily from rancid puddles and everyone from my generation is prone to not making any sense and everyone from my generation is prone to complaining about bitter rivalries made-up in the dull glow of computer tangerine.
inquire. a pen never made me bleed but a letter opener on the other hand
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rock hard from medusa's tits, live large and prosper from the sanctuary of the snake pit while the fever eats the membranes like snow on a walk home
be furious with nothing, be banished to the crypt of much braver unknown soldiers, watch rodents lose dice to the vipers
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Without context I'm just a guy with his clothes on backwards
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how will we justify our saving
when the bombs are in our palms
sure
they had their reasons for the songs
they so carefully chose for the end
of all these roads
count our bloody splinters
count our decrepit blessings
as the radio dial is broken off the
beautiful interior of this antique and
frustratingly thrown out into the
vast realm beyond
where the garbage heaps sigh and say
"enough all-fuckin-ready"
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zombies asking questions.
tickling all the fancy parts of
town with rotten fingers,
survivors in dark basements
asking
"i wonder when the next
newspaper will come into fruition"
and saying
"drugs are technically legal but no one's there
to save us from ourselves"
we'll be little critters in the walls
our monuments will grow exhausted
with rust
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from the confines of the
butterfly skull throne,
the right to bitch and moan
with doctored documents i
rule the world from the bathtub
and all these beer cans scurry
to make end's meet
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go, go, go
scary primordial shadows leading the fight
they think is good
into the sickness of the sinus-like wastelands
with promises of better times as though
spoonfed waterlogged sugar
nothing
we can do but prune our limbs
and wait to grow back unbroken
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the fisherman's guilt
the ocean in the bottle
smart enough to avoid the antics of the ancestors,
dumb enough to inherit their borrowed time
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size queen sisters
gentle remembrance of mailbox anxiety
when will they find out,
when will we stop watching from
behind the
bay window's curtains?
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shut up and study catch me
wandering the aisles catch me
yawning loud enough to alert the guards
no mean men in even the
soup kitchens of paradise
no clear motives for angels making
private phone calls
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