Becomes a wetness at the edge of town, like a salivated swan song;
a pun on deaf ears.
ADAM BIC lights another oily midnight stogie
and mutters "fuck, I forgot my tarot."
Another hometown hero bites the dust.
Adam Bic busts another meaningless nut on the glass and talks intergalactic politics in
to someone on the sofa who looks like tofu
who sees the words float like foam in a mug or a lowhung moon in front of him.
Hateness at the beige edge of town;
slimeshadows eating at its breadcrust borders.
Adam Bic's stomach pumps Demon of the Abyss.
The heart in his chest mutters "stalemate", his eyes stuck on a GIF of a dick going limp
while his fingertips spill flash fiction on acid. He exists opposite on the spectrum.
Opposite, that is, to the centerpiece of Heironymus Bosch's GARDEN OF EARTHLY
[This is where the speaker and the audience
all take a single drag off an
Tomorrow's Temperance will all be in our throats;
all enclosed in parentheses.
You can be a healthy person and still enjoy suffering (?)
Laces at the edge of the garden
watersoluble BIrthday Cake
in a dumb dance
Putting a pelvic stress on the "ec",
she waxes and says
I mean, Emily Teal talked to me
from out of somewhere in the Oceans
or the Fields.
I think while I was sleeping last night.
Tarot in the throat
she said "You'd better learn about tECHnology"
smiling and swaying upside down,
shadows washing over the landscape of her face
as her LED eyes scan the sea of Blistering Mediocrity.
She sinks deeper into her invisible chair
takes a bite from an invisible flower
"You'd better learn about that plate glass ceiling just under the sky."
She sends ripples through the ponds in my chest
and says "check".
Emily Teal takes a soft drink from the lantern on the counter
and hands it to someone on the sofa who looks like Ohio.
She says "You'd better learn about technology. Flip that maggotswitch. All Cycles
describe All Cycles, vaguely and with captivating poetry"
and takes a soft sip of intergalactic politics from one of the ponds in my chest.
Flashes at the edge of the Garden.
Night falls apart like a soaking wet pizza
or someone breaking a finished M.C. Escher jigsaw puzzle over their knee
or golfing with a gallon of milk for a ball.
It's Mr Lambert with the vase shaped torso,
flowers sprouting out his asshole
his legs goutbloated into fleshgaloshes
smiling and swaying upside down
with eyes like opposite faucets
while faces at the edge of the garden
change places with the gathering shadows
Tarot Poem Goo
gathers between my fingers.
The precious link between dew point and surface tension is a strand of spiderweb
twanging fake Hank Williams for Nobody at Dawn in Florida.
CassidyRiosKanewrites poems to deal with stuff he almost understands but totally doesn't, OR: writes poetry to describe how surreal/intricately visceral those little daily things can be. he's been doing it off and on for ten years, mostly for no audience cause ppl don't really fuck with poetry much these days. influences/interests include: coyotes, gnomes, interspecies theory, vulture/raven/crow(n), salvia divinorum, ereshkigal/choronzon and all those fine-ass moments. you know the ones