NOVEMBER HANGOVER

1.

blood spills from my ass
like drenched red tissue
strands
like the hot worms of 
hell sunglassed from fire
in chorus blues
mocking falsetto melodies
mocking morning rain pain
a thousand pimpled toothaches
heartaches
headaches

2.

if i swallowed garbage
or did the dog last night
gulped down half a fifth
of blended whiskey
blindly, carelessly, deliberately

weak, i sip sad coffee
with the dog asleep at my feet
& the rain is one drop
of my tears




JENNIFER'S FEMINIST POEM


you can be a lesbian lapping
honeyed flesh-pit where warm clear lava
is like the goo of rolling worms, slop,
slapping tails like bull-whip snap:  ah love,

is freedom what tastes sweet? or her, yr girlfriend, caught turning on a
spit of delicious moans, stripped & skinned alive above gorgeous flames
of yr volcanic

tongue, rawness burnt away but everything pink remains, boiled?
i've never met a genital who wasn't metaphoric right at my lips.  most
clean

human bodies taste good a couple years, then bland, nothing, not even
dead-musky. cunt or cock
or big toe or

tit, we
ripen as teens, sweeten in our 20's,
sour in 30's providing the mind works,
& in our 40's nobody even sniffs us.

breaking skin, love is spiritual fucking,
ghosts enmeshed like clouds & sun-shades somewhere in the past
& very far away.




TIRING MADNESS


bowled over, fuck you, by fates
middle-aged, years of waste, hate, & honor
bullshit there're parallel universes
or any psychic importance to humans

firing up a bowl, the whole in & out
of breath, brain made of iced cupcake, blowing
smoke into the day, all blue & cold this
dawn, vibration violins ascend


      ron androla   (from the chapbook,
"it's a pretty world", non compos mentis press, 1995)





15th SONG

sex is a television
without horizontal hold
rolling sharp black & silver knives
blood is gray inside, visual static
--young adult males are nuclear sperm-bombs
old poets
old poets spurt dust, a puff of fart dust
young men fill entire womb with brimming lava
girls & women
live very wet lives

bed creaking long skeleton song
demons leap to bite puffy angel feet
slaughter of stupid angels too doped to split heaven
     are sweet white chocolate

censor sensualizer
airwaves jammed
stuffing black jam globes into cunt
cock-tamping everything in tight
low growl
high volume coo
creatures of
hunger

     ron androla (from the chapbook,
ERIE BLUES, non compos mentis press, 1996)







SPLATTERED IN ERIE 

chapter 34 



"Shelter from the Storm" in 1996.
My body after 4 decades on Earth.
Cynical, Clinical Facts.
Insane in & out of Love, want to sniff pretty girls.
A Dog's Life as Human Being.
Alien Life is Bacterial.
God is not Extraterrestrial, Yet.
Killing Christians as Political Terrorism in America is proof we
transcend the sour grapes of Penance & Blind Deaf Peace.
She whispers "Lick me," & I'm sniffling like my face has been shot by
blasts of hot rain:eating pussy is tropical.
Acoustic.
What Wet Blues as the Hole of Deliverance.
Taste of Heaven if Heaven's Cool.
Transmigration being the act of Fuck Animals Seeding.
Tongue row of dirt for planting.
Sun-warmed rainwater spilling on my wrists.
Spiral to spin head back into Womb, Push & Spin.
She ain't Mom but is certainly Motherly.
Jacks me like a Drunk Aunt hurried thru my surprised zipper.
Insert Swaying Bone into Splashing Honey Soup, into Log of Swamp where
Bullfrogs are Blobbed in Sperm & the Sky is Black Jelly, Her Cunt is a
Hole in the Moon & my Cock a Flesh Eyeball Telescope Blinking Thru White
Nuclear Light-Flashes, an Apocalyptic Roar from the Depths of Zoology &
Spirituality Echoes up Choked Tuba Throat, Thru the Tubes Screaming with
Pleasure.
The Immaculate Conception is a pretty funny story if you are sober or
have just hit the first one-hit.
Down here Human before Religious or Political or Scientific or
Psychological or Philosophical or American or Consumeristic or Trained
or Brain-washed or Brain-smutted or Languaged or Filmed or Ingested or
Poetical or Romantics Shit intervenes & Influences Everything about You!
Let Earth Blow.
Be Natural.

smiling dog press, 1996
    ron androla



HOMOSEXUAL BANDWAGON HAIKU

impersonally
two penises levitate
toward girls of death



AN EARLY HYMN WITHIN MORNING SONG


"the first idea is an imagined thing."

wallace stevens


this house is wet, soluble,
soft.  all wood wants liquidity,
to mush to honey & melt into
earth sponge.  even plastic possessions

push towards becoming colored paint
seeping deep thru black mile-thick
slabs of shale; everything here
can melt in this rain, fall in dew-

drenched grass like applesauce & ashes
broken repairs, stubborn hunk of
refrigerator a ton of frozen butter barely
leaking, twigs stuck in knuckle

& skeletal system,
plus a bag of blood; rain & trains
slosh thru the fatty heart of erie,
sound cuts molecules

& the hold of gravity,
how brazen
shit
is real.




chapters from UNDERGROUND UNDERGROUND BENEATH THE DUST OF MARS

84.

i love the word "translucency", its meaning & to think it aloud & say it
soft, raven-like chant, a mirror's vast lacuna, spray
the sheen of spit upon the World
Translucency
upon our glassy minds
lakes dream infants
& eggs
oranges & seeds like petrified cat eyeballs
Whole Cosmic Spin-Swirl Physics
because spin is simply the Condition
Translucent Human Condition
Translucency
Rotation &
Mythology

86.

a shovelfull of Mars.
whispering crunch of rust like spacesuit breathing, rustling aluminum
fabric.  the 

equated human, packed molecules
in a physical universe, time-sculpted,
dna-fleshed sculpture in Space with a

shovel.  beneath the dust we lick 
lsd bacteria, our zoology & questions
weak salts.

93.

Mars, Geology produces Biology, & Time.  We weave Action to
Circumstance, Reaction to frayed Futures; Flesh Sculptures designed from
Heat & Mineral & Primal Soup flaps undigestably as strange huge
carp-creatures
lather thru sulphurous mud, Mammals in the Cosmos!

Mars, our Maker, our Creator, our Inner Urge
to Swell & Multiply, to be More, Eternally!

Beneath the dust, underground, beneath the dust of Mars is the trail
we've felt pull us like extraterrestrial light & Prozac & Love in the
Winter & Modern Astronomy, an Arc of Collision & Atomic Birth!



WHY I LOVE SHEILA E.

syncopation sinks below syntax.  orchard unlike onyx seems reasonable
feels honest in a scurry day.  an oranger orange.  sweet gray clay tea.

muscled toes cling to stone
why an arizona sun
even tries one touch,

liquid
love
lacuna



SPONTANEOUS SHIT

in e
i float
a cube of carbon

electric
connected
wild why

not
truths
of moments revealed

speed of air
speed of eye
speed of articulation

can 
gross poems
thrive planted in

jars
can visions
vault ignorant readers

to land in laps of warm love
her &
her & her

*

8 p.m. friday
inhalation
pbs pure blues ting my head
tatta-shlot fu-fu
funny feeling a little furry
eyes pull like slow glue


*

dog wants outside
over & over
i let him out
he comes in
i let him out
he comes in
he's at the door again



29th song
(from ERIE BLUES)

singing thru soft teeth goofing
franklin zappa
zit-nosed, stoned off cheeseburgers, pop
performing THE WHO air-guitar revolution spiral swirl
hell's evolving screams smacking microphoned halloween hog, faggots
splashed with gasoline
& one pissed redneck savior
logical hats
fire for a changing america
ain't true, jack, ain't really true allen frenched you


27th song

erie erie
erie
erie
you're quarter million walking cocoons
bumping, sliding thru soaked tree-top streets

rigid & hacked & bleeding
& pissed

death is butterfly birth in a lake-licked tornado
then sounds of slaughtered sea-gulls & people

vapors
of hiroshima, america 50 years ago, energy of 

murder




SYLVIA PLATH MEETS D.A. LEVY IN SUICIDE HEAVEN
 (from the dual chapbook with paul weinman, 
AIRY EL, From Da Dead Press)


"fuck that garble of intellectualized 
depression, lady, take a hit of some this celestial dope..."

levy's face blow apart, rotting,
tip of golden pipette in a black, meat-ripped hole

"death is the mentalness,
debris remains of orgasm
this dream-soul Life created

this timelessness..."
sylvia is sizzling with happiness.  she don't want flowers & the flowers
implode.  she wants pain

& nothing is felt.  she enjoys the works of d.a. levy from a british
distance.  levy loves sylvia's
transparency & pink psychic energy.

they blend together in the hands of God
perfectly compatible
molecules.

they blow smoke 
laughing
mummy-like over History.



A SYRIAN POEM 

my grandfather ate whole cloves of raw garlic.
he drank paregoric & smoked hashish at the kitchen table in 1930's
america with all the other syrian men who were spreading seeds into
syrian girls who filled with eventual mixtures of children,
syrian & italian
syrian & irish
syrian & polish
syrian & jewish
syrian & black
syrian & german
syrian & argentina
who mixed with muddied mexicans
indians
british
chinese
as america is a billion particles of humans
stew
rascism, serfdom, slavery, bias
interlaces freedom & terrorism
unemployment, greed
a flag packed with stars
tv dreams
speech-writers
butal banks
nra with a good point
& our children
are pledging allegiance
5 days a week
no matter what the nation
becomes



SUCKING MY MORNING PIPE

     (for gabriele)


if you were here & how yr hair wld burn my fingers hoarse & gutteral
numbness unclogged like kitchen drain racing
hot water & our steam

this smoke i've clipped, sipping autumn-morning coffee, listening to
classical pbs radio, i suck yr face here all the way from chicago,
& yr smile & laugh

& when you bent to pick books from the floor
i saw cleavage & felt softness envelope my lips
i will admit this:  i pulled diane's nightgown up bunched around her warm
waist,

i'd opened my eyes to 4:30 on the clock, she
usually wears panties but wasn't & i hugged & pressed & went thru her
arm to palm a little breast, & she groaned she didn't want to she 

was sleeping, my cock was its biggest & thumping against her pillowy
ass, rubbing,
i cld not stop, both hands went down to grasp
my branch, & i pumped it like a delirioius tuba

which burst ice-bubbles of warmth
over my belly & the sheets & diane's wonderful wonderful ass & her
snoring never stopped. 

but i got up,
dried off with a towel,
& thought
what a poem i live




SPONTANEOUS SHIT


she set me up.
i am a self-involved poet.
every sensory particle of life 
creates the art of poetry as confessions
of a soul.  the deeper inside the heart,
the rawness,
spillage
from the brim of sanity & reason.
she became a cowgirl since her father
is a cowboy, a middle-aged cowgirl
setting me up for years of free cash
via domestic relations.
heartless, brutal, cowgirl witch-bitch
is an apt description for all i want to
see of her.

& HERE WE ARE ALL BEAT AGAIN

sylvia plath scratches at death's insect itch her baby sleeps like a jew
this gaseous dawn sops sore caesarean surgeon-sliced vagina, a failed
canal but for piss & pieces of bloody egg, memories, pain, & pantomime
cum
creeps who dictate dick over a softer love. 

great, green green-house drenched in blood, floor sinew & flexing, tube
of life a stem wetted to flesh pumping nutrition & genetic poison
chromosome hunger, gnaw of neuron & drama.  somebody's named ted
somewhere in the flat, somebody's named daddy who ices a girl's

little words.  thinly anemic fingers pinch pink nightgown nipples
suckled greedily by a new self of the self who isn't suicidal, nor
morose, who craps in a basinet better than a puppy.
nazi, nazi, burning bright within october's
boston mist; spikes for sylvia, more nails for

nothing.




WAY BEFORE UTAH

(for Mark Weber)


the brontosaurus licks
snowflakes off palm-trees,
nuzzles its humified dog-lizard snout
under the tail of its mate
into heat of prehistoric anal canals
huffing like a hundred thousand future horses.
shitloads of cattle across this country
now chew on dinosaur shit
make it milk
we drink in the morning with a splash
of scotch.  fuck the brontosaurus, you
mutter, squeezing a
guitar.

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