war in polystyrene

cockroach in the jazz room
sat on singers shoe
fed on golden olives
from bough hooked low,
ladybirds in 40D brassieres
cut back on the needles
stuck in their eye,
seven spots
notational dots as a code
to the twelve gauge hunter
who stalked them so,
cockroach had breathed
a stallions breath
and knew of a great stratagem,
lead hunter as prey
clarinet bullets penetrate his loins
with a chakka chakka chakka,
40D brassieres strung over light
wings spread
translucent shimmer of paradise,
cockroach touches
with hissing leg,
hunters body spread as sacrifice,
thrum of the drums
there are other monsters/ dragons/pain
drapery gone
meat on the anvil
clogged with anxiety and lust
chakka chakka chakkka,
cockroach fragments
a bed of panties and brassieres
become his resting place

regions of desertion

ashfoot, ashfoot

under moonball capsules of starlight

take two tubes of the sea

and with hipster tone,

squeeze upon my subterranean pinnacle

handcuffed to a midnight train

brakeman with burning lantern

punched me to nothing more,

take two more boxes to burn

smoke and steam

play it cool

sinister strapped luggage fell

to which i became lashed

tunnel -bone condemnation

under white haired

fawns feet

voices from regions unknown

lifted me away

to churches with horns

and fed capsules of better things

hopping away the vision

pierced bone

i was no longer

the bum

with sorry leg

dada at dVerse poets an interesting cut up as i used Gregory Corso In the Tunnel Bone of Cambridge which is below
IN THE TUNNEL-BONE OF CAMBRIDGE
1
In spite of voices-
Cambridge and all its regions
Its horned churches with fawns’ feet
Its white-haired young
and ashfoot legions-
I decided to spend the night

But that hipster-tone of my vision agent
Decided to reconcile his sound with the sea leaving me flat
North of the Charles
So now I’m stuck here-—
a subterranean
lashed to a pinnacle

2
I don’t know the better things that people know
All I know is the deserter condemned me to black-
He said: Gregory, here’s two boxes of night one tube of moon
And twenty capsules of starlight, go an’ have a ball-
He left and the creep took all my Gerry Mulligan records with him

3
But he didn’t cut out right then
I saw him hopping
On Brattle street today-
he’s got a bum leg
on his way to the tunnel-bone
He made like he didn’t see me
He was trying to play it cool

4
Wild in the station-bone
Strapped in a luggage vision-bone
made sinister by old lessons of motion
The time-tablebone said: Black

Handcuffed to a minister
Released in a padded diesel
The brakeman punched my back: Destination, black

Out the window I could see my vision agent
hopping along the platform
swinging a burning-lantern-bone like mad
All aboard, he laughed, all aboard
Far into the tunnel-bone I put my ear to the ear
of the minister–and I could hear
the steel say to the steam
and the steam to the roar: a black ahead
A black ahead a black and nothing more.

http://dversepoets.com/