Exquisite Corpse - Issue 4
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by Vincent Farnsworth

twenty years of No Future
I've seen
Lux Interior come
out in
gold with a bottle down
the front of his
lamé and yanking
the almost-empty
accidentily pry out his
dick saying
Love Me, Love Me

What else Jello
Biafra, a nylon stocking
stretched over his face
bleating about the toast
of Reaganism buttered with
dead rock stars and the
legendary stench
of their bipartisan recording studios
before a riot at the Democratic
convention in San Francisco
set off
by the very plainclothes police
he had just identified
by their tie dye

this is even to Gary
Numan being
the real cripple creaking
inside his car, not fake twanging
but in an epoch
marksalot message
of pearls before teenyboppers

for Last Will of
KAL-X in Berkeley
slathering the
ruptures in his
part of america
with the sanity
of unpredictable music,
and to all of KFJC in
Los Altos Hills
playing Louie
sixty hours of Louie

to Mudhoney to Mudhoney
the Cramps that saved my life
the Fall that still
and stills the piles
of the Butthole Surfers
the Thinking Fellers Union Local 282
slicing horns of plenty amperage
into hors d´oeuvish ectoplasmic
chunks sprinkling
Alien Sex Fiend and Alice Donut
rubbing together
in the vibrating bootleg record bins
of El Cajon, California

Big Stick carried me
through the Grenadan invasion
Einsturzende Neubauten vomiting up
the deutsche id
like so many Bollock Brothers
tinkering with the Sex Pistols

this is to Johnny Rotten´s
canceled San Diego radio interview
because he wouldn't sign
a promise not to
speak his
own language

crawling from
the -Rorshach mess of Flipper
to Will Shatter choosing death
over posing
and the Fastbacks' slam mandala
descending in the whirlpool
of subconscious history

to Pixies´ screaming reminder
of caribou and suburban body counts
while Kim Deal smirked and
planned and Poison Ivy
eyed the hole in her fishnets
while channeling
Link Ray
through high input A

Dave Thomas of
Pere Ubu
the sounds
a housewife makes
when she's alone
or the last thoughts
of a sentimental rummy
watching his legs swell
Gang Of Four knowing
they were alone
Exene deciding it's not
worth it

all the unheard music,
electrified snails
in a salt of
corporate control
and hippie nostalgia
and the one and the same

this is stains
seeping into shapes
someone mistakes
for their messiah
the blessed mother statue
crying tears just
spat over a pew,
from the pit

for stains seeping
Psychic TV, the kindness
and logic of
utter alteration

refusing to mourn or scoff
at Kurt Cobain
doing it

this is to no one but Lydia Lunch
and destroying

until a radiance glows out of her skin
and her dancing hands return to us
the language of the saints
this is the present of Lydia Lunch

this is light
rays, rage against the
t-shirt machine,
a chuckle at the
corporate, governmental
voluntary, human natural
church sponsored, music videoed
computer enhanced
for sale
for free
moving to cover the globe:

there is something molten under
fearsome over
this is to the mixture of
human spirit and
occasionally sparking
fingers of electricity
crawling along a floor
but glimpsed
home taping samizdat

finally these are just smudges
on the wall
from ashes
stolen off
the cremation

smears spelling
No Future
twenty years of No Future
and counting
Prague, 1996

not long

(after Creeley)

the palms were slaughtered

everyone turned into animals
and jumped overboard
washed up and dug holes in the sand
that continue to fill with water and we
bailed buckets of fish schematics
and globs of loaves,

descended the here of the hole
filling with the there of the sea
as found in the oxford english dictionary
some old norse link but nothing
more than the meaning which is
elementary pothead revelation
everywhere you go there you are
yet even if you're not going anywhere
and the bud's worn off
the oscillation continues

as more pothead everywhere
in the emptying distance
everyone jumped, washed that bailed fish
scrubbed vanishing points better left unpainted
distance compairson turned overboard
their going off continues
disoriented in the orient
dude in a jeep
there's no front there and
what am I doing here behind enemy lines
I should be home
filling my quota of shitty things
the ones we all got to do before coming off
old and nice
not driving burning tires
the smell obscuring our vision
sweat of my palms on the wheel

our entire crew is slaughtered and we
continue on to the next island

Prague, April 1998

this is wolf

at midnight center
this is wolf eating
cabbage it steps
paws around quite permanent
enjoyed cathedrals.
most of us slept through it.
my own mind was being probed
by an alien super intelligence
with my windows closed.
xanadu destroyed by small talk
and obsolete mobile
inner space.

one paw set softly into
renaissance courtyard
one paw brushing the new mall.
one paw undemarcated a border
between cardboard slums
and purple affluence
sending children screaming into
the streets both dirty urchins
and babyseated in sedans
it would eat and we would cry though
infinity is not just a word
but it subsisted on maggoty carrion
in its former life.

mere climate
we evolve and burn in
found the unlike wolf
crunching our undemocratic selves'
sharply splintered and bloody bones
into no danger for the wolf's
the wolf has tenure.
scabs in its fur it's
squeezing down computer highway
sniffing the top of the great wall.
changing the coarse whitewater in to
flood the villas the children float
through its teeth.

surprisingly ignored westward mind
shines in the esophagus of the
wolf's dynamic glaciations
returning to the heartland.

Prague 1998


Little Twirly Things
Norton Coker Press

Email: vfarnsworth@europe.com

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