K. Silem Mohammad (Oregon): Four Poems

GLAM BACKPACK


light me up
I got glam in my backpack

an inside-out cake
the c replaced with a k

cocked-up cock-
happy coachman

control … stimmung…
kill y’all


like an albino cobra
licking your arm nub

like a little old
cream box juice dog

the type of dog it is
le hot-dog


HOW SONGBIRDS DEAL WITH LARGE AMOUNTS OF SERIAL INFORMATION


I am the hardstyle pimp
I can barely read what people are saying
I have to decipher between tones
so I deem this a tonal study … or something

I’ve detected among Wyoming kidney damage lawsuit lawyers
the first threadbare reality sex to invade a tonal shift
a shift that’s swift and rather abrupt and I would contend
that no one here cares what you have to say

I bulked a tonal radiance through the used panties
uttering restrained and barefoot big real tits to myself, my god! looking about
I accompanied many marble dicks on tits bearing coffins
led by a tonal thing with a convenient head made of wax

a distant seven-shot metaphysical object terminating in a tonal hand
was not very hard-to-get-looking
having between its inorganic teeth a not-so-lonely chosen object
everybody knows you snort coke off of

Brian Eno and I would like some milk from the milkman’s wife’s tits
and big round chocolate rumps which were not such
as a tonal man would accumulate and preserve
not a tonal silence of centuries, but a tonal working sea … fuck you

umm, the neighbor wife in “more” gorgeous nylon panties
actually sings her tits off for once
they snuck a tonal spot on the grass outside for I had tested them
and overthrew the keynotes of the tits and the successors-in-spirit

a northwest flood of incomparable corruption
banished the upright jerking-off neo-rapture of go-go proportions
alas! however ultramodern I am of this
could it be that a big girl’s blouse covers up a pair of tits of greater than normal size

as for my tits they may perhaps fail of the fidelity they coach me
a growth of charming grass funnier than my head
their camps did fail because there was no grass
of no capital in which a tonal apartment can be so hired


I’M TIRED OF EATING LUNCH WITH CHICKS EVERY DAY (Signature, Event, Roast Beef)


hey, bitch, give me some roast beef
screw you, sexist

bitches who can’t read for context are of no concern to me
you can’t define men without making them separate from structuralist “hairy chasms”

which is really another way of making the claim that a signifier is haunted
by sustainable earth-friendly Tofurkey

for me the way to avoid the abyss
is to pursue a rhetorical low-fat food source

or go to Alaska
writing itself struggles over and over to go here

academic methodologism and paradigm-enforcement is just
far healthier for you than, say, Fresca

Dracula must be a werewolf though Canada for example
never learned how to get down on her knees eating Americans

the generation above getting in morphine and using guns and all that
the way history is conventionally about book proposals

they meet some son of a bitch who studied knife-fighting
they send his soul to psychoanalysis

I’m running with the “theory bitch” moniker
(is Madonna old enough to have a festschrift?)

whatever
what’s completely missing is a circular puzzle with no end

and really just leaving out
the beef and seeing how it comes out


UNTITLED


“exactly who are you and why is it
you have brought this wood here?”
Ray gestured at the pile of wood

he’s a maniac, maaaniac on the floor sexual
he would live fast and hard and burn
himself up then folks would say goddam
like you can discourage him
just by punching him in the face

broken hymen of a priest in disguise
with a pregnant girlfriend
Buddy had taken pictures of
them pulling down their jeans

she was a white woman of some “smoky days”
“soiled hands” and
“vacant”
“smell of steaks”
Calgary where dinosaurs left mystery

“persists to throb in my head”
is iambic tetrameter
not pentameter

is everything fricking untitled

oh yeah right who’s going
to worship a rock she replied
I love this job