by Quinton Couch

Rancid has gone the feeling puffed up with one’s eyes wide open 
And the rounded platonic hammer, small, knot-like —
A nymphomaniac studying the noted magazine since 1945. 
 
Making high-pitched whiny clamor in the great devastation as the 
Peen splits the skull of the mongoloid that kisses the cock of 
Barbarous immorality while confessing love in the marriage 
Bed of our rite. 
 
None are above the sounds of desolation reverberating like 
The howl of jazz in cool New York flats.  Felt but not heard 
The etude moves deeply with the many seen at a distance, 
Tattered — molesting the ears of the proud while they get their fix. 
 
Shall we follow here in this place of desolation? —
Where cum covers the faces and consumes the angelic 
Dreaming the primrose path only to die in the ever 
Stillness. 
 
Bone to brick we are united into a singularity the likes of 
Which those of us have not and cannot fathom, 
The testosterone rage peddling the streets of Baqudah, 
Haditha, Halabja.  
 
The hairs still stand straight beneath the rosary lips despite 
Consummating as frequently as the speckles of infinity above 
Our shaven heads in this noble house of sex. 
 
Brazen are those who are shameless and unapologizing and 
Identified by at least one common characteristic that measures
The health and age of the liquor in their guts. 
 
Whose heads lie on the pillows in the beds of untruth hastily made. 
 
Whose bodies bathe in the salty and Crimson waters of Verdun. 
 
Whose genitals are thrown out into the streets of the Markets for all to consume. 
 
Whose hands thrust open the savagery known to exist in a Hobbesian light. 
 
Whose eyes see the bare breasts of their own mothers in a Freudian dream of self-
deprivation and selfishness. 
 
Reconcile to the machinery of the night that I’ve seen the masses 
Bleed themselves to — Worried, euphoric.  Tears of impossible and 
Irreconcilable incomprehension run like spring water through the 
Infant fractures of warmed ice. 
 
The individual specimen, the King and I, and Others — O’ head 
Of a company, facing the artificial communication like the end —
Less spirit, executed with a long barreled weapon, the product of 
Long human activity and inactivity. 
 
Lookers, the guys and girls, and Others — the most common blood 
Type that is just many of the several fine wines.  
Drunk.  Perpetuating. 
Feuding, fuming, foreboding, a hypochondriac’s woes, attacked
Violently with blows — and words. 
 
Disturbed, manipulated, we defenestrate our moral compass, perhaps 
Somewhere outside of this American denomination. They sing beatnik,
Breakneck, shouting out:
Love and hate 
And hate and fear 
And fear and incitement 
At the gas lit walls of the surreal walls of the real.  Fertile.  Redundant. 
 
Recidivism.  Recidivism.  Recidivism.