My breasts on your lathe

That’d be funny if the guy who said to you “that’d be funny if” in the cafe naked next to your workshirt in San Francisco, the dairy caffeine cafe with the watercolor timestamp art on sale for the wall next to the Green Giant, the jolly fellow near the bathrooms at Ritual Coffee Roasters had a handbill in his pocket that said Remember That Time? And his smile would resemble (in the poems by the coffeeshop poets of the neighborhood) a Trademark Symbol, and in his pocket a kangaroo-shaped playbill would reveal an idea like wouldn’t it be funny you know how when you work from home you invariably inhale sheets of graham crackers (apologies to Kevin Moffett, and or baby carrots,) over the sink, fuck it there’s nothing left in the fridge boiling veggie dogs just because you’re at home and the only stress outlet is to turn your face into a compostable sink disposal, well the funny wouldn’t it be if watch there’s a hip coffee shop like Roasters, but it’s got a fridge and a microwave and a bunch of free food that when you get stressed out you just go up and eat? Plus a separate normal pastry display with normal pastries for sale that all the people with dignity still pay money for and get on ceramic plates, but in a separate part of the cafe there’s a dirty fridge with leftover Thai food and frozen veggie pups and cantaloupe beans and whatever else that people who get a terrifying work-email at 4 p.m. just go hose-happy on blasting the babka till it’s gone.

Trundling up the path, snowy silence, bullshit poems alight on branches like proper ravens. Fatman lost in the zendo can’t even feel the stringcheese in his fleece’s breast pocket. An elipsis travels up and down the length of your cock, why the fuck are your daughters reating my erotc poetry blog… scratch that… nyc pastries + flowers

feeling free in the zendo a professional lifeguard reads the blurbs on the back of your self-published book at the self-funded book release party craftily, hilariously putting his empty plastic wine glass in his breast pocket. Mallarme reference TK, he reads aloud, having flipped to a page at random. “Oh fuck,” you say, “is that actually in there?” Taking the book to look, you see that your placeholder text has accidentally made it into print, you’d meant to insert a Mallarme reference here but I guess you never got around to it… “Fuck,” you say again, handing the book back to the guest, who wears an eyepatch and has a fake parrot sewn to his shoulder and teeters as if wearing a pegleg though looking down it’s true he has two sturdy legs overhung with slate chinos. “Pity the placeholder,” no-one says. The next song comes on shuffle and it begins with an accellerated secular church bell, the kind that bongs the time in stately patient bongs but the clever electronic musician has accellerated the bongs so it seems to be chiming 4,000 o’clock and it’s driving you wild with pleasure, to hear this now, and the embarrassing Mallarme TK gaffe feels decades old and already celebrated as a hilarious and ultimately instructive gaffe. A mewling toddler does not say, “Gaffe Giraffe,” but she does do something specific revealing that there are toddlers at the book event TK TK. A breast presses against the window, begging to be let inside the gallery. A red-breasted titmouse flutters its paws next to the tiny DVD console. A duste mote reveals itself to be hilariously in tune with the matter at hand, I mean with the Remains of the Day, I mean with the Remains of the DVD, I mean with the reina, the queen, my darling. Hate and hope in equal measure suffuse the air above the plate of sandwiches, sandwiches which have tried so hard to be here and succeed, mostly, except looking again at them they seem mostly gone, where do sandwiches go at parties like this? I saw people eating sandwiches but that seems unconnected to the absent, devastated, crumb-strewn plaza near the greasy checkboard mom flannel plane that is what some once called That Table. My nephew is here, his name is Aristotle said an obese cartoon calico cat. I got string cheese in my pockets, Aristotle said. He moved his elbows and knees like he was composing a filigree’d poem for his aunts. He had spent most of the party in the basement behind a piano participating in a jam session with Needles, the drummer, who performed using eggbeaters instead of drumsticks; Palimpsest, on bass, who didn’t know what any of the knobs on the amp were for beyond the main volume control, but still managed to fiddle with them between every song, giving him a different sound each time, playing literally hundreds of different notes throughout the course of the evening, but in which order he played the notes I’m sure you had to be there to know, and of course P. Raichport, tenure-track professor of fiction at Lathe University at Kansas City, who is so clearly based on a real person that even the dimples in her cellulite seem to spell a constellation of ciphers that you can rearrange and glyph and  wait what who is that based on no one actually OK nevermind

Black Francis, alive and well

I finally came into possession of an old guitar someone had given me at a nightclub in San Francisco awhile back; Eric Drew Feldman had been holding it for me there on Haight Street.  He convinced me that it looked cool (it was black) and had been given in the spirit of benevolence.  Every time I picked it up a nice chord came out and so I lovingly cleaned it with red wine in the dressing room the following night and began to write.  I told the tour manager that we would drive in my Cadillac directly to a recording studio in Los Angeles (and could he book one, oh, and a rhythm section, too?) from the gig in San Luis Obispo which would put us at the studio at about 4am.  It all happened according to plan and we cut the initial tracks there in the wee hours over a few days, and then moved on to an equally haunted studio in London and Eric Drew Feldman joined us there and we finished the record in St. John’s Wood.  Like I said the studio was haunted and I wrote many a couplet by candlelight in the studio accommodation, slept very little, and only felt the need to get the fuck out of there fast on the last night.  The spirits had not ever bothered me, other than low drama moral support, but I was informed that they had heard enough and it was time to move on; plus I had a gig in Ireland.

When I was a boy the plant we boys called a fern was code for vagina, and to this day I love fern plants.  In my heart the vagina is almost everything, and almost everything else could be summed up in what cock and seed have to offer; and everything else?  The love of the father, dead or alive, the pain of too much pleasure, till death do us part, the voice of another song man from the other side, with or without God, Teri and the Possibilities, where ever you may be, the smell of sex in the air, seduced, slain, on my knees in prayer, sucking at the only thing that matters, my own personal Meret Oppenheim, I am Man Ray and I want you and to be all the way inside you, the cameras whirring as we put some elbow grease into the scene, the audience watching us in the dark.

Black Francis
January 2010, Central Oregon

(via the internet)

“The Wrath of Grapes” – SCENE ONE




WRATH: Nope, it was real. And now I am irrevocably roused. You could even say… “a”-roused

[GRAPES shucks her decomposing kimono with alacrity. Smoately, what does ‘alacrity’ mean?

SMOATELY: Ask me outside of the stage directions.]

GRAPES: “promptness of response.” (When I’m outside of the stage directions, I have my laptop, so I can just look things up on my laptop.) [GRAPES is spectacularly nude. Her body is  a weeping faucet, a city’s worth of sex only a few twists of the knob away]


SMOTELY: Imagine, if you will, that you live in New York City, have perfect vision, one of the nation’s finest critical apparatuses, and the body of Michael Phelps, the Olympic gold-medal swimmer.  Also you are Lou Reed, a little bit, inside, and in your clothes.


WRATH: He’s mostly talking to me.



SMOTEY: What do you do?

WRATH: Isn’t it obvious?

[It is totally obvious to both SMOATELY and GRAPES, but they look on anyway, mute and expectant.]

WRATH: I would fuck. A lot. Everyone. All those perfect peaches. I would pluck them. And fuck them. In their tiny apartments. Make their neighbors crazy with the sound. Go to work with my prostate a beaten and worn thing, tenderly tucked away for the lunch hour. I’d be a racehorse of pleasure. I would nail ersatz ponytails to my wall as trophies.

GRAPES: This is disgusting. [WRATH and GRAPES begin copulating hotly. SMOATELY steps forward and faces the audience. He fingers the buttons on his slate trenchcoat.]

SMOTELY: And here, thus, are the origins of Chicago post-rock, and that glitchy Aphex Twin sound, and freak folk, and whatever genre the Strokes and the Futureheads and all that is called. WRATH [gestures to WRATH’s pounding, exposed buttocks] is this culture’s Great Father. And Grapes [gestures exaggeratedly again, as GRAPES yelps with unvarying urgency] is the mother. Their spawn, which will sing its first note not nine months from tomorrow, will be the New Scene. Christmas is almost here.

[Giant snowflakes fall past the window. The downtown Brooklyn tower is visible, as is a cursive Coca-Cola billboard and San Francisco’s Transamerica Pyramid. What the fuck???]

[Eventually WRATH, who looks exactly like Wharf from Star-Trek, and GRAPES, who looks, whatever, hot, she’s Kate Hudson, who cares, are finished and lay spent on the bed. From the rafters, a gross oversized papier-mache baby is lowered onto the bed. It is dripping with syrup, which falls and pools on the bed as it is lowered. more syrup is poured down from above onto the baby as it comes down. The whole thing is gross. WRATH and KATE HUDSON aka GRAPES writhe and moan on the syrupy bed. SMOATELY, who looks, whatever, like Truman Capote or David Hockney or Elton John — lights a cigar and winks a bunch of times at the audience.]


Two Men

BUMPS: Hey, Shitty

MOUSER: Hey lounges

BUMPS: What’s the deal

MOUSER: Sleepy. Stupid. Gay.

B: Naw, yr not gay. You’re just creative, and afraid of women.

M: That’s not what my instructor at my graduate MFA program in the Graphic Novel told me

B: O No? What’d he say?

M: He said that I was addicted to Taurine and Guarana Root and all kinds of other lipoids and shit like that. And he said I had something called premature ejaculation syndrome, can you believe it? I have no idea what that is!

B: It’s when you cum the cum of a–

M: Don’t say baby.

B:  I’ve made love to you and your ejaculation was quite mature, Mouser. Elderly, even. You came like a grandpa.


B: [Does that blow-job pantomime thing with his tongue inside his cheek]

[Scholarly-looking dude in the audience stares down into his lap, hard. He couldn’t look more uncomfortable. The paella he had for dinner has given him the farts. His glasses are NOT SMUDGY AT ALL. His khakis are CREASELESS. His SEMI-HOT GIRLFRIEND DRAGGED HIM TO THIS PLAY. AND now these weird, jokey GAY THEMES are making him UNCOMFORTABLE. He is not against homosexuality. He just doesn’t know what to do with either of these “premature ejaculation” jokes or the weird quasifrank homoerotic theme. He hates everyone in this room under the age of 40 except for his girlfriend and including himself. It’s an older crowd at the theater, always is.]

B: Mouser.

NARRATOR: [Standing at the edge of a stage, resting both hands atop a cane. Smiles through his fake white mustache. He wears a bowler] Are these guys really two dudes speaking? And why the academic setting? Is this a college art museum? If so, where are the guards? How have falafels “to go” made them so fat? Where are the women? Where is the wine?

M: Bumps.

B: You’re my little bitch, you know that?

M: I know, Bumps. I love you.

B: I love you, too