“VIOLENZ” (1) EPISODE CRUEL

frogspawn/cream or
vegan cheese, it’s mostly about the texture
or when i slap it on your lap and rub it into your trousers
furiously. i wanna stain your shoes
i wanna blame it on you but when we point the finger
3 fingers point back at us while a thumb lies idle
but it’s a price i’m willing to pay because them fingers is wi’ me

i wanna squirt ketchup on your new fucking shoes n
laugh and smell ’em later, and watch as gathered dust has stuck
and settled on your wretched stains
i hate those shoes, i’m gona burn your arms

i’m gonna do my business at the hob. i’m gonna
pierce the packaging with a fork a few too many times bcause
it feels and sounds rewarding/empowering
it’s controlled cruelty

i wanna get fed on by carrion birds, wanna
circle my prey, feed my young, wanna spring forth
n out towards/claws poised, gonna puncture,
rip, gut prey

i’m slashing tents/i’m raining, flailing/thinking;
i see nun-chucks get spun n shown off way more than
actual nun-chuck bludgeonings
multiple hits into a nun-chuck submission
a throttle lock-down, get span round/slammed down
maybe slapped about
manhandled‘ quiet now

table for 1

charred steamed fish for that omega 3
with overdone mushy broccoli in instant-cream
eggs and beans and fish wi’ broc-broc n’ cream
listen to me choking and gargling while i eat it
audibly mouth breathing eating my brain food
wiping cream from my mouth/smelling my fingers
thinkin’ bout that sweet bean-cream
breathing through my nose/masticating
smiling, thinking about other stuff.
n clearing my throat n u can hear my thick beans
thinkin i wanna watch things get eaten in mid air
right there, by the fabric of reality
n i get to hear it grunt and swallow too

 

DUMB lil WAX (plural) WHAT I GONE AND DID (AND CONTINUE TO DO)

springtime


english crispy batter, oily, rich and with more butter
with glistening, abundant oil and bubbling melted greasy cheese
all scraped, scooped, regarded and spread
over soggy, oily crustless bread,
add more spaghett in creamy sauce, then
batter then wrap it in
nondescript meats, then dip it on in in them
thick liquid cheeses, stuff it in pastries with
viscous meat matter, faux herbs/bottle sauces
smeared with oils and with more creamy sauces, then breaded
and fried, then squeezed into ball and
slapped and eaten



wax n wax plural to indigo blues
snoozing along to the melody, grumpily
on top form in liquid form through lyrics




real quick ode to chopin (to chopin)
                                                                        

become a nocturne bellowing
down rusty arid halls, soft hints
perseverance, steadfast fists clenched
hope enamoured, blind despair
mending silver linings, rising/setting suns, the
midst of romance, new beginnings, descents
and endings, tribulations
twists, ideas, emotion cascading
directed by one



indeed i crave that buttered toast
with melted cheese and jam



bullshit junkwords theraputic
churn em out get caught
wankin on the floor, the faults
not yours and you dip out, shamelessly



taking great pride in your array of sex moves/sex mix ups
mathematical angles, equations and formulae
helping you through thorough biology,
enjoy yourselves and be safe



i must deserve my melted cheese
toast buttered/jam spread-glazed across
far too late to venture down but i
deserve my melted cheese

so don’t judge me in the kitchen in
my long johns chomping when i do



 

grubs up!

ok it’s time to say things again
and i’ve been bursting at the guttural seams
a fiend for asinine, visceral chatter,  seasoned
steamed and seasoned again. and mashed and served
on a vast platter – who’s hungry? all of you look starving!
watch as they dine at the vast table, picking at mash
with hands and shovels alike, some enter the mash
clawing at it with long fingernails, digging mash holes
and licking their fingernails like spaghetti!

to be eat to be eaten

i’m a lean, spirited cut of meat, hurled
and i land on your chest and i smell weird
slightly darker in colour, i should be alright to cook
i slide down your chest and drop onto your lap, sat
you sit at your hob and fry me
burn me fry me make me darker
season me, i want to taste good for you
but i can’t season myself because
1. who does that?
and 2.
i am but meat, barely sentient
vacuous metaphor, i wanna be good for you
i wanna taste so good that i surprise even myself

i glaze it w honey (in moderation all good for me)

need to stop forcing myself
relax and stop waxing
satisfaction never guaranteed
i can’t promise it’ll net me worth
and the more i wish it so, the less it does

never used to have projects this wholesome
to walk home thinking about my stories
and how to finish them
to wake up and wonder if i’ll finish any today
but i feel overwhelmed by choice
and the pressure i put on myself
i’m shut down, caged can’t formulate
i’m no longer a torrent of ideas,
i’ve put myself on a pedestal but i’m afraid of heights
so i climb back down and try to tap back in
remembering the rules that i remembered to forget
i’ll try to free myself again
and burn away barriers of my own making

what exactly am i tapping back into?
and what was it that stopped me in the first place
willing to explore in hope that i will find
some kind of door, a passage, a prompt
an opening but really it’s myself
the door is me and my pressure has closed it
and now it’s stuffy in here while i’m trying to think
watch as i sweat out all of my minerals
dry as a bone i’m drained, dry fruit
cold and wrinkly but still slightly nutritious
i was juicy once, but can dry fruit make it all the way back?

this raisin says it can so
but this raisin needs to pace itself
remember what the games about
i enjoy myself
so the tiny raisin defies all odds
defies history, growing green
but does not stop at grape, adapting
taking from all fruit, becoming
bananaesque and avocadoish
apple-y and orangelike
melon sized with mango vibes
seasonal like clementines
like plantain shallow fry me
peel me, taste me and consume me
i’m nutritious cold and wrinkly
i am a fruit of prey
and if you don’t like it then you can go suck a lemon
because i’m dry fruit with ambition
aiming to reclaim turns of phrase
i rejoice in going pear-shaped
i’m forbidden fruit that’s good for you
and i’d rather eat the cherry
in my spacious pea pod claiming
cucumbers were never cool
but always subjective i’m flexin now
waxin now maybe i’m in bloom again