By Travis Jeppesen.
#1
Dehydrate myself constantly, what am I doing here, that’s right I’m a shark. Tainted men glow guise, preambulatory beatniks perusing rose-enchanted dream peddlers — how ugly seems my thinness. We’re taken with sour doorways, what it means to grin at the end of pure thought, enlightened toad. Blocked-out the alleyways hallelujah in the armageddon style flatulence victory, time to be alone spinning blithe disenchantment with the rays. Nobody supports hermaphroditic legacy bartering. I want to read yr tentacles now as an addition, finding.
#2
Fat groin mustache, ego torn in half by the gravy machine. It’ll all be okay once atomic mother blooms. Could be another decade before that happens. Don’t let the waves panic you. Free bird rides for those unlucky enough to be here. Herpes infects the stomach more than any other long-term strain. Colored enterprise fuckers, snared onto multiple relapse syndrome, the pussy riders are there. That’s such a deep foot necklace, I want to own everything I swallow. Your big lard is like a canary’s splat. Conjoin my abuse with your stomach ache. Ache is relative. The thin ware of spastic hopewires expansion tire out hole, oh, her hole sniff. You’re not my special likeness. The pear drowns in a pit of sorrow, choking on the pacifier of omen’s spiced demise.
#3
The grand shitter called my mother is okay to jerk today. The weather a fascistic voyeur, but too old to blow. Sonic war my nighttime hoodlum assault niche. Hammering skulls in the tide, forest fuckers assault the wilted turbulence. Spokes stab also. Mighty bloodbath torn into surmild — migrate alimony’s stolen toothbrush. He screams out at the airwaves, isn’t the world beautiful, you’re evil. The damned equalizer. Given up my debonair. Faulty falcon. Look at the lovely oh shut the fuck up. Transylvania, it’s alright. Some things are never worse than that which you pretended to imagine. The solar shitball that is yr norm. Bring process’s storm home to gather tails. I’m screaming at androgyny. So kiss my faded.
Children are only authentic when they kill each other. The way it burns. Face goes toward the ceiling. Decoys. A self I never believed in. The metallic vibration. You ate me too.
What it means to fuck in the ocean: blue.
No, not that. I can’t get over what I thought I was doing. Gridular. Then one morning, God ripped apart the sunrise. Penetration rides get under yr skin. Porn grenades.
Please perceive this: I really want to thank you for being made out of iron.
The soul is restless, my god is a lumberjack. Mediocrity invents its own rewards. All the liars, the cliffs who present downtime as its own flavor. How peculiar a man on horseback up in the air. The saltfree ones are landing sparkily. This gesture — what is it worth now. To whom are you ascribing what. Whatever drifts, whomever’s remembrance. The dehydrated logosphere. Automatic heart attack! You know where this is going. Dreams of it falling from the sky. Suffocate yr own morbidity. Once you are allowed to know.
As you become older, you become increasingly reckless with yr definitionality. Words become process, the past is what ages you. Iron cunt. Get all dizzy when I begin to think. The mandrakes have advised me not to.
Crepuscular longings are what keeps me in shape. Dear myopic marines, why can’t a camel’s dung please me?
#4
I fucking hate anything that has ever breathed.
Let the world know my spite.
You begin by hoping they will all be dead soon.
Glad.
The erotic mantelpiece.
You’re too sick to write anything.
Worth giving.
Go to the hospital, puke on a nun’s corpse.
I am salivating over yr anchovies.
Herpes bore a moon; this means true abstraction.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Travis Jeppesen got born one year, it was 1979, or thereabouts. Many years later, he wrote a book called Victims. Then he wrote another, and it was called Poems I Wrote While Watching TV. Finally, he wrote a third, entitled Wolf At The Door. You never know, he may write another one day. Until then, he is hiding out in Europe.
