Monday, February 1, 2016

Mark Sargent


NATE’S MUG HUNG

He came in a long tube
I picked up at the PO and took
immediately to my frame guy.
He stretched it snug
and up he went.

He’s on the wall behind me
looming, bigger than fucking life
and looming, looking over me
right shoulder with what might
have been a blur of sneer but was
smudged into bafflement and sad,
hurt, wary as though cornered.

How did it happen?
What got my ass to this chair in nowhere
being rendered into oil?

It could have been Reno
or some buggered LA suburb
but either way it wasn’t
far enough from New York.
Call them episodes, ‘cause it’s a series,
those fucking crimson spews,
gift transfusions from the common vein
and another guy in a lab coat
shaking his head and you know
all your lines in this scene
and play it sincere, subtle
with a gallows humor lean.


Well, so far, fatal bullets dodged
but he’s winged,
goes by Liverfool now,
has trouble selling his sass,
waiting, as he is,
for a liver on the rocks,
for some poor fucker who matches
to die, so they can medi-vac that organ 
to the hospital,
shove it in him
and see if it takes.

What will Nate whisper when my night
feels like a shrunken shirt,
voices tell me to break it all apart,
and I know that’s shit advice
but listen anyway, what will you say, Nate?
I suggest you scorn my suffering
as not enough, not enough,  point
to your scars, the deep shit,
paint your pain broadly,
bleed right off that canvas
the fluids of fate and choice.
Hey, wuz you deciding ever
or did you let your monkey choose?

It is always the worst of times
when you’re killing time
in the hard scrublands of organ failure,
not a kiosk in sight
and you’re floating
in a most peculiar way
and what was common place
is hard to find today.

And the best, consider those
transfusions of joy, those bungee falls
each plunge weakening the strand
the fiber the weave the setup:
a Rasta and a trust fund twit
enter a sperm bank clinic…
a giraffe dressed like a gangsta
and a sumo in a tutu are thrown
from a plane…

Make in the limit of now,
snap of it—traction, bounce—
hey, that cat’s still moving,
claws extended, fur electric,
that ain’t no bounce,
that fucker’s leaping.

It is a leap year.
Get some air
between you and earth.
Jump, muthafucka, jump
right over my shoulder
and on to the page.

Bogdan Puslenghea / Maria Sicoie





The Thirty Fingers Party
It was almost dawn.
The desert was vast and simple.
Golden in the sun. Not exactly now, right.
A pleasant hum circled a black square at altitude.
Morning's styled greyness unfolded in tiny
specks of silver. Of memories
welding together.
In the art of guilt. Catch. Catch.
Cinerama.
‘’Fuck’’
‘’Fuck’’
Eyes.
Deal me in.
Fucks were flying all over the place. Mid air.
Hisses into a pure moment.
''Fuck your money, too. And
''Your stupid guns.''
Which seemed brutal, but fair.
''Also, tell your funny boss I (echo)
''Called him a monkey-brain
''On coke. That's right,'' continued
the one and only MacroMan.
Here's MacroMan.
Choke on it.
Like he used to do when he spake
for himself.
Show me your cunt, bitch, type of things.
Even though more sensuous.
And GoverMan really felt it that.
And GoverMan likes the things. Uh. Oh yes.
But MERM, er, no, no, MacroMan knew
alight, that, this was - out of place, to think of now.
They weren't alone. No. Typical.
It was a thirty fingers party. Typical?
Enter Dino. ''Just as rich people are...
''Better than anybody, baby
''You said we'll go by baby
''Baby By''
So typical. Capital Baby.
''Fuck America Fuck China
''Fuck Russia, Turkey & Europe.
''& Fuck your Northern Hemisphere
''Bullshit
‘’Thank you.’’
''Fuck your techno-capital, Mr.
''Sweet Talk Suit&Tie Soulless
''ZeroZe rawZero4Zero.''
Who said it? Who said that? Who?
Tough business, guys.
Tough guy, businesses.
GoverMan or MacroMan?
At least he didn’t say Israel. The Holocaust is safe.
Just lol at this point.
Lull at this point.
''I give you powr!, baby''
Dinoboy, you're in trouble, boy. Oh, yea.
Say it fast. Say it quick and backwards.
''I give you something baby
''You take me for a fool baby
''Maybe you give me time baby
''Maybe I give you time baby
''And money, baby’’
Hey, where are you from, Mr Funny
Mr. Boy? Mr FunnyBoy
Romania?
Never heard of it. Oh yeah.
Yes, but you know. No.
Back to the dream planet baby and the dream.
Back to other stuff. Back.
Yum.
MacroMan, GoverMan & DinoMan walked
into the desert in full sun.
It was the thirty fingers party
and everybody was there
written by Bruno S, found and edited by Bogdan Puslenghea