Posts Tagged ‘Kyle Hemmings’

Club Oz

You’re here to escape the Dukes of Death-Waltz
the solo riff-walk with nails in your shoes
to do your hopscotch thing
forget yesterday’s moonwalk.
For years you’ve been slipping
& sliding in & out of pain.
Your mother lives with a guy
who claims he’s a distant cousin
of Kurt Cobain or somebody.
He’s glock-strapped/blammer edgy.
Your skeleton daddy
was paved over,
lies buried under the new tenements
that no one can afford.
Nowdays, you can’t even breathe
without someone at the controls.

When the DJ goes Euro-Trance,
let your wind-up birds go free
turn up your treble and twank.
This club, these dancers in MDI-sequenced ecstasy
are in mass swan suicide.
Even the back-stepping shadows
are glorious.

 

 

Who’s Your Phuture?

When Zin gropes love handles & shaky slim-boy loves. When she goes boom boom bust with bakery lists,
scratching & crossing out until there’s nothing left but pineapple cheesecake too much for one sugar-girl.
Or if she gets too crazy looking for the perfect enchilada. Even her best phat girlz hum from boredom.

When she’s hooked on some crank-czar who has her by both body-chord & iPhone.
When he traps her in the late-hour desperate voice messages.

When the signal fails.

Me, I’m dying in the crosstalk. I want to re-wire her, tell her that it doesn’t take much.
You could use what you have. Some early rapper once made soup out of butterflies.
A retired DJ created a paste from old love letters.

I store my love in the oldest part of my brain. My brain is a crude one-note oscillator.
All day I compose pop tunes that end at the bridge.

 

 


My Bad

Hey Zin, did we lose the plot?

No. Just keep your feet on the fat beats.

The throbbing bass, the bomb is good.

It’s your psychosis.

If the club is the world. If the club goes dark,
do we have a blackout crew?

No, we only got quarter pride girls blowing face.

You’re off your tits & big ass.

Rinse it out and ride your own pony.

Zin, you know I’m out of disco biscuits &
Peruvian marching powder. Please don’t
wrong me up. I’m just hard cheese & bad
connections.

Cottage this. I’m a room rat with bad mix.
U guys are all penny slutz anyhow. There’s no
heaven & there’s no meat.

How low do you think I can sling?

Baby, kiss my MX900 & keep off my rag doll.
The world has no synth. It’s going to end after the next song.

 

 

The 90s

We partied until we were misshapen. We died & were revived in bathrooms.

We had chemical romances with rude women from New Jersey.

We filmed our morning afters in cobblestone alleys. Our documentaries were labeled with titles like “A Youthful Bohemian Satire.”

In the suburbs, we washed dirty dishes & stacked football plates until our refractions were no longer visible. Managers told us to “take control of your life.”

We belonged to an exclusive club of nerds in no man’s land. We had a charter of strange hungers. Somewhere over the river there were recycled lives & happy endings.

What I remember most about the 90s is passing out.

 

 

CITY OF LOVE #8

She would cut the boy, in a manner of speaking, from all drawstring, umbilical cord, poly or sisal twine without any loose ends of longing. Zugschnur. Cordón. Biodegradable was a must. The instructions. Die Anweisungen. Walk around the earth without looking back and until you return to me. In places out of reach, hunters with an acute sense of burn and scar, monkeys with allergies to plastic trees, tried to adopt the boy. He never said Good-bye or thank you for the cooked snakes. Through monsoons and Kamkatcha winters, he walked past the blindness of others. Under a celestial shift, another tilt of the universe, he returned to the woman. They were now the same age. He said I recognize your hands but you are not my mother. She tied his hands and tongue, asked him what he had seen. He struggled to speak. Like what the father of the boy had once done to her, she walked away. One night, in a town far away, she looked up from her 10th story window. A single star, same location, shone over her apartment. It never went away. Over time she grew paranoid that it might crash, perhaps during a dream where there were no ropes or trees, and she’d be childless forever.

STICKY FLOORS

after 17 years of
being waxed to sticky floors
of negotiating your old parts
from pawnbrokers behind screens
of swallowing deli demons whole
in their candy wrappers,
you still haven’t cleaned your room.

your mother calls out
behind yellow soul walls, cracked need.
she says: bring me a cup of tea
i’m still dying at 27 fathoms deep.
you feel that part of her
inside you—so invisibly alone.

In your rabbit mania
you search for brooms
you dial a prostitute named Wicked Alice
you need a shot of touch
you’ve grown addicted to dust
to what can no longer reflect
off your sticky floors.