Five Poems / Luke Degnan and Rosiere Moseley

From Monster Manual 


From the dark, suddenly pleasant hues, the trees, a gleaming ocean, the miles of beautiful, the rad of my Michelobean number while I walk around, forgotten, with a feather of sea-colored, bubbling thought, a found leaflet, a warning: stay awake,

Empty of virtue, stay earth, learn earth, je ne comprends pas earth, he can read earth, Ron, his limbs, and I feel like him, carried in exalt down the arch, a slanted gallows of bs, there's no end to bs, its like Jormungand the World Serpent.

At noon continuous, unsober'd, a jetsam fleet at noon, a brief foam at one, I come for love and ankles, then on the float, then finger'd in the bleachers, then with a basketball fully, a prize, a collection of tickets to cash in, a weakness of cheap prizes like sharpener, like heart attack, hey I'm being tortured, shit, I'm doing fine, feeling myrtle breezes at Target, and all blushes from hit-ons,

Thaw and the whole moon, new weird shadows, bright colas, the Saturday morning stuck with cold, a trireme of bs, arbitrary skies, an exhaled arch of

True dawn, suspending light, flavor of limes, stutter of dusk.

Everything's now an upside-down problem, the cure for cold, but with more cold, or excruciating fire, a sculpture made with violence, a warm margarita. I am all Yeah, don't drink that, but I drink to my idea of what war is, what mountains are. I drink to these powerful games, as an infamous indifference against other sorry mountains, a mountain burial under dirty dishes.

So I walk out, lips in, framed by unstoppered evil, huge smoke hair, soul-fried fear, brood along strange sea-colored edges of smashed Oldsmobile windows, and travel on through packed church-pew rows of cigarette smoking dudes, dudes from another epoch, dudes like my dad — dudes I'll turn into, I feel a jet power in it, the beating of a fat dude's heart,

Hot wings burnt, haired, cola Neptune, the world's brine, an intaglio of beer, the shallow sound of bees. I'm bursting. I imagine dying. It might be like leaving an awesome party or entering a beautiful sewer.

I'd be waving from a digital billboard, brittle, crystalline, a long, slender body with weird-ass flat, open-faced baked pixel bits, morally reprehensible, dirty, a canary's veins, a ceramic leg, a prostate made of cloth, a distressing monstrosity — its hair-in-your-bread doubt, mischievous and should I keep eating



I live on a golden-yellow notched leaf, numb and boiled, soiled, unstoppered, all these various physical sensations, wicked, hugely visible, a cylindrical roll of fat ham. I can't say I want, morally, it's like I'm winded in a tall building's stairwell, heaving in the greasy air,

the unctuous birds, a thousand breeders in darkness, obscurity, a thousand couples in the parking lot, witches of sound, drilling into your school. 

I think I noticed the subsidy levied upon my thoughts of god, the unexpectedly docile lions of the still parking lots, "whose protection subtracts thirty." They seem human, or imitations of human, they're only firm, fleshy tissues, a round of swampy genitalia sacrificed to organizations, for perfuming, or transported away from inexperience, forcefully and in a giant pair of pants.

Let's not do away with or be devilled by wayward memories made with muscles of cigarette smoke, pleasure and what not are a hastening sunset.



I have excruciating pulmonary feeling

But I want to have the perfect seizures, 

A briefcase of wasp stingers, 

A Jansport of howling embryos, 

A detachable, hinged anatomy, 

The size of the earth's surface. 


I'm not a tree, I'm idly shaven,

Stung by hymenopterous insects, 

Frightening, or falling, 

I'm tired of bs,


Bad news on that front,

There's no end to bs,

It's like these sculptures, 

Created in illo tempore by lesser demons, 

Hinged in brine, thieving my light 

Or showing more leg, 


Beer elementals in public bathrooms, 

Muffling their cellphones from loud noises, or 

Magnifying the screams of children and cats, a plan for warfare, 

A levelled town, an unfinished sandwich, what is profane.



I'd like to fly directly into the sun and evaporate in a silent puff of smoke like a cartoon rocketship


Entangled in my pants,

wound up and then down, shit

do I itch,

mites of underproduction,

mites of unrealized dream

or might have been,

what are dreams,


thin sheets, a flip of the mattress,

a bit of golden sand thrown in the night,

I'd turn to the right to join in, and say

Many thanks to the band, but I feel

like my head is floating above my body

connected only via spine, sans flesh,

and the spinal column is rotating like

a stainless steel Lazy Susan, 

in fact, I look like a shallow cellist, 

a hunched-over overpriced motorcycle, 

a fried elephant, I hate everything


when I look like a dozen other things,

I feel like a clear udder of pity, which

when milked straight, with hyper-extruded pointy fingers,

shoots and stains,

and it's not going to wash away by hand,

there's no advantage to this anatomy.



Who took life's joviality? Who wants to

cleverly destroy me with my own guns?


Everything seems ground

fine, driven into the ground,

rained down, or stuffed through a sieve,


I feel like I'd say something if

I didn't have it so good.

I don't work that much, and at times


the snipers hit my coffee cup cause yeah,

everyone sins and something, you know, like

I was my own butler or some shit,


I'd say "Uh, sir, please step off the bad,"

but it’s just delicious

food or long nap or extra day off.


I’m weighed down

by a dandelion.



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