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writeThis
sept.  2003





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"the confrontation of aesthetics..."
writeThis.com
a pretendgenius.com production
vol. ii, issue vi
dec. 20, 2004
fishdrinklikeus
jeremy behreandt

1 MOMENTUM

we sit under the moon
and cradle our cell phones
into a calculated sleep.
amber taffy trickles through
cracks in marble columns.
our pink skin paints us as
lawn ornaments in a
budget butchered zoo.
broken bottles mirror
battered calendars pasted to cages.
we punch in digits
to satisfy our casual search
for an exquisite sequence.
the cars and the sun
practically drive themselves--
no navigator, no direction--
only the brutality of momentum.

2 SOUVENIR

we quip smooth riffs
in stiff grooves
and croon our rogue style
a quick dollar shapes
the brand new user's manual
so all may come as they are
every dress code is casual
no need to shake hands
fingers dance across checker boards
for a souvenir to harness now
in dust trimmed forever
so we swing for a photograph
but the frame forgets
that fractured hip
and a tinned night in
the potemkin hospital

3 KAFKA'S PAJAMAS

glitter pistol stains place
  stakes in their ear drums
they kneel on beds of nails
black bags paint their faces as jack-o-lanterns
photographs pose them in kafka's pajamas
their names are reduced to initials
  in coal-smeared ledgers
they succumb to a systematic pattern of
  bad apples rebuked in piñata shake-ups
two years tethered to rottweiler alarm clocks
their prayers confused with combat boot submission
their petitions smothered in grind mill tribunals

4 PORNO SCABS

i pinch the liquid horizon
   into the syringe... drip... drip...
                       30 mg
i rescue old heroes
      from beneath
      dust covers
  punch the keys on my exhausted typewriter
  slip a condom on my drooping microphone
dear milwaukee:
     my mind shivers under the oscilloscope
      my mind--an empty parking lot
      my mind--a xeroxed finger print
dear milwaukee:
       will you promise me a home?
    eau claire leaves me only a jug of
                          orange juice
                           for company
               leaves me dragging my flooded ego
                             around dotted lines
                               down brick alleys
                         scratching porno scabs
                         tonguing cross eyed dollars