UD.120//Christbones//Brent Saner.

[Guest]

[keysersose]

A stream of invective on how we screw up the lives of those near to us. This is serious, serious writing.

We stay in the same old bullshit rat race without ever thinking 'why?'. poems like this make us question why we do. Thanks Brent.

Keyserrrrr.

[johnny bubonic]

thanks keyser! i appreciate it a lot.

i have a whole lot of other diatribes and slavering, raving spirals into madness. this piece was actually a precursor/"postcursor" to another piece i have called "bones" (which, thank goodness, UD didn't print. it's fairly long).

if you're interested, i can post it here.

[moneycash]

i'd be interested!

[johnny bubonic]

bones
brent saner.


litch hitches, my skull is open to my eyes. all of the little mechanics and macaroni joints
         and elbows and ribs and spines and skulls point skyward in geriatric exclamation
         and sing, "the arthritis of the heart! the love of pain for life!" and Ezekiel saw
         those dry bones and God gave them flesh again; the dead die to live again and rise
         in power for ballroom dances and ballets of cannibalism in luckily charmed luck,

and trusting bloodhounds sniff down and track snacktarget but we will not crunch,
         darling; we will not be powderized and ground into dust. flesh foolishly will guide
         the eyes of the hunter and splints like flint, chipping chipping chirping like birds
         do. whitewashed in admiration & adoration, the lily-valley tendrils will tangle
         around your spine and blossom bosom bloom into calcium marrow-flowers. shiny
         teeth crack open jaw, cobblestones click secret nothing-everythings. love letters
         with phallicied fallacies; promises tattooed on phalanx phoenical cremation of
         love or lust or ludicrosity or lemming-longjumps.

and orgasmic crackling will submit to skeleton-love in the graveyards of hearts ridden to
         beds. the bleachyboy will wrap vines of I-beams soil rushed like scuba, equestrian
         pockmarks daydreams, the All-American wetDream- mountains of vulgar cash
         writhing and wriggling in orgiastic maggoty ignorant bliss. we will slide out of
         our flesh and escape the leechy businessthings and the sharks with their suits and
         the worms with their contracts in versace and the conglomerated magazines
         whichhavebecomethedevilsbible and daytime talkshows are satan's masturbation.

the peacenik platoons were handing out licorice rape, and boho boohooing bleeding
         hearts will hand their opera tickets to the rich and corpulent antiGhandis as they
         devour layer upon layer and excrete deficit of love, deficit of support, deficit of
         surplus, deficit of judgment and traintracks- the TRAINS the TRAINS who who
         who will keep your wallet safe, boys, where will your money lie?

six feet from fingertip to fungus will squirm the gnashings and gnarled knotty bones, the
         tangled ribcages and pomo confessions of certain uncertainty for lovers to dangle
         from blind-eyed and wild-driven. it's easy to use words to shock people it really
         is, but to really shock people in the most humble ways you need to fucking love
         them as much as you can, as often as you can, as unconditionally as you can. and
         blessed abstinence will bleach your bones and sharpen your teeth and widen your
         skulls. and this is a protest piece, thisrighthere this is a protest piece, but it is a
         love song- a love for peace and a love for you and a love for myself- the real self
         like the way i was selfized and made- and a love for God for love in love by love
         about love.

and this is a protest piece, but it is a love letter.

[nauseamfromrum]

i'm surprised nobody has commented on this poem. i thoroughly enjoy it. but i do think some of the overly ginsbergian elements get a little burdensome (basically any time you pull somethin like "blossom bosom bloom"-- it's gonna trip the ginsberg alarm)
yet semi-ironically, i think that the very image that part is from is the most wonderful of the poem/

and the protest piece/love letter ending is great. i feel like you are attempting to convince yourself as much as the reader that these words have power by appealing to the often pedestaled  "protest piece" and "love letter" category, when in reality it is true, you need to love and otherwise act on the words or they have no power other than shock value and distraction.