a bible in a bath of bleach.

Hi MTV, I'm Timberlene and welcome to my crib.


Batman V1 #015
November, 10th 2012 @ 10:13 / 556 / Permalink

Google Poetics (via millionsmillions).

Alice Neel, Frank O’Hara, 1960, oil on canvas, 34 x 16 1/8 in.
Why I Am Not a Painter, by Frank O’Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well, for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. “Sit down and have a drink” he says. I drink; we drink. I look up. “You have SARDINES in it.” “Yes, it needed something there.” “Oh.” I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days go by. I drop in. The painting is  finished. “Where’s SARDINES?” All that’s left is just letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of a color: orange. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a  whole page of words, not lines. Then another page. There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life. Days go by. It is even in prose, I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven’t mentioned orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.

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The Jack of Spades

Men were kissing women’s hands
in the cafeteria.

I laid on the ground with
lemon rind.

I saw a way around
the mound of peppermint.

The forbidden word
stayed up late
fortifying tables
with a staple gun,
while the real table
was uploaded
to nowhere.

A net
somewhere in the ether
catches every frog
that played the jack
of spades.

Winter: Calm


I felt.

For the first time,
since June.

I felt like,
a hopeless riot.

Like an ice cube,
melting and forgotten
at the bottom
of your cup.

Like the whole
of my existence,
could be buried
and remembered
only in passing.
A memory of
something that
only took
breath once, and
gave nothing.

I felt.

November, 10th 2012 @ 10:11 / 107 / Permalink
"yeh go do it
honk, scream
uhuh yeh—history
blue clipped moments
of intense feeling."
Amiri Baraka (via uutpoetry)
November, 10th 2012 @ 10:10 / 22 / Permalink



I dripped a bucket full of tear
formed ocean of upriver flow
tears didn’t drizzle, it rained fear
by attaining love in its inglorious glow.

I am cut by a glittering gaze
of pretty disingenuous saint - alas I’m dazed
by this inimitable disaffection of beaut
heart row, dewed, and savagely brute

I found bride in bosom of the blue pacific
she has no memory of all she has taken
I paddle all night in Path of a stormy Atlantic
all to be taken and forgotten by a gustily queen

A Disjunction is a Dynamics

A disjunction is a dynamics: ionotropic, yet sensationless,
the misdirected cut-up ponderousness
saving multiple black capes
that stride forth, in ribbed-silk sensitivity,
black and white as nuns.

Every nation-state has something that needs disjoining—
if only we allow the little scales of never
to lord over the fields in bad times
clenching their fists.

The burning bush of our sexuality
is balanced like a fan
on the airborne knifegrinder of Circe
who guides the thread of reflective gingkos
in a theater right above me,
the last hands
that touch Monday
with spacious pores.