Next on line step
down there are different lines people
We’re all fucked in the afterlife
either there really is a god
and he does hate the fags commies
and mimes
or there’s a different vial for each poison
so we won’t be together.
I mean if I were Buddha
I wouldn’t want to hang
with Muhammad he’d just
cramp my style.
Anthill existence fishbowl cadavers
Left side say rock right side say roll.
Leaving the cave won’t lead
to enlightenment
So keep your gun cocked
at a distance
don’t shoot ‘til you see
the tights off his thighs.
© 2009 Jenny Lam
--
Knot
You cried when you could finally
afford an egg sandwich
I mean really
an Egg Mcfuckingmuffin.
I’m too lazy to count exact change
and when the cashier gives me thirty back
and I drop the dime
I don’t bend to look for it.
The less you speak
the more profound you’re expected to sound.
Dust is seventy percent dead
skin cells
so from the grime on the radiator
I can mold
I mean really
an Egg Mcfuckingmuffin.
I’m too lazy to count exact change
and when the cashier gives me thirty back
and I drop the dime
I don’t bend to look for it.
The less you speak
the more profound you’re expected to sound.
Dust is seventy percent dead
skin cells
so from the grime on the radiator
I can mold
myself
a second self:
your scalp with the space behind my ear.
If you mouth watermelon to any song
it looks like you know the lyrics.
Nostalgia clouds every generation
but the world will end in 2012
so kids born after 1990 actually are extraneous.
Or maybe I’m just saying that so you won’t
have to see your name
disappear:
a second self:
your scalp with the space behind my ear.
If you mouth watermelon to any song
it looks like you know the lyrics.
Nostalgia clouds every generation
but the world will end in 2012
so kids born after 1990 actually are extraneous.
Or maybe I’m just saying that so you won’t
have to see your name
disappear:
line
lost.
Everything you know ends with me.
You and I, we didn’t choose
each other.
I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to trade.
Everything you know ends with me.
You and I, we didn’t choose
each other.
I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to trade.
© 2009 Jenny Lam
How is it that grapes
are a decadent luxury but raisins are evil pus bearers that ruin the best of
baked goods
Stop me from peeling
my cuticles—I have enough leaves
to stitch into a patchwork veil:
noose it round your neck
It matches
your licked shut eyelids.
Do your dance Caravaggio boy
Bleat your banshee beats
to a Weimar cabaret vibrato—
I want to feel your teeth
scrape the chalkboard.
© 2009 Jenny Lam
--
--
Fit
You used to lock me It
was the only way
in a dark room you
would
when I was too small stay
silent
to reach the light once
you
switch. returned.
I’m still afraid Liar.
You
of the dark. love
yourself.
© 2009 Jenny Lam
--
Doll
Can we assume that Jesus’ favorite Beatle
will be the one to die last
cause I hate that Macca ebony ivory
bitchery. Not when bottle blonde
pop divas string living geishas
around their necks—
Collect all four
get some
Aztec dentures—
or pit the platinum Bride
against the schoolgirl woman
with blushing knees
and super-glued eyelids
while clumps of raw fish
slide down their chins.
© 2009 Jenny Lam
