Pullapart
by Michael Pacholski


Rollins keeps screaming
nothin’ better to do
and I keep snapping my head
back and forth alone
on a grey Wednesday
morning. November. Bare trees

screen like a devouring mouth without a morsel

cursor blinking and hopping and pogo-ing
Blank
blank blank. Take that!
creation. You zero – me won.
Black Flag machine gun shot you. You dead
No writing, just death

Rollins bursts veins all over vinyl and ears
sears adenoids, suspicious of quieter poetics
he self-loathes and prowls loudly, bashing my interior
and I keep letting him
Poetics of mine regards hummingbirds’ million vibes
and spaces without waves
but now it’s pogo, punch, slice
living room air
bashing and orgying
old metaphors and methods to ash

why?– but for the pull of music
the pummel and crash and crunch
death of foundation (die, die foul foundation)
the gimme gimme gimme (I need some more)






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