Grove of Offal
Frantic coupling undoes the sneeze.
Fairy warmongers fucking flowers
Into solemnity offer a get glitch fix scene.
It’s a dead wall we’re waking into.
Snort ramshackle clubbing for fun
And weakly scandalize hubristic satyrs.
It’s a final composite terrorist throwing fetes
And toasting tenebrous regimes.
It’s a fun hot dog
That customizes your wretched life
Into an artful textual putrescence
Willing to eat absolutely anything.
Baby Death Wish
Overactive pregnancies storm the organ house,
A recital stripped bare by practiced release.
Increased demands slam into megaphone reissue
And splay in a juvenile congress of blindfolds.
Sore eyes grow in water, shaking hands staining
The lovely swimming pool of generalized affliction.
Walking meditation energizes unrealistic imbalance
In the potential moonlit cornrows of familiar murder,
Judgmental and jealous in all its lugubrious brio.
I once saw a man full of men in sweet dismay,
A cartoonish etch bewildered in killing ambition.
Zeros punctuate the tainted landmass
In which I contemplate cola madness.
Search results issue a dreadful seduction
In which your divine buffalo painting
Drives me to itching, singular drool.
A litter of love lives line the squalor
Reeling into a distance like any other,
Soundtracked within an inch of its life,
Jinxed and nearly too cool for sex.
I think of the mind as a local legend,
Raw materials inventoried for sequels.
Grandiose vertigo possesses the capitalist obsession.
Friendly biker gangs supplant spoken wars.
Black skies and burning cash glue a single flag
To my waist and incorporate data-driven dances.
It’s a reconfiguration of death.
Burning cars produce iterations of spiritual longing
And god-faced gods disguised as toothy holes.
Poison the Well
Black guts string the hologram.
I am guarded in my chicken pox,
In all other noxious gospels I am free to please.
Cheap props inundate the atmosphere.
An entitled glance mirrors
A series of glam ossuaries,
Cellular deportations opting out
Of gory forays into deep red
Bottle feedings of influence and prestige
While my inner warlord contemplates
The violin and stands
In contagious birthday silence.
Variations of copyright infringement
Openly brag of methamphetamine disaster.
Loose tooth conjunctions
Experiment in pro forma explorations
Of shuffling junk and sagittate insurance,
Turning emptiness into an art form.
Forced entry mistook the staging,
A byproduct of ambitious envy and export.
Exterminators smoke the lobby
Of bric-a-brac and bind the cracks
Of chance trained squarely at your brain
Suggesting a season of extremes.
In a mind-erasing fit of pique,
Golden collusion deems experience short
And horrible, a catapult of pornographic hassles
Burning raw tunnels of body odor
Into the annals of academic clucking
And other predictable nightmares.
Brad Liening currently resides in Minneapolis. His latest collection, Death Salad, is published by gobbet press.