Bugolgi Apparatus

 New Rituals As phones stopped  ringing decades ago  and people we love have mostly died off  we make new rituals  to mark our time on this rock  taking an inventory  of the flesh  finishing the book  we were distracted with  eating things  we’ve made ourselves  remembering cookies  by grandmas departed  staring into the mirror  until it smiles back  avoiding news  while playing back  songs we’ve found  that tickle our heads  and we hold  that hope that love  finds us again

A review of work from Post-Punk Monk:  Hit Me

our finest work etched on its walls our sincerest tributes screamed in its stalls judgement of the morning   comes down to haunt   with last night’s choices   lost to the moment politicians’ faces in the light of day world’s situations against the love we’ve felt all twisted together splashed and passed out in time for the morning   train smiling once again

  The lack   you don’t remember  what you’re missing  only a diffuse pain  in an area it could inhabit  a desire  you can’t describe  nostalgia for a place  never visited   missing someone  you’ve never met  as memories  are replaced by media  you accept this feeling  as a sort of poisoned ambition it fuels you  and you’re not sure  how you feel  about it 

  the gods are back   when things are this ridiculous   there must be a reason   if you drank the tea leaves, then   what are they trying to teach us   into the deep end   where there’s less poison   concentrate on good things   hope’s a deadly weapon   I take your gesture sincerely   even when I have no use for it   work it into pornography   preserved forever in latex   look at the bloodshed   look at the fashion   blended together seamlessly   in a very tasty salad   holidays attack us   suddenly nostalgia grips   you asked what the smack was for here’s a use for it  

follow the line it   wraps itself around   everything’s rubbing now   it’s all shiny take your time   spinning it in mind it comes out thick  smoking honey keep on writing stick it in blood   carving your thoughts   out of the walls keep on writing  till you break your arm   then change hands   and do it backwards

  The Golden Bough   why do we have to   sacrifice again   rains don’t come nothing grows   you only know   what the corn knows   gods are angry take off your clothes   squeeze betel   on your face   rub it deep   into your skin   kill the bull drink from the head   feel the spirit   feel strength   why do we have to be   so primitive   these are the times   in which we live

The loneliness of the long distance writer you lose track of the time  do you want some of mine  you live to be read yet  so shy with a pen  these dreams are safer  until they’re nightmares  you put them on paper  to share with your friends  does it matter how it happened  what isn’t traumatic  somehow if we read it  it hurts a bit less  several more lines to go  then you’ll feel less alone  the irony’s there; deeper you go more like me it is 

  Purple Tuesday You’re a little slick   called out sick   tried Monday   and it didn’t fit   staring in the mirror   for a full minute   you take a pill   pop in a disc   it’s purple Tuesday   it happens this way   once a quarter   you need a reset   purple Tuesday   your personal holiday   shared with your   favorite planet   friends are gone   weather sucks   megalomaniacs   destroy it all   you can opt out   in your choice of gowns   six hours are yours   off the clock   purple Tuesday   begins to play   here to celebrate   no one else   purple Tuesday   the parade   starts in a cookie jar then goes straight to bed

I eat your left overs   knowing exactly what it means  all your spiritual power  flows directly into me  you are the chicken  I am the fish  crying like an onion  I chew your salad  I feel strange; transformed  with all this power vested in me I will sit in my comfy chair  and read another book