Creative Writing Student Nights (fragmemoir)
'And when was this? I dunno, I dunno:
like everything else, twenty years ago.' - August Kleinzahler
I
Whosis slunk next to the rastamagnet
dj booth, in a limabeanhued suit
jacket, limabean sleeves rolledup to
albino ancons, deployed for jostling.
II
My fucked lungs ached; gluttonous Venomised
pelicanbills. Cig o' no mercy, cig of life.
Serpivolent smoke is nicocreaming
ceiling of this dive Dasein dosses in.
III
Male Black Widow Complex boings in my brain,
as the vogueress exits conceivable zone
of address. Yet she cigawrenches
my stalking thoughts across the pumptup ballroom.
IV
Unrequiting snoutcloud siffles thru the
mousy enamel of her chuffing form.
'Light reflecting booster technology',
advertising Boswellox, scents her hair.
V
O those farouche salad nights following
swotting up in the humid Octagon!
Lemony orange lager puts a lid on
Male Black Widow Complex (th'always boinging).
VI
The rock club had delusions of grunger,
crush at the bar was lumberjack cubism.
Era of Jingajing-chicka-jing-jing Kurt,
anno domudhoney, left a zeitgash.
VII
& in the goth club, cadavolescent,
guylinered Xennials listened to
Placebo, but poo-pooed manginas.
Identi90s: genres, not genders.
VII
Blotto elbows on sudsy bar, I cross
streak o' piss a skinny tie overlays,
lanky barkeep's gulchy palm w/ nuggets
for latest in a lost count of snakebites.
VII
'I'm hyperboring as much as you!' quip I
to a cheetahthinking softdrinker.
There'd be no ruction should pickled franion
spill a Tab Clear Kaliber, H2ooze.
VIII
Yestreen's teen mums of teen mums, renubile
on the glash. For white wine or offwhite line,
simuladies sell whiff of a chance: QVCexy.
If salesgilfs surrender the goods: QVChy.
IX
Whosis, tatty-bogle Turok boogies
onto floor in courtship torschlusspanik.
But his limabean lines are jejune, even to
zirconia Zsa Zsas on the zhelf.
X
Whosis, limagreen last chancer, I'm a
aphroluddite l/ you. Both crud dancers
too, corybantersauruses. It's all
smoke 'n' mingers & we've got lunge cancer.
XI
'There's a party on the hillside, would you like
to come? Bring your own cup & saucer
& your own cream bun!' Friends joyride
home dead, so ride dead joy home alone.
XII
Yeah, I liked DJ Offroseanne before
the coward sounds of Simoncowellland
killed Cool. Taxi for the Corpse of Cool/
fetch your coat, love, you've pulled the Corpse of Cool!
XIII
Simian, simulacrum, something for
the weekend, sir? Or are weekends just for
something before ip dip dogshit
fucking bastard silly git meet the kids then what?
XIV
I crashed Crasherkid frabble, rocked to
DJ Shoppinghour feat. MC Niche Jah.
My Sax Pustules & Dead Kinnocks LPs
accusingly mouldered in my heart at home.
XV
Not my tribe, stereotripe sans the joypop
yet to unknown plexors I'd react.
Popliteal self on higher neon knees,
Mother Brown's got nothing on me!
XVI
Anansesum my fancy footwork fanfics,
Bez in blossom under tiger strobe.
Chemical cochise, call me 'Tarantulip':
totem, tarantism, bruxism, bulb.
XVII
Since the ears dot, aural laurels were hot.
& the beat authenticity lays down
is still the drill sergeant instrumental
that leads blind zeit pipers of all pied geists.
XVIII
Triptown beefnecks w/ classic legomen's
Acid House ecafs (before e-cafes
had come & gone), stag party on Mandy.
But their staring out napes still slowed my pace.
XIX
Limabean fugue, forearm flash, Dear John tats.
Nocturnal vernal mental of the comeup
becomesdown w/ no summerlove, bad trip
(Raggaman Kafka say 'Uneazee Dreamz').
XX
Taxi Driver cinematography,
neon printcest of clubland signs dimmens.
Pick up your tuttifrutti braindamage
- time to go home, hungover twichildren.
XXI
Crasherkids twatted then, dated now, now
grooveriders haggard. But time was the thud
of the club was the dub of arterial
Cherry7up, their youthful BPM.