Every night I dig
With my toy shovel and pick
Hoping to hit
The Bottom of Your Heart
I unwrap the foil
At first sight the soil is bright red
The heady aroma goes right to my head
But I keep digging
Holding out for the dark part
At the center of the bottom of your heart
by Aesop Rock (for evan)
Who’s that walking with a hole in his head?
Big bad Bazooka Tooth, I came to break bread.
What’s a troop’s recipe for treacherous times?
I tell ‘em…… ah fuck it, yo
I pull the elephant tranq out of my neck,
gaffle a tank,
count up the chips,
wrastle the fangs off of my fist,
flood a little soldier blood over the ogre acres
on some holiday in Cambodia with motor home appraisers.
Pagans fade into the kodochrome now,
later with a lid to brow staple
revisit the cobra loading zone.
Molar foaming
but he hold his own wound
cauterized by the Zippo he had stole that afternoon.
And my dog tags jingle by the monster island heart he built.
Grew up with a Jug head crown tilt and tardy slip.
Be all you can be just never soothed us.
You lost me in that part about scrubbing piss with a toothbrush.
Holler scum’s lullaby.
Live from the ultra-fly
sham city bunker where the coldest cults multiply
alarmingly. Hush little baby, timeout.
The black market mockingbirds cannot sing a lick but lean to peck your eyes out
of commission with love,
out a tradition of wraiths
pick on the visions that buzz,
bet on the kitten’s escape,
solder the piston to pump
out a veteran amplifier.
And magnify through the same lens that set the ants on fire.
Flush the Muppet hootenanny. Who could fancy honor circuit
when the circle’s every duke is claiming Trooper, scoop the food in pantry.
Ante up, stupid.
May delusion feed ‘em roofie candy and pry the gold out of his tooth when laughing.
Pocket all you can now.
Block and lead the lambs down
to the cold cutlery outfit.
Slaughter beef and cow tip.
Pour the chief some fountain soda,
motor prone to pen the holy opus
and pry this monkey off the scoliosis.
Who’s that walking with a hole in his head?
Bazooka Tooth, Gemini, I came to break bread.
What’s a troop’s recipe for treacherous times?
I tell ‘em fast cars, danger, fire and knives, lets go
Fast cars, danger, fire and knives… (3x)
I got her majesty Athena riding shotty wide-eyed
Its like never mind the bullocks. (Fuck)
Like every other week these hipster tabloids jumping on and off my sex pistol’s bullets.
Like every other week he spins the bottle.
Like every other week these fucking fanzines forget if they spit or swallow.
Too bad your inner sheep never forgets to follow,
cuz my inner greed to feed your hate for loving us is hostile.
Fortunate for me it coincides with what comes natural,
so the mongrels that I run with turn the fuck yous into fast food.
Like a little freak sick of the 3 o’clock bully knuckle dust, nursing his last shiner, finds the shoebox in his mother’s truck.
Tomorrow’s extra curricular punching bag
will finger daddy’s widow maker out a brown lunch bag (bang!).
This is where the hunch back
snake oil peddlers
stuck under the burgundy sky of spaghetti westerns
tend to bubble up.
Weathermen huddle up.
Today the son of one too many ‘yes sir’s kings his checkers,
watch the double jump.
Back with a platter of hot leeches that’ll drink up-every bloody drop down to the last diseases,
it’s A-E-S-O-P-R-O-C-K,
the peak twister.
Defender of the son of Vaughn Bode’s Cheech Wizard.
I used to pray the treatments got easier with my aging
like serotonin weekends was merely comedic hazing.
Wrong, but along his travels located the key to world peace:
“kill every motherfucker but me.”
You cool with that?
Cool. Bang.
You?
Cool. Hang.
You?
No?
Uh… bang?
Cool.
Sorry, dog, rules are rules.
And too long have I followed yours. I’m trying to get them years back,
and walk through every cipher with dynamite in a beer hat.
Who’s that walking with a hole in his head?
Bazooka Tooth Krueger, I came to break bread.
What’s a troop’s recipe for treacherous times?
I tell ‘em fast cars, danger, fire and knives.
Fast cars, danger, fire and knives…
I got her majesty Athena riding shotty wide-eyed
by Phillip Schultz
and there are a lot of leaves already.
I could rake and get a head start.
The boys’ summer toys need to be put
in the basement. I could clean it out
or fix the broken storm window.
When Eli gets home from Sunday school,
I could take him fishing. I don’t fish
but I could learn to. I could show him
how much fun it is. We don’t do as much
as we used to do. And my wife, there’s
so much I haven’t told her lately,
about how quickly my soul is aging,
how it feels like a basement I keep filling
with everything I’m tired of surviving.
I could take a walk with my wife and try
to explain the ghosts I can’t stop speaking to.
Or I could read all those books piling up
about the beginning of the end of understanding…
Meanwhile, it’s such a beautiful morning,
the changing colors, the hypnotic light.
I could sit by the window watching the leaves,
which seem to know exactly how to fall
from one moment to the next. Or I could lose
everything and have to begin over again.
There is no opaque, different, inner you who can fly
No secret ghost wonders more than you wonder why
But skin is just like a soul, anyway
& The soil came out of the sky
……
No thin red line hides between your brain and your mind in your head
Where it’s dark
But for those Kajillion crazy sparks
Dreams are not a separate land
Not even the Bar B Q stand
Moments don’t pile up like grains of sand
The second, minute & hour
Are really one big hand
Wherein the oneness made
A magic knot of viens
There is trash in the street
The street blurs in the heat
I feel weak, my feet stink
I gather all of my strength to smile at your smile
The gravel, the gutters
The homeless limp and stutter,
“Could ye spare some cutter, me brother?”
I want to smile at your smile
Because it’s worth the whole while
Every last mile
That I trudge alone
To reach your heaven-smile
Which is sweet, like a child’s
I’d swallow the Nile
To conquer the dragon.
(with your head on my chest
I forgive the big mess of this world
Hitler and Stalin were just in denial.
Osama Bin Laden has never seen your smile. )
(Mona Lisa, who’s old, was famous for her smile
Which was painted by a genius
Who believed that breath inflated the penis
The lips he painted are immortal, Like Jesus)
(Even Leonardo Da Vinci would smile at your smile)
My True Love’s a fighter
& when we square off
I can’t sleep for three weeks, six years
her child-genius voice rangs
Ha in ma ears
yet through the red tears
I can see she’s waiting
Yes, with her two cute dukes
up
Houses are made of trees
Lives are made of conflict
& your fantastic rack still speaks to me
In a language far superior
To any rendered here
Pristine Heaven, God of Fuck,
Is that your wet mouth
So near my ear?
I promise to swallow your secrets whole, & thoughtlessly
…These things that I cannot know alone
But only in communion with the shining
Luscious tits of my amazing woman
I won’t turn you into a siren
If you won’t make me dead
Please come back to my apartment
It’s on the corner of Dumb and I’m In Love With You
I have cigarets and beer
And peanut butter crackers
Please come here
Come back to my apartment
Remember when you were here? At my apartment?
It’s a boat in the trees
That I cannot steer
You are the wind in the sails of my apartment
Why won’t you settle down and come here?
I promise I won’t sing anymore, while you’re here
Just open up the front door of my apartment
Do not join the forgot-ments
In the callouses on my heart-ment
Get into your dilapidated luxury automobile and drive it to my apartment
