Steven MinchinSteven Minchin is something some guy said about him in a bar some night.


At the Hand of O’Heaney

Diver One! Diver One!
Down at a swift
rush of gossip
Page Six! Page Six!

(we love [spew] it)

you old queer bidding
on rhinos talking to plastic
alligators making black boys
go down on bananas
creating a church
to mini muffins

Diver One! Diver One!
You’re thought
to be frail
Obits! Obits!

(you’re on [to] something)

you’ve already drown
but keep steering us
with gaseous bubbles
floating up through
the Grand Ol’ Drink of the South

that bloated man
that straight-

beaten up
with a throaty

(so [,] many don’t understand it)

you clearly have said that
it’s the ones
that get it
that get to get along

Diver Down! Diver Down!
material and mockery
you’ll be

(now [another] go around)


With Juke On Me

[HL wants to know why I’m not looking at art.  But HL
didn’t even know where she was….El up the street.
Juke and I were dotting our asses with sandstone, and
that’s why.]

Shorts in the malfunction, after claiming to feel Burroughs
and lusting for Gonzo.  The pills weren’t present, nor the neon.  Chapped lips were in
abundance and begging to worsen their condition, manifest the sense that was not being fed
with the reds and lights.

[Never listened to Confusion Is….
alternate feed tuning back]

Juke’s making himself a new sensation, leaning in on the greatest communicator- taking it
whole while the world knows- under the desk and filling the room, kinetic short pricks shout
him as they roam.  He’s cramped and always in
motion, driving these fingers.


Swallowing Poseidon

The God of the Sea makes me
think of you, as does a dead
Shelly Winters.  Last week
your cinecall drowned me- called
me your future leather daddy- wilted

I wonder where your taking
your epaulets and bad tie;
who else you’ll taunt; who’s the next
stop; if you still taste the same.

The chaps neither of us have
are waiting, still.  So stop not
making my pocket shake:
call out some deity,
cinematically flood it- start me