Yo!

Caroselli, where you at?

night out assignment

dance. dancedance. dance. CRAZY. CRAZY. CRZY. CRZY. // -ation

"dance, dance / we're falling apart to half time"
fallout boy. "dance, dance"

i. 3rd floor party and the lights are out

me, the red-shirt glory monger
fist full of flask, flask full of spiritus
mundi mind-fuck. I'm quasi-transcendent
as the line evolves. I want to fuck.

ii. at dino's, I'm

high
resolution and widescreen panoramic
shoe-gazing at her left tit, hoping for a contact
high.


iii. still at dino's parts 3-10 and the bolshevik revolution is happening in my head

horny as rose is thorny,
I'm tripping dance steps like angry fractals:
bitch, try to bite this -

i'm a fucking oyster and my pearl's a diamond.
Then it's like acoustic guitar, like agammenon

said fuck troy, changed his mind, took up
Love.

iv. phone sex

is the only way into a man, the only come
down worth coming down for.

His short breaths itch my short hairs
and my state stutters out, 'emergency'

before it all goes white, cut the sound
fade to black, cue the lights.

plague of onces

‘said “come alone!”
“yes!”
why put the party where the party don’t wanna go?’ – Future of the Left~

what I’ve got to show for it: three cigarettes,
gold foil, a business card, egg mcmuffin in the fridge.

calculus is a black hole on Saturday nights – equations
split, exponents degrade, cigarette ashes flung
from the wind dot my coat,
evil vertices, all of them, quadrangles pentagramming in
a bored mind –

statistics justify the premise. the justification postulates
the statistics. a night spent drinking, a night spent to justify
all the other nights you have to take to get this one.

this is not that kind of night. embers parabola around my head,
lobbyist haloes, but all I can do is bitch. later I discover that my cigarette
burns through my shirt. I don’t pay attention because my undershirt browns
oh so nicely, like a bookburning. I wish I had something edgy to be pissed about,
like the Tories or the environment. Seething rage can’t be

applied, like coupons at a supermarket. Kanye West probably
is playing connect four with Armani while drinking shiraz and eating truffles. I’m listening to Pavement by myself, watching people from high
school shoot fake buck with orange plastic shotguns. they cock ‘em like
men who know how to cock.

I’ve sworn off heterosexuals, damn them to a plague of onces. Like Moses,
surrounded by antlers and genny light, I deliver judgment upon the self-aware.
in my evil geometry, I diagram against neon, painstaking, becoming
the verb, “to deliver unto.”

Assignment: Night Out

in addition to the assignments we have yet to post (see "lepner's pond" and "the susan b anthony national historical women's suffrage reenactment at 2pm saturdays"), my assignment, in part inspired by such wonderful tunes as "jigsaw falling into place" by radiohead and "plague of onces" by future of the left, is to a.) write about a night out, drinking, in the style which your nights out are currently proceeding in (aka, i haven't had a night of dancing in a long time, so it'd be untrue for me to write about that at all), and b.) explicitly utilize a sample from a song that inspires your feelings about the night out, or is in some way demonstrative of it.

ahead is my personal response to the assignment. it should be said that since my manuscript stuff, i have only written two poems, of varying quality. so if it's bad, that's what happens.