Kamikazi Is A Common Cause - Poetry for the Lonely/You / by D.M. Jerman


If I had slept facing west. My head in the direction of the setting sun. My dreams would have been very different. Or north, or south. Or a Tuesday instead of a Sunday night. Either way at all there is sun trying at the ice in my heart.
There is the other mind growing impatient to broadcast its new imperfect chaos vision. All the leisure between sirens and ice cream trucks is the soundtrack to this new blessed canon.
"Inherit your peace!" it cries, "And in so doing, make us alive! Pull our limbs forth and back into artistic articulations!"
A whistle, a crashing window. The sounds of wheels. Wishes. Wastes.
Pulverize that ice and taste poetry. Tipped and preened and poked…
A loose nail is all inspiration and the messages of dogs. This open box that is not metal is a gentle skylight. A flowers distraction, or the fingernail moon. A knife or a wire to cut food or the sky. Under the bandage of the day is where they all wait. Highless. Trashless. Seeking shape manifest beyond a notch of dirty notes. Where wasps hide, or gnats homes. Mud or gore made up to suit tunneled cranium cravings.
Things pair, of course. Lips and shoes and clover comes twice. One memory always more than one and has couples within it. Sought and discovered neutered of desire goes the design of the chime of the eye.
Leaking pleasure, and with no course except to pull awake some drastic impulse. Some tomorrow thrust to bleed. 


masked kiss
of radiation
:a burn
:a beating

the way to
medicine becomes the mind.

composer, chewer of water.
ajar, distraction.

plucked thighs
calling into a basement.

the blood is seen from space.
the sun is a poisonous drink.

erase. erase.


ordinary like a roar
the blood tastes like sunshine
and the punch hot the same
no man has come to claim me
women only seek my face to crush it
desert skin as rusty as old tacks
the pitch of the night unyielding to stars
witness the line. the perfume of fighting.
my country evesdropping on my ache
where have the sounds gone wrong,
for now they teethe on rocks.


The conundrum of eaten lipstick. Things worn on the inside and saved for last. A mess- junk edges. Too many colors crawling and deep.
Deep like I can't sleep. Six am says 'dreams are over, Lazylush.' And so they are and it seems there's nothing I can do about it.
Their psychological manicures chip like salty dust under the weight of late morning lights,
Untaken pills are like a finger waving in my face. The collected lints of distractions are aggregate palsy. Disquiet me against the rerealized mental landscape comprised entirely of immature trash, minutiae, the details, the moaning edits.
The exits are a big picture burn. A self-immolated double dark meditation- mad either way. Constipated with interactions all tension and resist, strain, push, repeat.
In this way, pure luxury can be defined as a removal of form. The less youre attached and attracted, the freer you are- the more of truth of heart and mind. Less disgust, more gut trust.
Instinct my be the closest to perfect we ever get.


I don't associate
I never think its me
i don't like it i look away
it isn't there
it can't touch me now
it won't bother me
i look away


you read my palm
it was a promise

you ripped my dress
it was a poem.

you told me off
it was pure genius

you took me home
we make no sense.


Always looking for something to give up on,
to give away,
to lovingly destroy.

A slight perfuming of
self for another day.
of abstract decimation.

The recent oft seen presence,
usually by the side of the road,
of broken belts
has made the importance
of any willful act
just that much more clear.


this afternoon-

I have a Polish
beer to drink

and stories
to edit.

and thank god

for both of them.



twentieth century life, am i holding you back?
living for the cemetery is a bad thing.

I am trying to pay for cigarettes
passing creative trash.

Let this morning come to you. All bright sunshine and ice.
How the sidewalks glitter with the broken shells of alcohol.
Brilliant untenable remnants.

Call the woman with cancer. ask if she needs help going thru the mail. All those fucking mocking piles of mail.
She'll earn that nap today. Cancer, they say, is caused by unfulfilled dreams.

The view is far, wide.
I don't want to be there when the city gets up and rolls over. Her sleeping glossary is satisfaction, now.
But what else... then I get chills.

greasy chicken wing dried on the bones in the sun where the sidewalk glistens uncovered.

Townhouse ghosts slip into my eyes

and start me crying.


brand new blouse
the voyers girlfriend
makes up
brunette in the mirror
like a new doll
a touch french passion
dress and shoes are fashion
ligatures reflected
neither cataracts or character
red chips for buttons off
caramel shoulder at last
natural order
that old boy's world is over.


over skins and streets
Simmers hot city rain-
a sweat the world wears
on a weary pubescent spring.


tonight we leave for the city
our car spins sound and light
down roads covered in evening
suffering trust like art between us
generous in words. In smoke.



The bomb will come in the spring.
To not denies the romantic thing.