THE LYCEUM
We continue on each as the blessed with one wing
This diamond scripture, elicited by the non-pussy rain,
Is something so obscene that it cannot be milked by the caretakers of time
Watch your diving purse reappear in the walleted sky
Like a thesis carved on primordial salt straps
And wherever I go, the watchful, howling mint of ducklessness
Prescribes for me a jellied cataract in puberty
Lithe swine lessons on the market forces
Sexual and horticultural
Egress as a permanent tomb pretends to be the suspect
Just as joy eradicates co-conspiratorial rescue words
And no, I haven’t been able to get any of your money back
Picture that from your helicopter, powder puff
You’re talking right now with a startled tunnel
Nothing could be worse
Than having to make that body drive into certain cherubim
AUTOBIOGRAPHY WITHOUT AN “I”
The disturbing idea of being forced to finish chance meats
The next, sir, is a whole day for the prefrontal cortex of Cadmus
It might be as simple as driving our trucks together, in Irwindale
And watching sweetened corn flakes rise up over the foundry
But here come the ghost treatments, the ghost kits, etc.
And now I see daddy treatments in the haptic space of wellbeing and study
A malbec for only liking at night, pallbearer-style
So I escaped once, from this tree as well, resurfacing again
In a gay bar, in Acapulco, wearing a straightjacket, leopard print
The smell of a sewer coming from, well, me, stirring my pozole with a kite string
Thinking, Amazing, Sonic the Hedgehog, I can’t go on,
I must go on, who else’s action of the seeker, getting right with Gnome,
For you I will appear, a purpuric white spillage, a Hollywood insider
A recording of prophets is what happened.
EL HORSE
Usually I transform into a steak of my own soul, waiting to be free of lookalikes.
What really got me there, fam, was the fact that the shadow occupied a corner office.
Nah, I’m just kidding, dude. What you’re going to go through out there though… I’ll tell you right
now: I thought of asking for some help here, in this world, because of a sandwich that might have
lasted beyond its final moments, but in reality, bro, in REALITY, I enjoyed the misery of being
seated at the micronaut table, being seated among its treacherous corn pone delights. My night boars
scour the carnival grounds for me, searching in and out of the intermood tavernas, the diatribes, the
Mongolian pear factories. Usually, they gear up for water dreams, and I love them with all of my
tantric and oblong vision. The fish of the done:
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The Sponge and the Spoon.
NIGHT SCHOOL SHOOTING
I’ll show you my scary summers, all 23 weeks.
They’re called The Stepmoms: I used to wear them
back when it was cute. These ones are different though.
The product is a little off. The body doesn’t even know why.
The milk is actually see-through.
I was just half-a-guy, and time was all over us.
How much to plug in my olive green sex toy?
The liquor stores in Los Angeles;
and all the guys who work there look like little liquor store partners.
Nicaragua and heart attack.
Telepathic windchimes. I just decided.
Tits so big they produce enough content.
Gasolina.
LOSARC RAAL is not Carlos Lara. Raal was not born in Chula Vista, California. Raal's first book, No Material, is not forthcoming from Black Sun Lit in 2023. Raal does not live in Los Angeles with wife and tall son. He has never heard of Nomaterialism.