Culture Provisions, [In Three Parts]

Daniel Demarse

she’s going to kill herself when

the heat’s gone from around her neck,
she’s going to live in the meanwhile

as fully departed from life to prepare
for that inevitable sort of confines,
thinking herself the freer in denying

life, much of her reason too askew
by now to figure out, that living’s the
whole vital warmth, everywhere, a fact for most

enough to be the last undoing of their addict tongues posed,
so used to readying for the pounce, plunging and suckling on the recent
odiferous PCP, wet as shit, hazel-taste, they wanting a happiness a lot

they had been working for for long, Moe the nut
upon losing his meth down the gutter, combing through the streets
to find a candidate maybe for a productive dick-suck for a few bags,

so, she said, she would
slice open his gut, I have a knife,
whoever fucking

guy tries to rape me and beat me, anyway, slightly funny to think,
but at least she’ll be armed enough to brave the cold to the
nearest dumpster, pull out from the garbage a dirty lunch,

I think of her fishing out an escape made of white nullity, it is she
looks out the window of the hovel to pause at that oddment knocking,
itchingly, at the sill, a satanic pitchfork prodding motherfucking the

ass of her desire, the little buggered,
pitch-black innocence of a smiley escape there, it forces her
to go on reviewing and inventing a hope for all

these invisible reassurances of permanence
that one could never feel if sober, that one if so and if boring enough
then wills to appreciate, maybe makes clearer

demarcations between enjoyment and not, but never feels king,
that one is king on the drugs no matter what, and yet that
fleetingness though blessed we are for having it

is a little fragment, a least facsimile of the grand, empty eternity,
eternity just removing itself as eternity’s dust, and endless escape by
ignorance of bounds to time, not their literal removal as the drugs say

to me sometimes, erhm, and all this if so the universe then a memory
and history a perennial buck, nobody to blame but blame put off, she
kicking meaning sulking like the stripped tin can cheated by

rust some places, and she runs into memory on the street one day
though and maybe shakes hands, the print she wants in her a
desperate need to print, memory tearful memory, yes, she is being

pursued, framed, this life a hoax, a struggle, a bad hand,
a mad sin entire, she believing all this on her anima
like a bad gangrene, escaping forever

from what ruler had always been
deposed, but then, surprise attack,
her zen at stake, she blasts into the atmosphere again

to improve her strategy for attaining
positiveness, and she taste differently the
loving blood of moments that cradle her while she’s high,

her in moments as if forever, yet she might will to see as beautiful
the passing, maybe after all the stronger is not the palate of one
the sober mind, unable because unused to it, with the taste of a rush

to subdue his black animal’s arched spine, yes, tell she the
damned stubborn leopard to sit down, really, and perhaps
that soon, sad crumble of herself arrest itself,

and impermanent eternity the permanent force we
breathe in a taste for the right zephyr to shoot

the last unettling moments of death by,
by the minute, because we can.

‪#‎waiverforimpermanence‬ ^

life’s ash broken off, shifting slightly
on the windowsill of the car that afternoon when

she parked the car outside the hotel to go inside.
apart we are pieces of ourselves but together we

make a puzzle she said once, shoving her fingers
each between mine but lovingly a tender thunderclasp

as if she knew some knowledge at that point
I did not: that I had made the cut for some

eureka for her and that my own return of this
clarity so long blighted by swarms of worms

would come from festering through the long bouts,
battles, torrents, again, but come all the same—she was,

still is, prepared for me to fight her, and I think
that’s why this girl asked me to buy her a knife earlier

“just in case I’m spending nights
on the street,” and the power of that,

it was like a train’s wheels too close to the rail
pulling in, distributing rectangular sparks everywhere,

illuminating momently this dank world’s infinite cave
to all the panic of her world, enough that desperation

is itself an escape. and she is a regular fount of joy to see
me and I her as we talk and of the same old bickers first

but lay out all positive cues to come like breadcrumbs, “no
drugs” as per, thickening an agitation, as we linger here

raveled out on the bed: subjects of how I am too fat, too
awkward, am deaf to her mostly. and the same old shit too,

hahaha cute and pithy sentences and hushed remarks on
the hue of our skin and then other things, like about being

homeless in the fucking dark with no euphoria and no
good people for miles for 60 hours or so in vegas, and how

one place for that [that is, homelessness] was neither better
nor worse than paris. we sat sick and vile with pleasure

watching bullshit on my computer, just lasting more
and more, it seemed, causeless, or an endless phase

of a cause, I don’t care if it’s all just to be [and how wrongly]
shittily observed by other stickshit Minervas

or Dollys, I don’t care nor do you
that after enough drugs change loses the

connotation of emancipation and becomes
what focuses you to pockets, honing

in on the intoxicating chatter of future booze,
brilliant day. but at least, but at least have me

matter to you enough to change your life, if even
for a day or two, enough, just enough. and

maybe that’s another way to be free, you know, to be
affected by someone, right? but fuck it: what is all

that and more I’d find in just watching you
from the passenger’s seat reap the frost from
the windows of your car that afternoon

‪#queenjunkie ^

My frail figure, supine
on the hospital bed. shaking as if

Words were – strains – tho – mind –
would go on meditating readily on

Your lovely rarity : just another case of
admiration, as those eyes they supply me w ample

Thots on yourself, who was meditating –
on something of great interest to the void,

I could tell, but I did not know : but
it really was, tho rightly I was sure it wasn’t me, a

Collecting/compartmentalizing: all these, these
ruminated-on wrongs evilly dragging like

Light that wants to breathe and which
is left to be that of a fluorescent

Bulb: to make ourselves looking
old, more wispily there than all there, splotchy

Our hands and faces, looking at each
other and responding : withholding

Incredible constellations, we surprise
new worn ones that we kno aren’t new, are made

Of the same walls of pain, infinite angles, dappled
walls of – drugden. – a hole was made in

The universe as – you said, “No more.”
told me that it was hurting you, as you

Held my hand – waiting, dreading
copay for this, and the inevitable

Question from – moms. –
that, what. how was how, wait, how

Did you get cellulitis of
the wrist ?? how did this happen,

Well : and how could I
say, shot up with a needle : well

Then, no more – handout – after that.
livelihood down to a few broods breeding

Utterances under his arm that fail in
the sound out of weakness, looking up to a

Face dipped in darklike worry. – o intelligible pain,
how deliberate, cruelly deliberate : ah, ah: ah,

Finally it is known!, so we tell
it to ourselves this time, expecting the same

Emancipation from pain’s plan: so, we learn
it ain’t so, we face our void in facing

Our lies: as to why we needed money, and
no, we weren’t so ruined: but : about its

Indecency on top of deliberateness, it is trash
on both sides of the bed, – rotting milk

In the fridge: so, so is, it is uh more
than ever before, naked as a constellation

Asleep, brought to the fore, of –
the weight of – ‘it’ – the elephant in the

Cosmos brought up carelessly during
a time when – others – were in a worser

Position, well, we have the truth
herded together like cattle or

Like it is an elephantine emptiness for
all to see, but a gambol really: heh hehhhh, a

Bunch of life’s stuff before the crowd, hah:
ass struck perfect by the light in panties as much:

In that damn roomhovel. journeys to cop
gone, but the ass just as pretty and

Fat : lost the game, but the game continues to claim
lives : Hoffman on the news, Farley once, holding

A crucifix in some hotelroom: so: so, I
had a talk with a few opinions and told em

To get lost : that it wasn’t – so bad ?? –
well dammit it was, and when you lose it

Using, ‘it’ gets harder to make a sexy comeback :
Come back!: if it did tho it would as quick

And painless as the struggle to get high once
home: hastened-to solitudes you used to want to be

Within, eager as shit to organize further what you
THOT was it. what you would breed lies

Of happiness from, hamsters of purpose in there,
driving forever to arrive only after hours of getting lost,

Tho: breathing finally after hours tho of cursing at missing
the vein : and then you are like a flourishing brood

given chance to excoriate yourself, as eagerly you
d.o, or o.d. – as if hoping it all made sense, alone,

You go shooting up your Meaning on soiled, soggy bed,
wishin more shit by the dozen, forgetting

Mammy, doubling and redoubling
efforts to forget, like it was ya kno yer job:

And by the end of this drugged escapade,
the whole family is in high dudgeon over

Your immediacy of glad-handing for money,
willingness to proceed with lies of wholeness for

The sake of fracturing that poor wilted thing
that is a flower in yer ass – or is not that – a

Couple words after the void, and then as the world
gets tinier time gets reduced to the restraints

Of day, the expected normalcies, the artless
and mundane, the languishing I feel out of all

of it, but like it were an altruism – suffering a giving bc
deserved : and one day the magnificent

Family platter comes to the table but
it’s really a disguise, and people dig in to

What’s the latest dish on celeb-death,
overdose, maybe speculating as to how quick

it could be – before reason gets chucked out of the
window – like ya kno – a penny from the empire

State building chucked from the top to half
a person’s vessel insentient : braggard,

The ass continues to be beautiful, flaunts its stuff,
especially – mesmerizing – when sauntering. –

And I remember the beautiful
panties drugs wears, by the bundle

We hasten to reduce the tiniest
world to an unconscious hiccup, so little

Behind it that it might never have
even happened, and this amorphousness,

Caused by the latest shot, bleeds
back out of the vein, or maybe putrid pus,

Or gross shit, unnamable, insoluble,
even w application of the finest solvent,

Unguent – or that yea – to stick morals together
like a lie perverted into truth, or something

That actually isn’t that : the point
is it is all circus, a game, or something

Shittily meaningless like that, but
drugs make such throbbing, infected nights

Shrink down further to the point
of vague worry, and eventually time is so

Small that ironically you are tortured,
and blood only to beat for what is already

A carcass, and the carved-o-marble times,
tho plenty, and tho they resume w each

Plucking of needle with nail like as if
it were a thing to strum, pluck,

Guitar : random thot : I admire these walls,
for theys shoot light more than heroin

And enhance the skin: ya know,
of your ass : smooth skin: I tell you, we

Can listen to Harry Potter© on
tape forever, or snuggle or something

All the time, just don’t do it again
and fuck up your hand : I dread

You being dead, duh: like what,
no shit: of course you’re handless self

I would love, but let’s be
Clear: Harry Potter© is kewl: that is all:

‪#hightimeto‬ ^