Shambolic Shimmers: for Shane McGowan

An ugly motherfucker

indeed. Undentisted

tombstone teeth.

The eyes of a man who’d

spank Satan with a

splintery paddle.

His croak rabidizes

a Celtic punk grit

on the “The Old Main

Drag,” that lament

of a homeless, withered

rentboy. I cringe at

his slurry & growls,

but understand this:

ugliness has secret

beauty.

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The Definitions of Nadaísmo

By Gonzalo Arango

Translated from the Spanish by Jared Demick

The clearest definition of Nadaísmo would be: Nadaísmo is a mystery, and like all mysteries, it’s inexplicable. For those logical spirits who can’t believe without knowing, we offer those skeptics this cluster of definitions, so that everyone, according to their physiological & spiritual needs, selects the one that best suits their salvation:

Nadaísmo is a psychiatry applying insulin shocks to the Virgin of the Miracles.

Nadaísmo is a flower with a socialist sensibility.

Nadaísmo is an astronaut jumping off 10 stories to protest the earth’s dogmatic gravity.

Nadaísmo is a rocket competing with thunder to see who arrives first at the Bay of Silence.

Nadaísmo is the communism of free. . . love.

Nadaísmo is a racing atom sinking Rimbaud’s drunken boat.

Nadaísmo is like God, therefore it exists and nobody knows what it is.

Question:  What is the end of Nadaísmo? Answer:  Nadaísmo has no end because it’s infinite. If Nadaísmo had an end, it already would be over.

For the Nadaístas literature is not work, only play.

Nadaísmo is putting on its shirt to be alive.

Nadaísmo is a pessimism that affirms its faith in the Cape of Good Hope.

Nadaísmo is a Chinese regiment invading the Promised Land to plant rice.

Nadaísmo is the champion featherweight in literature.

Nadaísmo is a space rocket landing on Brigitte Bardot’s mons venus.

Nadaísmo is the metaphysics of boredom: “I smoke therefore I exist.”

Critics say we’re not rooted in the earth & they’re right.

Nadaístas are rooted in the cosmos. Now nobody has the right to be over us, not even the sky!

Nadaístas love revolution, even if the revolution kills us or puts us to work.

Sabotaged Grace: For the Replacements

The regulars were a no show.

So here we are, hairy, ragged,

piss-stained racket-makers,

full of too much Old Milwaukee

& taciturn Minnesota winters.

Invite us into your ears, your heart.

You can’t evict us, we’ll just camp

on the roof outside your sister’s

window, playing unsteady ballads.

Have you looked in on her lately?

Pain nests in her bones, in her

dilated pupils. Hell, maybe it takes

fuck-ups to recognize another fuck-up,

to offer grace that would self-sabotage

if it knew how beautiful it was.

A Long Way to Heaven, A Short Way to Hell

For Uncle Tupelo

LIQUOR & GUNS,

the sign says

quite plainly,

a ghost glow

in the blind night.

Your shitbox Oldsmobile,

not old enough

to be classic,

roots down

rain-slick

roads to nowhere

cuz there’s nowhere

to go. To be 21

in southern Illinois

requires cheap whiskey,

Black Flag guitar bristles,

& steel guitar balms.

You’ll discover LPs

of Appalachian

lonesome ballads

at the local library

& steal ’em.

You gotta steal

what you can

to get the fuck outta

here.

“Detroit Ruin Porn Fart Quake”

Grant-A-Wish – Fart Porn – Video Clip,

Den of nefarious activities, investigative journalism, and detroit ruin quake.

When a person opens there ass and farts into another persons face.

Detriot’s Blight Removal, bad news for fans of ruin porn.

After the earthquake, Sean Penn brought holy icons, dazed dog for surgical fire.

My new favorite porn star in Ex’s Hot Car Murder Trial.

……, So when you smell your farts, do you go straight into you hand or do you…

I wouldn’t sit there and pretend to know everything about Detroit.

In short, ruin porn hides more than it shows.

The Earthworm’s Lament: An Ode to Flipper

Sludge they dub it, a slothy

shit-sea oozing past

benumbed witnesses, CCTV

eyes with hours of unwatched

footage. But it’s cyberstalker

malaria writ large, nodded out

nothingness surprised at its

plenitude, phantom genitals

hovering over arcane mechanics’

manuals, tattered colons tattooed

with scripts for radio-plays meant

to entertain war-tired civilians

except no one understands

the tongue.