[Newspoetry] I'm gonna Win This Contest!!!!!

[William Gillespie]

9.9, dude
good form
excellent dismount


Sam Markewich 2 wrote:

> Soft Manhood Threatens Re-Elected Mayor of San Francisco
> by associated poet Sam "The Right Man for The Wrong Job" Markewich
> dateline 16 February 2000
>
> Today, Willie Brown, you made it off rich with all that mumbo jumbo.
> Riffraff selling scabied insiders headlines to your city.
> Yes, you could watch the immaculate barbarian take on the supple flesh
> of your flopping jello-belly.
> But, when you stuck your hand in the pocket to produce a fiver you
> pulled out a dripping ladle of green bile in its stead.
>
> Your soft money just got softer pal.
>
> Robert Blye said it years ago --
> The man who eats yogurt is the soft man.
> He's got no hair.
> He is the flaccid wallet,
> the wimpish sissy fussing over an avalanche rolling ever towards manhood
> at a vapidly alarming rate,
> threatening to hold back history's great climax.
> His currency is soft.
> The company he keeps is soft.
> It does not incorporate the primal scream of the homeless hairy man who
> roams through the concrete asphalt wood pushing a shopping cart,
> yoked like sorely crippled oxen ploughing themselves
> under with psychotic speed and drudgery.
>
> The man without a home.
> His sanctuary is his poetics.
> If he can't afford poetics let him live without spirit.
> Let him live elsewhere than here.
> Unclean,
> primal,
> beating on drum,
> hair on chest,
> hair on face,
> hair everywhere --
> even his cilia count --
> unkempt --
> brutal,
> hard.
>
> Riveting creature, smells the way a man should smell.
> Collective unconscious spreading out into exponential fungus under
> bulging toenails,
> a brilliant, upwardly twisted mandala
> forcing destiny's pain into malignant footsteps towards the wood.
>
> There are no dirty streets hewn from the fluff of marzipan rhetoric.
> No chocolate coated cherry truths.
> ONLY the blind can lead the blind.
> For only they turn sight inside, deep, deep, deep down.
> And swallow.
> There is nothing soft there where it goes.
> No.
> Not in a man.
> Not where he touches.
> Only the hard-boned, hard-wired, hard-edged pizzicato . . .
> "Grunt."
>
> If you, yes, you now, would come upon this news, would a poem not arise,
> not a stone hurled with the mute wind of the arrow of primitives
> towards your head?
> lay you out and knock you dead with the weight of its tone, the ebb and
> flow of its direct, penetrating, virility?
> the pointed ontology of its metaphysics?
> and the protruding teleology of its epistemologically bold-printed bald
> head, a crucible moving at flaming speed towards the four corners of
> this great paper trapezoid the profound fathers called America?
> Because America needs not a poem but a leader?
>
> She will tell you in breathy tones, through the famed four winds, the
> forcefields of the ancient wisdom which protect home from the phallus
> more than Monroe's doctrine ever could.
>
> No yogurt.
> No organ meat.
> No quivering fish.
> Nothing, do you hear me, nothing soft.
> Icebergs.
> A cold and mordant mausoleum, sanctuary to the dead.
>
> Yes, when today you made it off richer in the hundreds of thousands,
> Mayor Brown, no one knew the dogs you wolfed down one right after the
> other seethed with maggots like so many unheard of weights of conscience
> swallowed in choked peristaltic gulps,
> the deadened sound of rock-firm sanity pounding, pounding forever, muted
> against itself.
>
> As the lining burned into ulcers,
> exposed, the mush of your insides mingled with the four humors.  Maggots
> crawled everywhere beneath, coddled your skin into heatful lust.
> No longer holding back, your manhood threatened before the company that
> keeps you nestled 'neath its wing,
> you sucked the soft feces up into your anus, vomited up diarrhea
> uncontrollably for months.
>
> Last gasp for sanity,
> and there are dollar signs in your city now,
> as drifting off to sleep you awaken,
> a nightmarish sweat trapped between a line of verse and the business
> district.
> Into your armpit a single dollar bill falls with silent discretion and
> turns to you with a Masonic secret and malignant affability.
> The whites of your eyes role back into the fever.
> You know no longer insides from out.
> Has your constituency failed you?
> Into your pockets grows a flaccid mennace.
> The primitive warrior returns.
> Does this softness threaten your manhood?
> You gulp down a stone, sprout stubble and resolve the castration complex
> once and for all by adding butter to both sides of the bread.
>
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