The White Man fucked my son.

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November 1, 2014 by Wayne.

Gnashing teeth stop the tongue from saying:
fuck off naturalism; fuck off post-structural,
post-derrida, post-zizek dematerialism
fidgety tao lines fading and shading
404-ed thoughts of her hair in its
liquid eyeliner black
i can be your high school whore
in the backseat

The key is to reverse-sear.
Granted, it isn’t as revelatory as it is with beef
but it still works a treat here.
Marinate the cuts for an hour in rosemary, oregano,
olive oil, paprika, some other things I can’t remember
Oven or sous vide until it’s at fifty inside
Sear at high heat a couple of minutes each side,
finish and baste with butter, but it burns at 200 or so
so just be careful

Clacking teeth in the crackling frost
the spiderwebs creep their way across coated windows
feet drag in thick shearling and rubber soles
surely these are unique experiences.

Ambition recedes faster than hairlines
car pocket change for temporary residence
disposable thoughts and lives
snap fingers to crumble
possibly to build laterally this time
(unlikely)
more likely a Bergson reform of the
virtual dimension of the past
Love: and now a potentiality can be
inserted into / withdrawn from
a past reality

Yuck. Let’s talk about something else already.
Oh, about that –
He came in chomsky promises of structural acetone
He came in the uprooting of alt-lit rapeboys
He came in the adbusters’ occupy
He came in 12 soldiers of the loudness war
And he came in my son:
black-haired, white-blooded, synapses firing
signals of anti-pop and imported folk
He came in my son.

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