by: Richard Schwass
Cooker Gets First Hit
Audio on the way
Put your fishnets on Billy I’ll sell the tv for a one-inch balloon
He’s so ugly but I’ll do him for a hit
Cooker gets first hit
The mark at the bar
your everyday flit
Cooker gets first hit
Yank down your green afghanistan pants
Insist to kiss the addled twit
Cooker gets first hit
Slip off streaked white briefs
Straddle the bowl from which we sip
Cooker gets first hit
It’s a different trip with the spoon and spear
More of a generous mutual exit
Here at free-base cooker gets first hit
Your meltless lack of butter grace
Soon the mix gives up its tricks
Cooker gets first hit
The cooker threads his batch of knits
jackets a torso that just won’t quit
Cooker gets first hit
Where I’d lunch, a millionaire
purchase silver, rarified air, enforce my pornographic writ
Cooker gets first hit
I could really speak to you, your need, your loss, you’re almost crying
Just give me a minute
Cooker gets first hit
Your special treasure slipped, misplaced, a craven aspect to your face
If I had a child I’d eat it
Cooker gets first hit
Tight demand, hunched open knees
Pipe-shaft blows the bedsheet grit
Cooker gets first hit
Again and again we burn our baby’s blistered lips
You know your score. You know your limit
Cooker gets first hit
Sink repetitive insane
Swallowing folly without chewing it
Cooker gets first hit
My titillating theory is up for crit
The fragrant ether our pores emit
Cooker gets first hit
Inhale another place to get it
There might be a glitch in the safety-clip
Cooker gets first hit
Why did I buy this fucking shit
The pyre of the lapsed is carefully lit
Cooker gets first hit
Human faggots in a bunch
make for a fire with stink enough to immolate the witch
Cooker gets first hit
My blood pump stretched, is atrophied
flesh of my heart on a plastic drip
Cooker gets first hit
Smudged photo raw soul’s
cytoplasmic limit
Cooker gets first hit
A regiment of habit we hunt camps for the kill
In the ovens, against a fence, remember it. Remember it
Cooker gets first hit
Joey your body conforms
awkward to a desperate strip
Cooker gets first hit
Effortless paraphernalia joins
master chefs, their viscera chipped
Cooker gets first hit
Before we drop each other off
divide a final split
Cooker gets first hit
Ancient alleyways await
the spit-stain on your face from my decrepit spirit
Cooker gets first hit
At the bottom of the bowl, too centrifugal to quit
Agony and debt’ll soon pay their little visit
Cooker gets first hit
One suck, commit to years of sleep
for another hit
Cooker gets first hit
Adhered to gray sheets
suspend in smoked formaldehyde, extract our strand of sticky net
Cooker gets first hit
In a dream a proffered tit squirts laughing down a funnel pit
An angry wound with a cruel wit
Pissed-on pages in an unread book
I’d go back now if I could cook ‘cause
Cooker gets first
Cooker gets first COOKER GETS FIRST
gets first hit
Cooker gets first hit
Palm Ghost
A hand is reaching out from the future scraped by his summit ridge
with a boy’s bloody mouth in its palm his forehead bloody in the eye
center struck by a stone
thrown by his brother at Waikiki Beach
The hand reaches back from the dark and for what
Everyday ghosts emerge from the sea below a rainbow leis around their necks
An irritated mother smokes in a little kitchen in Army-Navy Housing and
the unfair race is on a boy running and his brother on his bike
Tumbled troubled rolling in a surf wash safe baby at the beach
Sleepless seas because the wind screams softly like approaching sirens in the bottom of the
night footsteps run up to the blinded window
run away again furtive up the concrete flight
like the slaps of a dog’s feathered tail on the bed murky dawn when she wants to go out
Gelatinous monsters refresh themselves in corners to absent themselves
to deeper light
return home in filth persistent braver narrows in the house crevices
caught in bitten fingers
Closeted with her retinue closeted at his game powdered cheek rotting teeth insidious
grey symbols ritual of orange waters unseen art unmade
site of anthropology survival past dreaming the hand comes from elsewhere
the knuckle turns in solace arms fold defensive on a beautiful chest
death advances anyway fascinates resistance
conviction’s residue rears again turtles snap at biscuits proffered
in the palms of lovely two-faced vixens
Richard Schwass is a 2008 graduate of the Masters Program in Writing & Poetics at
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