my name is lou reed and i looooooooove death, destruction, pain & pain & money & pain.

by Tempest Miller

When I listen to The Black Angel’s Death Song,

I love to have my ribs shattered by police cancer-clubs or

shot with high-payload riot water cannons supplemented with OC gas solution.

And hopefully they hit me until

the counter-pressure kicks my brain up

and out as if on a bouncy castle or the ripples of a hot airballoon

crashed into the scaffolding on Cricket Wireless HQ, Atlanta, Georgia;

a sea-withered castle of white marrow for face I am chasing and need washed out

with a water gun held between a Parisian fake’s famous soles.

My brain and my jawed grill I have sat on a plate with death by chocolate

for Lou Reed to stare at and call kike.

I have written about the man in the occluded chamber of Hydra naked apart from Nikes,

who, because he wanted beauty like the courage

to cop-kill -

by which I mean wanted it in a vulgarising way, obsessively, Messalina -

shot his pink face off with an RPG on a sun lounger,

and the weapon was a skull-shrill

pulley for a fishbowl of salmon

not belonging in a head you could spot was Bosnian slaughterous.

Killing fields on a pillow in the breeze. Neck like a tree. Reluctant atheist.

You’ve got to have your brain coming out in the up-down

motion of paddling your feet in the Greek yogurt jacuzzi, on Christ I cross my heart

and slit my foot veins so help me Bob.

But he was petite bourgeois, his erection cranked by axial,

operated on a druggy gear train,

it didn’t have a police brutality denaturalisation that said: JE SUIS A PHALLUS TO BURN HOLES IN URBANITE EYES.

If a cop is going to hit your brain out,

better it land in an olive oil frying pan

or skewer the branch of a fig tree and drip out from there,

better the Great God Pan, or P-n, is

pattered with dengue fever an Egyptian

mosquito can transmit when he is just larvae. Evil is born into us.

At the interface of baby. Kick the baby down the stairs,

choose to choose, choose gynecology without an infantile epizootic hepatitis,

brittle like Wisconsin crab fishing and boiling plankton, lobster, shrimp, fish caskets.

I detest retrofitting childhood sociality onto the crimes of Diddy.

Better your rhinoplasty, Noah Schnapp cheek filler crack gruesomely. Shearling

primed to be ripped,

onto a Mitsubishi Galant, repaired in the Global Value Chain

at Torslandaverken, Sweden.

Brain bones may be dislodged, flakes of boned fish,

bones in the deep of the sea, zeta particles, underwater charge.

They go onto the Wendy’s chickenburger sauce. Frank’s Hot Sauce, McDonalds,

it’s like heroin runnnnnnnnnning thru my veinsssss.

They go onto the Denny’s window, smashed by the 2002 Japanese vehicle

afforded the “aha” moment of breaking the glass zipper, mutilating the axilla,

unzipping a Fair Trade banana kept in a supermarche basket,

splatters, charged, onto the self-order kiosk with personable interface,

“Great choice! Your order number is #0879.”

The charge of cop-killing is +. The charge is

“FUCK HOLY FUCK. MORE. MORE.”

And the murder is good if the mouth is cut

and the Husserlian lovebite, teethbite

on the heart muscle has reverb. Snag.

I need my ribs broken because I ingested a Samsung Galaxy S3

and will die of the infection in my sternum in approximately two days.

Or the murder is fine and fair if the pupillometry of brain slop secreted

or divergently pronouncing upon

the gauze of Nikes/Pumas paints bare ass.

I call a fishcake a fishcasket at the party for the puppies’ gender reveals.

It’s all on Hyrda across from Vouliagmeni

where Nico was stationed as lighthouse keeper in the 1960s.

My name is Lou Reed and in 1968 the Warsaw Pact invasion of Prague gives me a new

empathy for Andy Warhol’s genital herpes

when he feigns virginity.

Photo of Tempest Miller

BIO: Tempest Miller is a writer from the UK. His work has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, The Chiron Review, Bruiser, Swamp Pink, God's Cruel Joke and elsewhere.