down with disease

     (for Todd and Trey and Bill Maher)
and in memory of hunter thompson

     down down down with sanctified holy ground
and stock market squealing, shit-encrusted
     nail files,
down with faith-based charities, anti-pot
     propaganda, the deathless looks on the
local news, the hungry eyes of the
     bar at 1:45 AM;

     down with shortwave radio pirates
& their coke-ruptured nose, down with
     faulty condoms & expired spermicides,
down with computer viruses, & every other
     virus, like technology, the NRA,
the GOP, NAFTA, and elitism
     DOWN WITH ME  I'm an intellectual
elitist
     DOWN WITH DISEASE 
down with me, down here on...my fuckin' knees
     dead as Hunter Thompson, baby, one more
anti-martyr, self-sacrificed to the
     Gods of Corporate Media
 
     bleed  bleed  bleed for free
yew ken bleed raht here awn me
     the survivors get fifteen and 1/4 percent,
so swear allegiance, one Disgrace, Under God,
     and no one's listening,
it's all Pernod, Hennessey, speed & cognac,
     black lungs coated with Persian dope,
the scream of glass coke straws thrown
     against the plasma-flat-screened TV
I can't afford so I ATTACK
     Jazz age flappers still rot in their
indifferent holes, the freezer's still
     full of kittens, someone's pissed off,
coked up, fuckin' FUCKED UP
     the boys on the corner are
fucking the curb.

DOWN WITH DISEASE  down with twisted, torched,
     slate-gray trees,
when we finally cross genders like
     3^rd world borders, suitcases lined
with fifty kilos of high-test, ultra-ego
     tonic, the tweeker love will be
godly, and we'll all have irreversible
     swindle insurance.
I love Love, and I love to blame love
     for all the crudity, skepticism,
blank-eyes and lack of crotchless panties—
     so fuck the weak, fuck myself, fuck the
beauty inherent in a starving pair of
     anonymous eyes,
and fuck yr dreams, be the disease,
     now
go to bed.

-AV- 4.3.04 & 3.13.05




[trotsky's veins]

for matthew mcelfresh

     the blue, loose wail
like a dull pickax
     buried in an old
man's head---
     “i broke my back,”
cried Frida,
     she was heavenly
but stank like
     moldy cabbage...
“I crept up on Ganesh,
     & skinned one foot,
& then I kissed the red clay
     & it strangled me &
my nose bubbled up
     with mud...”
she stopped talking
     and loped over
to the open
     tomb,
and drank the formalin-pyrite
     solution dripping
from Trotsky's
     veins.



© Anthony Vieira



Bio: Anthony is currently majoring in Filmmaking at the Art Institute of Santa Monica. He has won awards for screenwriting and has worked on numerous film productions in positions ranging from gaffer to director.