The Crispin Glover Band or Poem accepted for publication in an Oregon Zine named "Twisted Nipples" just before they went bankrupt

by quasimofo
The Crispin Glover Band 1:44 a.m.

The Hamburger Joint: “yes, I’d like a cheeseburger and chocolate
milk shake”…all the major philosophers took a lunch-break
leaving me with croc-casserole and an empty ketchup bottle of mustard.
Some 16^th century skeletons emerge from the newly vacuumed carpet,
chase me, string me up hand and foot, then cart me off to the fires
where my maggot flesh burns and is ripped open by tightly held
pitchfork prodders…“do you want home-style fries with that, sir?”
The Place of Sideways Loop Doors and Melted Powder Water:
he rises out of his cot, stretches, yawns, and walks off the edge
of a mountain. ferreting, rescaling, snaking, dogging, ding ding,
hey that’s unfair, why does it seem easier to express myself
in the English of a Frenchman?
[car alarm goes off reminding him of a pop song he heard the day
he ate twinkies and his dad punched his sister in the nose]…
Message on answering machine: “Ok son, it’s time to give up life
and play bingo on Tuesday night with all the old people.”
Crispin as Mathias Rust in Cropdusting Red Square:
with a Caligula body and the clean sheen toilet brushed smile
of a generous aunt, he welcomes me pronouncing words
in consummation: “Have you ever noticed how much energy people
expend performing unproductive boring things—I mean, they could
do something much more expressive and exciting, but they don’t,
for odd reasons.” [the plane swoops down amidst startled Russians
and drops a load of French Vanilla Coffee Creamer].
Crispin as Voltaire, my guide to Hell, in How is this a Comedy?!?
the Charon Confrontation: [Crispin clumsily adjusts wig, points a
twitching finger] “Look Boy! Don’t you agitate me—here’s a fiver!”
we step off the barge and admire a dry spongeous rotten nerf-ball
mini-universe cramped with epistemological loneliness escalators.
“This part of Hell is reserved for those bastards who as young
children shot hummingbirds with pellet guns.”
–uh oh, i think..
“Not really”, he says with a grin.
Crispin’s East India Mansion:
“would you like a Totino’s Pizza my friend?”
–yes please..
Some 20^th century servants emerge from the newly-christened halls,
cater, tend to my every need, and escort me to the den where
Crispen and I discuss man’s inability to reconcile with deep ideas,
the peculiarity of social withdrawal, and the utter existential
being of our souls.
“So, I’ve been meaning to ask you, would you like to join my band?”