Two Prose Poems by Based Mountain


stave church in town

for a.d, the first to go all city.

yeah – he was the kind of kid who grew his hair long – listened to black metal on tapes – buried his forest green denim jacket in the dirt. a red twine knot around his zipper – so when he hit the head – silver snot thru bloodied nostrils – he could do-up his pants. you could never tell if he was on the nod or just agreeing with you. they found blackened kabbalah on his body – occult numbers in stick and poke – on woodburn by the station. in my dream he stood on a threshold – it started with escape – he smiled and turned away – it ended with his girl in black wayfarers – screaming in the ambient noise of soil.

I bought a nice thing and left the box in my recycling bin

but there are vampires in my city – i put garlic in my chain – is that the wind or is it cars. i stare out a small window – half open – not fully open but half. boots, soft leather, and synthetics all marching thru cracked teeth. my view is fucked by a low sun – yellows and oranges melt the sidewalks like peach ice cream. i’m still by the window tho. the one half open. unwrapping my driftwood pikes – the stars will start crying soon – or is it a woman – i look around. this room looks like a french prison cell – breathe slowly – one i saw online. it’s shit but i’ll stake any motherfucker stepping through that window. the one fully open now – not half but full. the one with screams and bloodstained drapes.

Three Poems by Based Mountain

a chinese poem at the foodcourt

thru forgotten parking lots & years of weeds crushed under tire tread, the almost automatic doors release a rush of conversation. i eat under asbestos fluorescents – i like broccoli and rice – the floor skuffed beige from basketball shoes. my friend likes kanye but not wocka flocka flame – likes twitter but not facebook – we agree on lovecraft though. the symposium with chrysanthemum tea sums $15.33 – fuck – at home my wallet falls from a bookcase.


spraycans or barbarism

so i had a few mongols around. i needed my hair braided. i chill with barbarians in mat-black nike airs, no laces. we hang out in underground carparks – marking up bmws with arrows – drinking clotted mares milk out of skulls – brown paper bag – talking about their fear of water. they keep dropping bankers though. dragging blood and gore and broken teeth thru my carpet – its pretty embarrassing. every time i turn on the television, all i hear is missing bankers and nothing about the 16th century tribesmen screaming for the great blue-grey wolf as i hose off human flesh under a dark and thundery sky.


where’s the exit for university city?

when i was on the come up i asked for more than a kraft macaroni and cheese (deluxe sauce). i said i couldn’t concentrate with the broken streetlight outside my window. – blink – “that’s not our responsibility” – blink – fucking bureaucracy. a girl smoking clove in black lipstick laughs out her pierced nose. i put down my textbook – drop a couple of codeine – and think of the smiling moon where life is cold but far away from here.