Nicolino Teixeira | Fine Tune Up and Out & More

Fine Tune Up and Out

(a part)

good morning

inside the moon is an english muffin

and inside a fantasy machine

in secret

i just beat the blade

sis prepares her masquerade

and there’s mama and there’s marmalade

so there will be an english muffin in the moon toasting

and tugging

and i will be plugging

while papa is using a level one

papa is waning

waning then waxing

bodies for both

and weaving says mama

haze in the bathroom

sis is waxing

waning without the blade

mist from the kitchen is caressing

i am coming

to see mama and her marmalade

standing firm

sis must be knowing

kept hostage over link

sis is not eating

sis is waning
papa is eating

scrambled eggs and sausage links

papa is waxing

papa is wanting

sis’s english muffin

papa is getting

then papa puts a blade to his butter

but her

why not mama made?

i wonder

mama made sis

but sis means business

sure as papa

they will be leaving

me and mama

alone with the phantom faces
inside the walls of the house

good afternoon

inside the cloud there is the soul of a wedding dress

snowy and unique

hovering and covering

i am watching the television

mama is ironing things out

sis is heaving

mans machines

the iron steam is pressing

over all the guessing

and there’s mama’s mind obsessing

busy with business

i am a machine

i am receiving only static

we are pressing buttons

mama is sucking up split ends

everything is rather ironic
but now i’m too busy

with my head under dresses

playing with myself

good night

inside the sun is a chandelier

concealed

by dressing

what’s behind the walls

i switch from morning to night

setting the rising mood

with flashing light

table is dressing sis is setting

mama’s pushing buttons

setting the time

with stereo cooking

sis and i are dancing

together

to rising notes he couldn’t hear

work must be heaving

papa is not here

papa is plugging

sis is leaving

mama and her minuet

chandeliers from ears

falling from wax

the dimmer is setting

sticking to photos

sis is dripping

memories of mama proud

sis is using a dryer

sis is in bathroom with rollers

sis is setting

papa is back

i am watching

the wires behind

merging shadows on the walls

papa is rising

yelling about his business

papa can eat a machine if he pleases

it is only his business.

how bout a minute?

i wonder

i have no voice

i hear lullabies of the night

papa is crashing

papa is setting

pillows are unplugged

the phantoms are watching

there’s mama and there’s minuet

the rising haze from a cigarette

and inside the wall is an outlet

i am watching myself

washing my mouth out

with different stories

of greetings in the sky

I’ll never hear the ending

Random Acts of Advertisements

Lines of alien flags breathe with the wind.

Weather decides whether structures rescind.

Bacteria born and apes had an heir.

Cities ape mountains that kiss the frail air.

Clay heart of country shapes the spirit’s core.

Controlling bodies is militant Corps.

Crusts of continents rape lands over bread.

Land lords farm and harvest heads to be bred.

Cannibals live and primitives have passed.

Hidden voices still sing songs from the past.

Fools can play maestro and move human herd.

A word is a word. Depends how it’s heard.

Those in high places see ways to plan it:

People and puppets on pupils’ planet.

Pupils search for string which all things are tied.

One pebble causes the fall of the tide.

Out of nothing came systems which have whirled.

Bright golden coin blinds heads of the world.

Puppets need stars to be part of the whole.

Stars are just puppets circling a black hole.

Seeing through crown hollows is a skilled feat.

Scoring formed valleys — depressions for feet.

Twin Peaks of paradox points taunt young seeds.

Price must be paid before any ego cedes.

Some got on top by whom (not what) they knew.

Injustice is old. Repeating is new.

Stone Age reality TV’s seize on

Pupils, working to catch every season,

Instills illusions of need to scale stairs.

Voids hide behind pupils’ discontent stares.

Must have love to evolve, but fears incite.

Accepting time’s home is a rash insight.

One grain of quicksand, amongst all is one.

Each point to open when an end now won.

Same fate for all despite parents that sinned.

Empty space gone with the wind.

National Geographic

a factory ends up in a sealed rectangular box. everybody with everything has a box, but no one will ever understand me and my relationship with the box. my eyes are stuck to this box while energy waves groove between us. i am transparent. i am alone. adoring my extraordinary box. i want to think outside the glow of the box. think about what it means to be inside the box glowing and be extraordinary because i face so many ordinary boxes every day. the box is a window. the view from my window is of someone else’s window. i charge my box that i bought because the box charges me. i turn the box on and it turns me on. the box leads me on. the box is my teacher. it taught me facts first like do not go to jail and do not have unsafe sex and do not smoke and then morals like the golden rectangle. in school i learnt how to fill in boxes. i wrote all my spiraling thoughts down within four gloomy corners of a spiral notebook and my teacher taught me the box is my golden ticket out. this was an illusion. like illusions seen in a box. just like all the illusions of myself developed from a box image. we all live inside boxes and i live alone inside mine. we cannot see through walls without windows, but we look right through each other spiraling and do not recognize each other’s allusions. validation will come from a box. my relationship with the box is long term. i am committed. i will rest in a box as i step inside a frame inside a room with screens. the box flashes me to sleep if i do not think too hard about screens keeping me company. i can dream of flying through corners of the sky. from above i see many boxes below. countries. bonded to boxing. i see fields of rows inside boxes. i see dead boxcars in fields. i see box cars moving down rails. i see rows of coffins on roads. i see shoed floors. i see merging box lines. two of a kind. intercourse between tolled roads to boxes. life bound to a land of microwaves traveling to new cases in trains of cars. air conditioners. ice boxes. cubicles. fill out the boxes. windows to other windows. identity in a box. checks in boxes. checks in mailboxes. cardstock. envelopes. stamps. flags. cardboard cutouts. smoking cars. parking. lanes. moving. packing. collections inside boxes. cellophane boxing tape. albums. books. board games. video games. cartridges. boxes for sale. days with limitation. dreams from boxes. packaging. days with imitation. calendar days. boxed out. barriers. bars. wallets. walls. ceilings. floors. buildings. boxed in. elevators. smoking chimneys. cages. bodies. cells. building blocks. houses on blocks. houses with screens. windows to other windows. company squares. shares. smoke stacks. signs. letterheads. bored heads. punching ahead. headaches. behind bars. framed. licenses. catalogues. waiting rooms. pill packets. candy wrappers. condom wrappers. cellophane wrappers. cigarette boxes. matches. smoking bodies. bodies in boxes. armies of bodies. military boxes. crates. cartons. cartridges. smoke screens. likes of. prisons. cell blocks. paperwork. bodies at work. trapped. bodies alone. boxes with screens. bodies in boxes facing boxes. bodies at work. making bodies of work. headstones. batteries. celluloid. boxing days. fighting blockage. gift boxes unwrapped. lottery tickets. more and more magic boxes. mysterious mirrors. allusions. explosions! i have a burning love for my dream box. i am nothing without it. i am a collection of boxes behind a screen, with much heaven on my mind, traveling away to boogie-woogie galaxies, cornered, in my box, that’s a spaceship, built in an ordinary life…

Nicolino Teixeira lives in NYC. He is the author of BLUE 4 U (Dream Pop ’22) and blogs at muppoems.blogspot.com and other platforms @muppoet