29 November 2005

Glossal Indices of Poltergeists

It kills you to know
Yeah, there is too much love
Yeah, way too much love
The last thing we need is to miss
The last thing we need is this

And it occurs to me that lies are a strange duality. And how often do we mix the two breeds of lamb and locked lion, this blonde cruelty and brittle seraphim? A quotient forms in lightning blasts, that flaring feathered rasp shearing crassly wide on open skies, creeps slowly in its gap stretching to frame the hazardous circumstances in which we play. Up tempo from now on, cheeky and cheer, rabid and manic under the holocaust lamp falling flesh in the crying circles. Its a tension on balance grieving, sordid and taled, and gravity just hasn’t yet begun to take its own weight into consideration. We listen anyway in the breach of shadowed shoes calling out as rooks do to murders, plastered like Venus phantom-pantomiming what our dust hands can. And it occurs to me that something is never a sin, the cover art a cape, and gold a whiffle of tin. Oh, I wanna have a good time, just like everybody else; take a spin and strip the tarmac that’s been worn far too thick from our hang-nail threads. Maybe our blessing's been blind bit of luck on warmer days, but there’s cheaper souls and barer winds sucking down our windpipes, lighting sulfur on matchsticks and threading bones in graves. That bleeding monochrome tune.
Subtle commissures, subtle pretenses, subtle submissions rattle on in, a prattle word train kept in tow, weaving the ivory reeds, the web-form deceit, the casket and tomb of our own. Its a heady headset radio whine we worm in angelic circles on our skin, cribriform punctualities whistling the ghastly and ghostly through our forms. She spelled time without the 'm 'in an infindibulic, culled-out cuff, a tepid-wrapped hallucination that golden is the color of lacquered whims, the thick-stirred porridge of our dreamings' turbid washout, the scuffed and muffled waffling steel gone acrid and oxidized in the hoary western leather bed. And it occurs to me that lies are of a strange duality. No more biting than bitten we sate ourselves to chew the brass gilding and unscrew the lights, we sate ourselves for sundry earth, a stiff drink and scent of haste, manifold roar and red lights in the torrents spiring. An empty click between the plates

20 November 2005

Pagan Tonsils and the Oedemic Proliferation

Nú vaknar þú
allt virðist vera breytt
ég gægist út
en er svo ekki neitt

It’s the smoking piece of plastic, aromatic and aerosol, slinking off from an easy-bake oven existence beneath some shaky wake of a lumen lined with fluorescent skin. All crawling in a drag, a giant leaving footfalls soiled with forever, there's a revolver hidden in a sink, spindle wailing of unfortunate circumstances, and she’s hidden in her den of umbrage and lace waistbands nodding off to the tune of vessels in a vibrato, a cocaine ska dive with dust lining the bin. Plain white faces are all we see, a tandem to the grey mouths we mush with the ivory keys. There's a haunting cane wicker-woven and striking, coiling red running marks all along her stolen spine, a vague sense of masochism shouting to the gods of inhibition, strutting poses of mail-born sketches left in a dew-pouch drinking off windshields, and all along the soot-work, bricks break in for an odd-angle-askew vision of the words stretched out on wires she limbs, a fantasia binding and breaking skin. Old tallow stalls in the rivers, curling and cooling outside the sluicing ribbons, a tapestry of what love should be all swimming of blue hips and midnight delving heavily on a pointilistic variant of cold light.
Let's not press the foiling wrap of conversation, the origami-crinkled fingers on the ledge of lip, this French bourgeoisie collage of black and blue and white mud gone all to realistically passe, boring, grating, sold. What one wonders of hell and the porcelain frames it serves from its crucible, we can hardly say, why devil or demon or paler human ever ceased to be such godless little creatures with syringe quills and cankered noses, wee waned shades of slightest fascination all dressed up in their corseted sex and sin. She rings herself dramatically with fancy satin and corduroy texture, pleasure sashed tactility, a vanity for the charms, with a stroke of hexic green taffeta like bundled hopes gone awfully sour.
We imagination, we forgiving sainted gulps of dysplasia, we bastard pedantic ways, we extraneous, we boorish, fallow few.

3 November 2005

Pan Fried Egg-uardo, a Caucus

Good-bye small hands, good-bye small heart
good-bye small head
My soul is climbing tree trunks
and swinging from every branch
They're calling on me,
they're calling one me...

Testing, testing, reel and wail... It's a mad world, you realise, full of mad people with mad problems, so much so that they spill right over you, into you. It's trouble, you see, tragedy that you seek, a right turn, a left hand twist, a rocking chair in mission oak and sable. Powerful things seem too impotent to take such egregious importance, toys out of their box, strewn and wood hewn, a dismembered assembly of the blind and lame, plastic soldiers spared for a moment in the swale of attention breaking. Peppermint now, a distension of leaf and spear, a night of long knives and drooling sand at an oasis only dream knows, coming lately in the gala mask of seasons' brother, does now in turn creak blackly ill a rust tin hyphae snapping lid-like. No neutrino or quork bouncing in silver ether aromatic on bent rings could bleed such field to gauche logistics, a tête-à-tête on the old aluminium girder. Chinese radio sunken in at the rivets a sound similar to out of tune harpsichords plunking down a step stones, pond to pad to rift ripples clutch, and a floating falling blossom of tiger trim feeling. The decay remarks of the un- and irremarkable, the stakes falling from favourite to keenest plain of materialisable orange paper, such gracious gravity to swarm and curtsy and goose-like howl with a flutter. It's all past the religious state of rite and wrong number, an idea of stolen hiccups and antiquated estuaries tripping on the opposite side of indifference, rooting for apathy through the eyepiece of electron monocles, a manic view of insensitive dust scattered out on the toy room floor, broken shapes origamied and shang-hai-painted on porcelain lips. Myriadic pygmalionites, a crackled army, sycophantic pools of carved-shadow organs forcing thrombocytic chateaus down the pulling juncture of hip and belly friction. A pause in the examination, a check of sound placed verbs, does this make new sense, warp the current syntax into obelix and asynechdoche along the caudal parameter of our very fine vicryl line of metacholic existence?

25 October 2005

Of Ovales and Traberculae

We could be daytime drunks if we wanted
We'd never get anything done that way
And we'd still be ruled by our dueling perspectives
And I'm not my perspective
Or the lies I'll tell you every time

Through the hook-ups and holidays you crave for that touch, smiling into glasses, staring through cups. And the haunted eves are ghastly pale, faring alone these days on the darker roads for the pairings are loose in the ghostly breezes tossing the auburns and blondes between branches. All the white coats and linen scarves shackle the disappearing phantoms in black screens flickering hertz-felt psalms, a wide-whale trench line on the Southside of noon. A warping world view changing cardboard in an antithesis. This is what we need, an umber salt lick to stain our souls, slant them in the polarised draft of harsh fluorescent pulsations wracking our brains. Maybe they still remain, deep to the melanin, pouring out through the skin, the mirror shivers them back until they spike the blood a bog of ethereal and mortality, molten gung ho pacifism. Red lockers with the grey beat caps swinging on hooks, a cane tap rhythm driving like madness in veins, but its all that sound of hell gone frozen, a rain blown hallowed eve. This little north Atlantic fossa, a carnal pooling divide where all hold tightly in the turbulence feeling the slow depolarisation of their lives. There’s a fusion in this a converging vertex of hope or fear or palms, and then a cataract thrashing with sheering sounds brewing bones pale and crystalline, fracturing the whole of us in a congestive detergent slaking the individuality. We are one. Parentheses aside I'd struggle with the taste of green, all moisture warped-Mosley and an event on every horizon bleeding of prismatic creases, welting into orbity the choking mass of pretexts that begin every apostrophe. Petty thieves and nameless sorts are all the caste of thousands... cheers.

15 October 2005

Tracheobronchial Dichotomic Escalators

this was unlike the story
it was written to be
I was riding its back
when it used to ride me

Grass shoots and movements draping against the railway tracks of bamboo gardens, only a bit overgrown and smartly dressed in the chinos and pink lipstick. I’m sick of sleeping on the rain arced mornings with the ale wagging in my throat, chocking up and back with surge and bitter force draining back with all the lymph and tannen. I’m blue and pale in this fading yellow burst feeling the greying slew oozing through the mob, a darklight spawning from sea foam crowning the isles shores with dead laurels and holly. There are pomegranate pin stripes behind an old roll top desk clucking in a low melancholy about a wretched pence or three ill spent and flavoured of cheap white wine, but how many windows have you known to let you colour in the scene itself, the icy mood of low flicker flares in under the mantles. It’s a softer carpet we fleece others with, dragging out porridge and poor words long contracted and slurred over with another nip of a highland shadow. And this pasty face focuses for mere seconds shivering under a damaged swing song of a speaker hearing the nananonating of a throttled warbling wren grating the courser fabric of his jacket potato. The servers and served of a racquetball existence this night sleep side to rear and bang the wall with dream-weaving blue fascia still lacking the squash-able sounds of oomph, still institutionalised behind the white doors and plexiglass castles of our foundering fishbowls, turning in their own white-lined mania. A twist to the plot that splint scaling into tissue. And the pornographic mall is American and Germanic, its British and brutish and Jewish and catholic, its carnivorous and Canadian, gracious and botanic, it’s us and them and the we we avoid saying to not incriminate ourselves. Cheers.

8 October 2005

A Plausibility with No Gain-say

I know my head is my worst enemy
Swallowed too much of it and started to believe
I know my heart is my worst enemy
Swallowed too much of it and started to believe

Searchlights like sand probes grate the flesh with pale whitewashes crackling a static sulphuric acid into our cement cortices. Our hooves wont slide so nearly now, this devilish burning carving out our steps in train. Some philosophe I am, yet to live and stretch the limbs I’m given in mind and spirit, long needing the space of a depopulated realm, all stunted mind and wishing-well beliefs driving ecstasy in a haze of morgue-ish anticipation. A black eyelash as key initiate floundering in the gentle up-wave and breeze path, coasting medially back on the ethmoidal daylight shuddering at the fragrance of the woman we begot in our easy, heady smoked dreams. We crave the horizon with its pearl sculpted fuchsia tendrils draining out past the humid lines in brows and corniced crowns, a canvas of pertinent sharpening the knife blade to rod and temple stone, just sheering slant edge back and crossing the chiasma sleeping by seconds on shoulder crook.
The archetypical demon whorling and heaving in the sidewalk parks, this earth is a breathing animal slow fuming with exhilaration; this mist bathing us beastly. Where I come from people don’t have fins and scales, just smooth pink fingers and thin pinna folds, they chuckle and trip in their theological malaise, vaulting the hoarse mouths lisping out blue peat and a spice called virtue. But all the terrible things these monsters say just eddying in the dark pools we all once visited.

3 October 2005

The Fifth Parenthetical Conduit

I've seen your hope on television
Where you've been, wore my word
They've got tricycles in skirts
This is a mouth that needs religion

I’ve been towed out to sea soaked with the smell of crude dreams and long pressed earth, just waiting, drifting, and quietly rocking with the constant roll of unspoken words that crack like thunder into pure foam. It’s turmoil, this. This heaving feeling in my gut, the never-ending thoughts that I am. That I am not yet, not food for the devilish sort I’ve bred. Its troubling, this. The whole-over haul that tosses me, empty as I am, lighter than the ethereal and soaring wings of myself I’ve known long to be. Oh yes, we are all akin to something stronger than we claim. But I’ve been dragged out and left, conquered in the last, conquered even at the first, subdued by rags and masks and the paint we call our skin, tapped down by the hail and hale and worth less of them, through my younger inspirations, long off the coast, this.
Car travels are like daydreams, mild cruises between desires and responsibilities, a reconciliation of the mean ways we choose for our lives to bend to. While the grey clouds spit and spire, whirling to wield their flash of power and curl back to let the sea mend the carved gullies of the storm, I crave a last word in this growing, furling cave. A last whisper. Faith. Folly. Forget? [Ia mcon fus edma yb e]. What lurks at the farthest edge might never be the nightmare we suppose, might never be the part of ourselves left in a ragged way by the sale of soul. This is the consummation, just an endless streak of ravelling hiss, one edge burning, the other searing smelling still of all the lithe sways emotion makes. We all had are moments that we gave up for our gods, estranged of our faithless fellows to long for the greatest of all, stuck up on the hillsides wringing ourselves in peals,of laughter and of mania and of course the horrendous silence our empty places beget,of sadness and amusement, but surely of our worst fears.

1 October 2005

Wilted Panes and Folly-Wrapped Participles

Cause behind its door there's nothing to keep my fingers warm
And all i find are souvenirs from better times
Before the gleam of your taillights fading east
To find yourself a better life.

There’s campfire twigs and a small slate tablet, crackled with dabbled paints and scrapes, a riddled mind may wander here, just like a forest in fear wanders itself. There are piano keys and bled out reeds whistling on the high floating tune of ohm and woman, just jasmine and lilac, no sage or sandalwood but all petals and green fields that flow through every jolt. We are spiked with ideals of perfection, tonofilaments flaking into spines, thinking all is eternal in flawless heaven, forgetting that the imperfect is perfect for a second. Taking a hacksaw to the limb, heaving slant like shaving ‘til that first drop of blood crystallises in a lachrymal bead just hanging, weaving down a blade spreading meander glaze of sticky sap and sloping sloughing off in the glint of liquid sunlight. It takes a moment. A lip lets slip a small moneme, a syllable[con] of ecstasy, suspended, wrung out and hung, still wet, still ringing; in momentum it carries on for a millennium in that nano-measured bit of time, clung hard to the soft palate with excruciating pleasure, the beginning of a word that is boundless, cut short in breathing near expulsion.
The gaps and waste.
Your beauty has not left me indifferent, indifference has left me without beauty to compare to. A nullifying wash colourless and striking all the same like a tongue tip pulse settling in the shiver from the tacky sweat. The edifice of unity is ineffably gone with the slow decay of salt and skin, a woven blanket of textured emotions rent and worn out in the friction of heart against ribs. A ponderous groping that stretches at the seams folding over the album pages where remembrance lay out a pictographic table of immoral moments caught up in heat and sundry swelters. Flicker and cold snap wind wound dancers these flames licking exorbitantly at the stippled walls, snickering in the languid whispers and warm handshakes, acquaintances still curious to introduce the other. Meddling sorts, these mindless trips.

22 September 2005

Persnickity, Maybe, but with Handlebar Ties

we should shine a light on
a light on
the book of right-on's right on
it was right on

You feel it at the edge, an itch and dry heave all rolled up in keratin and foil rubbing and ruining the paint stained dimples. It can't claw forever, not this deep, this rich and vibrant incising like a gaff before a howl. It rasps the sanity just corroding at feverish pace sinking deep and lithely humming its tuned derision. Pot stills and wheel-wound buzzes shifting in anti-climatic gravity seem to blue your seal and sand, like a depravity marks out blanching the bend in logic, making sure that some kind of half-eaten wall of a soul still stands for sale. You want to poke through the skin and scrawl out your fingertips signing off on a contract life owed to the darker closes and their frosted crpyt-ic smoke. Two cloves and a black wool coat, a feeling of movement without rotation, chances are its all coincidental, the acid and silver slit eyes wandering, but why throw out perfectly good conjecture when the occult thrives on thrill and totem. You might pass a fancy, or pause at a misplaced progression; you might think it’s rather a heavy box for being empty. But the wooden splinters keep slicing down your throat, jagging hard carved words like truth and sensibility... mania. Keep containing those nasty first impressions, keep weighing your soul with your hands, just sieve the sentences you trail off in and pray that there's meaning.
There's something wonderful here. Cracked joint and simple tick-click, chances are you missed it. He's looking for his destiny, looking for his god, but where in man would you hide divinity except in a still brewing concept of creation.

17 September 2005

Pantless Frivolity and a Mayonnaise Roof

bad dreams like this roll in like a cold front
thunderous thunder and lightning in tow
and your tiny little life gets even smaller
as you heed the heavens mighty show
and i dont mean heaven like godlike
cos the animal i am knows very well
that nature is our teacher and our mother
and god is just another
story that we tell

Clever aren’t we, three fingers and no toes, tripping lamp lights in order to stretch our own shadows to ceilings or through windows. Calm is a hue nearly grey on the cherry woodwork encasing tired old tomes like me. Funny thing is as books may say, the truth of the matter is more than people may want, it’s a matter of beauty being genuinely ingenuine and wholly corrupt, its beauty as a cross-hung wickedness that follows the corpse through boat-swung rivers. Passive aggression is what you are, a species derived from derision, long mounted in bass strung timbres about to rock the concreteness of the world you desire to live in. Walk past a bored one, a lonely one, a dire old dame, walk past yourself then in the same context, frame, obsession. Pointlessness. Fear. Pain. Words are words I suppose, stream lined by the usage, the everyday wear like tyre tearing on pavement, strips left off somewhere between the here and then, long out from the last stop made for gas. Funny thing is, the distance to joy is exactly 3635 miles, though its exactly 5 paces to adventure. Knapsacks are vessels for the life we wish to live, to bottle and travel and touch the earth that you may wish exists. Life never was intended to end at the borders you drew on yourself, there were the rickshaws and the damsels, the towers and the keeps, all jungles of tangles of hues of your psyche. It all means to you, everything it isn’t supposed to mean, because what you may have forgotten is that life is just this. Moment. Eccentricity. Hush.

12 September 2005

A Convalescent Duck and Its Darkhorse Jumper

youre right as rain about the benefits
but you might be wrong about the costs
and it feeds my heart that you came looking for me
but im thinkin i need to stay lost

I like that about some records, that whipper-wobble in their spin, that tin string sound i cant stand to sit with. The conjecture a sound makes is something intrinsic in its hate for the meddling air, the swooshing way it claps at the tempo or timbre rising continually from edge to edge. I would put it in a pine box as a child, a resin-slide and toggle-side case of music that would always delight the upswung cheeks of children on their way home. A thousand generations, a hundred years of solitude passing may only be a second to that brumbling bramble bush that always burned in the corner of the inspired man's mind, might only have been a quick inflection point on a carriage lamp's parabolic light. Nothing much going on these days while the callous builds over the flame, its burning heat as all of us, we as one, arch our backs and hail the sun, nothing much to the fading light and cooling lips. There was that look under the umbrella, from one to the next to the last furthest from the curb, a sort of hello that said something more like "is it safe to be so secret of this life". And sure we nod, we grin a quiet tangent thought that says we may have been, may have been partial to an idea, may have been partial to their cordiality, may have been carrying sign that said yours, but that's not what you'll get. It flows back off us the last oozing cloud of humanity, all the fun momentarily forgotten for the bits of fear of wet and wind and flock life we grew from. A Sunday show on single layer cement slab, the thespians ill trained and ill practiced, but these are the ones I love. A face crossed by fist, an arm hooked by hand, and all the players moving toward the reaper at stage left glare wholly up while they promenade and dance. You find angels in the ground shadows to the feet of man all stepping clockwise in sandy shoals like legs of good wine running in the lights of the river home.
And the madness leases time from all our candle-lit games, streaming down in lacrimal parcels lost, irreplaceable to the strange hollow that frail pear-shaped hole in the universe that blows out with a whisper from our doppel-ganger selves.

6 September 2005

Gravity's Monochromatic Archway

empty hearts and winter riot hopeless blue

Keys to Survival (in no particular order):
1. Always remain yourself. As malleable as you may be, forget the pop culture drama and just do what you fucking want. Change the medium. Prats.
2. Hat everyone. No, I don't mean hate, i mean hat. It's like hating, but not, which I can see is confusing, but ignore the confusing part and focus on the not likingness of hatting.
3. For fuck sake, never agree to take on responsibility. Freedom does not come from resposibility, it comes from maintaining yourself in a complete state of lack of obligation.
4. Alcohol is like ambrosia, respect it for its tastiness and you'll find that while traversing from a state of sobriety to a state of completely off your tits, you might have actually had a rather delectable experience.
5. Never doubt that going to class drunk is a better idea while drunk then when you're yourself [sober].
6. Trust no one. Even when someone's offering you a favor "out of the kindness of there heart", realise they expect something from you every time they see you. What it is they expect, they cant say, but it's often something you're not willing to offer to them or part with.
7. Friendship is often a one way street where you get dragged along unwillingly. Don't let it happen. Limit your exposure to people to events that are on your own terms. This will allow these "friends" to function as acquaintances allowing you to be more free and to look upon the activities with them as entertainment as opposed to meaningful or weighty relationships.
8. Science is a pack of lies. FIBBER!!! (I had to say it)
9. Fundamentalists of any type do no one any good. Don't marginalise them, just outright kill them. In the long run you and everyone else will be happier.
10. Western culture, while supposedly individualistic, is quite collectivist at its core, often focusing on the General Good. Whoever this guy is, he must be a big jerk, cos the laws passed in his name are often completely ridiculous; so, break them, at least while no ones looking and you can't get caught.

Canvas shoes and canvas bags make for ease of carrying me, packing the satchel and left hand pocket aside with small lint coins good for buying dreams. Through angles the angels sense the pecuniary resistance to hope and lessness that streams outward on human terms, the solitary confinement of soul in skin and flesh and saran wrapped nuance. Fresh out of the package that starch crackle in collar and spring-bound chin forward to the sky, and all the weight of the world works it in. We all tuck into the manna of complimental speeches and fragmented phrases of good will, cheer, we all tuck in the wave of haggard hisses and blown away rotten snipes that hid in our hoods and hands. Silver leaf lined purses and alligator sails dragging away the windward beach from seaside glasses clinking, lip edge scraped with salt and sand. Oh all the wounds blister in the sun bursting with ache for a blue clean slate and white foam wash crashing out the old haunts. The laces tied themselves this time, knowing the loop and swoop by instinct and predilection, and while soles anchored for gravity's defiling, a gradual curve rending to an outlined plan, a suck and swallow of earthy grit plummeting back for an infinite space to fill. Dance steps are hand drawn dioramas of toddlers learning to walk.

2 September 2005

Painting Wheat with Another Moniker

and the things we said we'd do
and the whisky and the line
rolling all the time

She said cognac was a thing of the past just like white moles and karma,a kind of transcendental lapse of the mapped out rhodes, almost misshapen except for that tiny fold along the perforation. Kind words elope in the space, they steal off or just steal the accumlated fragrance of old friends, fur, and tangled jazz trombones. That delicate peace erupts inward on a tangent, strutting out on the fly and find no more than a lip to tremble and welt, like ice cube kisses and plaster-made sides. I won't be brandished as a passe phenomenon when all I see is a comet's tail and stars curving round the narrow alley, a close for a queen draped darkly with the ghosts, or maybe a long day meadow pulling bens behind. Might we tear away the background fumbling, the host of images barraged across these wires and red bricks baking, might we carve the taste of gray hung rain into some sapling potted deep and purple in our cracked psyches letting it green and grow warm like an umber clay desert. I'll swirl the glass and bite my lip with the etching hollow voice that swills down the gullet rocks, a branded brachial nerve remembering the shock of blue flame spark arcing out of us. Just sputtering warble-warped monemes in a tremor of viscous oxygen pulling heart through teeth and tongue-taped gawking. It's possible, entirely too much so, it is, an inch worm of motion ligating fibres of one thought to blade of grass or nettle itched skin. Scrape it raw, peel it back, grind it out, all the envious goodbyes. And blink.
She said cognac was a thing of movie-time men, a lazy shadow that never ran from the light of day. Our cracked sidewalks talk all the time of these things and that, the hand prints lifting the cut capes for all the sauntering spats. There were pianos then, and violins, and one thing named Joy, but she never knew much of all the forgetting they'd do after her dance. Laughter, tittering, bell-blown glass tingling, a jagged fasting weening seersucker away from sultry bodies. Guffaw-lined felt droning in a cabaret, cigar-tied nicotine chuckling past chandeliers, whore-found buyers in the deep, ugly heat of a night-spun bar, the fans all twirled drooping in the weary haze of a trumpet and clarinet swing. All the dust that settled the tabs got pushed off with the steel cannon of wrecking balls, crashing out steinway chords and sucking back the boas and fedoras before settling for a dry gin martini. Dirty.

29 August 2005

Clamma Firma in the Autumn Dig

hand me stones
to break these walls
hand me grief
and ill change it all

Sometimes I think I’m wasting my talent on the sciences when I should be ranting on my own weekly cable access show. I’d totally have a following, and then, the cult: mass suicides for everyone! Yay! And ill bet you’re asking yourself right now, just how much crack does that boy smoke a week? And the answer is a lot. And not a little a lot. Like a lot a lot. I bury my head in the stuff like two big crack-y boobs, it’s the neuroticism really. If I had a choice, id totally sleep during the day and just stay up all night long and then go to bed at sunrise. I like cities at night, they’re so much better than in the light.
Write that down.
Forgive me for I haven’t had a good rant in weeks, and my website hasn’t had one in months but today is autumn here, cold, rainy, wonderful. And the rant is back. Like a cruel mistress it'll sway the words on the breeze and sling my head into a frenzy. Ah the love, the loath, the wistful whench. Indeed. The streets can't claim me just yet, its far too early with this summer vein throbbing in agony and heat trying melt off the chill fingers of our loveliest of seasons as she climbs back o'er the heels of us. There's no statute that says this aire of green tepid touch hsa to prevail so late into the year. I have been waiting.
There's little that makes for a proper evening, little that makes for a solemn night. The smell of rain against the sound of sobbing leaves always lends to the alacrity, the pomp, the overall vestige and fanfare of fall. Spring has its buds and heat, its astounding renewal that shoots, upheaves the land and colors, its grieving, blinding. But autumn is the aged wisdom of the earth, the melloeing of a smooth whisky that rolls with flavour accross the pallate. It is glib and gallant, but subtle as well in its ornate vox and acousticum. While spring airs itself hollowly, promising a great rejuvenation, a great cheer that is swallowed with the end of summer. Death is different in its compact. It is full as proffered. Autumn comes before summer stales and it files down the great spaces of green, letting them wilt into the drab congress of tawny browns. It leaves nothing untouched, and in truth it doesn't end, it is usurped. Thrown back by this capricious spring, so rash and young. Lovlier seasons merely must wait.
This framework for monarchy is all a bit wholesale and shoddy. We trim and rake and wait and pick, we huddle and wallow and pray that all will leave us fit. The cannibalism we have for one and each other does chafe at our strength over the seasons. This humanity that we claim is our suit of a soul is more makeshift, handed down, scuffed, and torn. It is a farce.
And the streets will have us show this violence, this gruff framed wire act. It'll bend and narrow and lead. Coursing fates are the asphalt gods, lying in wait for our feet, taking their turns and time to meet some orchestral montage. Like a clip show laid to cork, a half-eaten bagel and bordeaux braided stream, theres a chance we'll twist a misplaced limb in that gorded hand and flail in merciful pains. Time and again, we'll find what we need. No point of order, harping or harpies playeing for the seat as this, no charisma or cabby turns the tram off the wringing rail, just throttle and volume and chord echo straining to loose this firmament from an aerie in our throats. Cheers.

7 July 2005

Short Writ of Common Indecency

and they listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met
you know it's time
that we grow old and do some shit
i like it all that way

There's always a desperation, a challenge, a "god doesn't live here" moment. Pasting shapes to faces, superimposing some semblance of humanity onto a mirror, and silent, slim hook of a hip curving into palm as irony chuckles in that silver smirk. Yes, this is an obvious contradiction to yourself, but you have to laugh. Smile. Maybe even love if you knew how. How is an awful word. You feel bubbles under your skin that somehow echo the sound and nothing makes more sense. The decompression, the weightless rising of idea, threading nitrogen through veins and vessels, bloating and surging hitting your lungs.
And you're sucked between worlds, a human divot in the atlantic contriving the currents and stewing in the juices that slip back from their skin, eddying, hailing. The rocks circulate and swallow. They tip and wallow, break the caps and arc with the tide in a pale rainbow of oil fed disillusion. It's dusk. The night's been revived by the shockwave of dizziness from its daily spin, breathing in and intoxicating itself on the amorous glee that folds about our chests. The second wind. The first sips of cold night air culling the exhaustion. Time to rise. And you step out of the flat, if only seemingly for a moment, and disappear with the meandering functionality of your feet, long painted stretches of limelight and red granite soaked in the stuff of delirium.
There's no ticker-tape or rose-petal, red carpet reception, not for you. Just the muggy gray tiling of cement layered on rebar, the cold path of solid cohesion, boring distraction, inane recompensation for those thoughtless words you've spent. Cheap at the time though they were, it's always a bit pricier on the other side of the ocean. That's why you said that silence was golden, a priceless phrase so to speak. The more you keep back, the further from identifying with others, the tighter your chest grows with the slow push of sullen reclusion. I think stars feel the same way. They flare nova into the dust, clearing systems of planets and suns, then suck themselves under
drowned by their own divinity for that single moment of infinite pulse.

29 June 2005

Litoral Meaning of Adverbial Phrasing

When you were falling from my tree,
I was not scared.
I thought you'd
meet me back up there.
It never dawned on me
you were home free.
It never dawned on me, no.

The pallor might seem incidental, just a waning bit of sunlit green as the cab sweeps past. Incidental being the odd word amongst the varied and harried disarray of punitive fragments. We don't deal in this concrete infestation, invectification, no mob or mop, no syndicate or programming syndication. Ideas are a currency, a spun sugar web thoroughly manifesting itself as a plaster cast to mold to. There's that canvas flap that goes rigid in the wind, a snickering parasite in slate gray soup mix packet. The spare came off, the reality set in. A year wasn't much more than a winter dream brooding in the flame.
In such a way we form the soil, the highlight beams the sun seems to sag under our feet, crunching on the stilt-legs, cos heights are for fear, leave egos to their own.
Samuel is a good name, or so they may one day say, and Jack might be a better to that of Jennifer or jade or quartz. Not that the watch face is the final place the wretched seem to desire to etch. Defy time, or merely wave at it and shrug. A complimentary fashion to it I may admonish. All the while the girl next to you might be humming to the driver about the deer straight ahead in the road. But I'd all the same be more concerned of the sand in the glove box and her left earlobe being shorter than the right because what man drives himself mad about the details?
The price of all this vanity is getting way too high
The maintenance of my sanity is taking too much time
Simple feathers, falling feathers, 7000 reasons to dream.
Cheers, mates.

1 June 2005

Juliette on a Longwave Radio

give me the colours of a different light
give me the colours grey and blue

So you learn. You find that at 50 you're twice as randy as at 20 and there's no explanation that you can think of between the beginning episodes of alzheimer's that plague your swiss cheese brain, the folds stuck together, overstarched and ironed, locked down portholes. It's only fair to hate life at that point, so you join a 12 step program only to find that there's more than 37 steps up from the sidewalk [irony]. The door opens and you smell the alcoholics and realise this isn't the room for you, because no one ever thought that a desire to be alive could be an addiction, unhealthy in its insistence upon existing, in complete denial that addiction is a possibility.
and blah blah blah, yakkity schmakkity, swing the golf club, wave, smile, try not to trip off the stage.
She swirled two coppers around each other as if milling about in the corner of a square, around each other in a planetary scraping on the formica following the indentations with her eyes, the milk-laden, black-scarred flashes of intelligent emotion that she allowed flit for momentary distraction from the scrolling circle to the hovering colors that registered around her. People move in and out of us as this, shapely and dull. Rainstorms drown out roses with the crackle and trickle-down damp, sheeting away the vivid taste of poppies and crocuses.
I never said I was the perfect child, and if I had, I was grossly mistaken. I treat my life as if it were a set of errands, a list of tasks that attain something often unrelated to the final destination. I do as I go and I go as I please. Never claimed that I would complete even the smallest bit of what everyone asked me to, never claimed I would take the best or fastest route from a to b, z to l, London to Newark. That is the way to be lived and to live. You must breathe incidentally, fall purposely, act madly, and never be afraid to be inane or cheeky. It'’s costly to be regretful, making all those witnesses disappear, David Copperfield only works at prime rates. I may have said I loved or was loved, but that was my entire fault for being caught up in the language. I may have mentioned that I was happy or thrilled, but I might have felt that tomorrow was going to be my last incidental breath. I might have overlooked my chance to say screaming that I would be a jackass, roller-skates, shopping carts, and all, but I always figured I had the charm. I never said what it was going to be, but always was kind enough to do a play by play with afterthoughts. I never said that id never say, just how i was intending it to be coherent. A little faith would be nice.

18 May 2005

Mystery Currents Lost in the Squamous Ampullas

All the hearts that touch your cheek
How they jump they move they embarrass
They make no sense, no sense, no sense

You wake up on a Saturday that sure as hell feels like a Tuesday, every Tuesday, last Tuesday, this Tuesday. The day never changes. It still is Tuesday, and your fingers when they stand up in front of your face to wipe away the sleep webs that form from dead and dying dreams, look more spongeiform, more spindly and strained with age. They rake with this phenomena, creasing the brow and cheek, slicing into the last shred of dimple that dotted the wells below the eye. I think haggard is the word [concavity]. Ten books make up your entire consciousness, thankfully not one is that biblioformaic of olden day traditional storytelling, ten books that tell you what morality isn't in its existence, and strength brews acridly, sniping at the very convention of consciousness, its appaling taste and smell, the skin drenching cold from open window rushing up and back. Like a split lip spitting blood tacky to the tongue tip, it bounces like a trampoline, a water fed-inflated bulb of a swllen finger tip waiting to rupture cos as long as its open it stays.
Ten books, and a few words elaborate the extent of ennui [ennui] of the yawn. Curious fact. The universe is pi, that is π [pie]. Random, irrational, and most likely really big, really really really really big. Huge. Underlying that pi is purported to have a pattern, and it would seem so does the universe.
Think of it as a magic eightball. A big black piece of plastic that tells you the future, or something along that line. The eightball would seem completely random for the most part, but in fact it is completely ordered and merely built to appear random. The little triangles are only random in that their lighter densities are all comparable but not exact, they're more numerous in some situations and not in others. Mere probability that a prediction will come up.
That seems to be a bit reverse-engineered, backwards [yar] from π.
Bobbert is a seemingly nice fellow, like us in make up, at least in a comparable way. Below the atomic level the quorks are nearly impossible to describe and predict, etc. Step back, refocus and suddenly there's order to some extent, neutrons and protons in a formed nucleus, with electrons flying around in a way oddly like the ultimate question and its answer. As one pans back, molecules are formed, then organelles, cells, tissues, organs, organ systems, complex beings, families, neighborhoods, societies, worlds, and on and on. In fact, that is exactly what bobbert is made of, but to the nth degree, where as we are kinda microscopic to him, because Bobbert is really just the universe. He's π, he's a fucking magic eightball. From randomness everything forms a singularity that then expands as it acts into randomness. The dual nature of all that was.
Silly thought. Simple cannot describe the universe, tho the principle itself is at the tip of the iceberg. The trouble seems to lie in the fact that at such a level, the idea of simplicity becomes so complex, both to swallow and to explain, it becomes baffling, when in fact it should be the exact opposite. It should be a null spot, a sort of great big sigh [ah]. The kind of hum that I hum when I see that Θ is π. The word simple itself would seem to defeat the point of simplicity to the point that maybe, just maybe, we need a new word, something that reminds of the warm pi on the window sill cooling in the evening, the bobbling black 8 getting tipsy with flipping, the slow shuffling of Bobbert munching on crisps spilling the crumbs into fractals. Maybe its time for no words at all. [just *sigh*]

9 May 2005

On the Rail, the Cardboard Houses Swagger

And I feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen
Sit and listen

Slippered angels go ghastly pale on the hallway walking paths, dragging gurneys beneath them in a solitary stride through flourescent tunneled lights. There may be a hand to hold them, a god to greet them in the morgue. But it would seem that once they made for the door they flared their horns and rocked off their sashes of grace for brimstone canes and crooked legs. I know i would rather walk hell before i see heaven, crack skulls and savor pain just to know the heavy weight of bliss. The gated crossroads of white-shoed, scrub-washed people seems bustled to breaking, all distended and immune to the plague of living running through the courses. White hoods, white paper feet, white walls, white hair. A shock of black running through the eyes of each one, the ears pricking on the sunken corners of their smiles hiding wolf teeth wrenching at the covers, coveting for the pastey usher that should wheel them out the rooms in the dark.
Honey gold lacquer fills up this pool, tinny in its dripping sound, lapping at the toes and running cool to the knee, bending, mending. Clarity comes in the white noise reflection, a pallor of yellow slapped across the wilting limbs. It drifts across vision in a throbbing plaque reading DON'T PANIC JUST YET, after all, ends are very much the beginnings as well. Tricks of the mind, a speed which none of us have traveled before is a speed at which we cannot perceive ageing. The moment we achieve light, the slender pace of infinite tandem trotting, we are as old as the universe, as young as the most primordial idea still being conceived, yet to be dreamed, yet to be dreamed of being dreamed.
Placement is everything, must be put in the exact spot through which it all travels, but that means moving from where everything else that does not exist travels. Catch-22, 23, 24.
Slipper shuffles make that sneaker squeak-scuff sound like whispers on a humming chimney, a bit like languid tidings of the leaving and gone, tossing care off to the homeward breezes and clasping onto the switches merely to say "sleep sweet". "Sleep sweet."

4 May 2005

Oxtail Pollywogs Doodlin' on the Day

And did I hear you sing
That we exist without existing
Or did I hear you sing
That we'll land where we begin

When we were kids someone should have shaken us into a fit and screamed. I would've loved to have known that if I was going to go in search of a true education, I was going to have to give up the idea of being taught by real people with real laughter and real passion. I should've been told that it would have meant failing at all the things that everyone may find important or good for you. I should've surmised this all for myself, but I was always a gullible child looking for the good will. Yeah, I was 19 before they told me Will just happened to live 500 miles away and died 50 years before I was born... that helped. A lot.
Does anyone still have their copy of life's instruction manual, because mine happened to slap me last week and walk off down Crow Road. I just have a couple things to look up, such as, who the hell thought this was a brilliant friggin idea anyway? I'm lookin' in your direction, Zero Mostel. That's right, you fat, funny bastard. You wanted it, well here it is.
Contrary to old men in porn booths, there's a lot to be said about the 80 something crowd that's gathered in my head to exchange the last relics of mellowed flare and passion and gaze, crouching on the sofas, huddled over their knees in delight as expounding leads to extrapolating, to flying free. It's all chainlink quizzes guided round the soft handled curves.
Jade ichor is a tipsy sort of phrase
pair of them in facttt[two t's]
A sharp contrast to the didactic matter at hand and eye. Comprehension becoming a massive visage of hopelessness when memorisation is all that is needed to bubble-in a boble pie.
Sure it's still dripping out a bit rusty and rustic, overripe and well past sane. What can I say in a useless daytime bore? I have much more to do that has nothing to do with anything human kind values.

26 April 2005

Bread Rising on the Doric Eyes

mother don't worry, she's got a garden we're planting together
mother remember the night that the dog had her pups in the pantry?
blood on the floor & the fleas on their paws
and you cried 'til the morning

She had on heels that clicked with the timing of tides on the slick surface temperate medium of salt seas craning endlessly back from black shores and black eyes and dark circling aches that only just resembled the tip of a yearn. Just a J_____-shaped hole in the universe sucking down the space between swiftly tilting planets 'til they're sweetly drifting backwards from the hopscotch arena. This life in a supermarket has made me all too valuewise with hot lunch programs for the mothers with rich husbands whose answering machines wrack there nerves. As I pass the bell peppers ringing in their ting-a-linging and gongs of seasoned seeds in womb, I have the neuvo-realisation that coffee is like caffeinated dilapidation.
Pastel in pasttense can't altogether devour the Baltimore rain squelching over bandwidths of chattering ticker-tap keyboards releasing the clattered cacophonia that wants to rush at the edge of the ocean with vengeance. A short sail up into the cracking whitehead wash staggers it all back like a folded blanket of ragtop, second rate camaros. Pops and gross blanks of personality let the spinning wheels spike up the gravel, a slattered spray of who's who raining on the first place triumphant's parade. He liked checkers, jumping the gates and lines and q's, p's, mostly just the z's. A primary candidate to play with primary colors.
She wore a slip of a sarong that gusted sheer in the quieter light, a flare of a muscle shining in tense pointed measure. An M_____-shaped hole in the universe swallowing out the river hum that tended to sac the rising terror that alighted on my heart with a clod and thump thump, like a carrion crow dropping back in a hop, rending the space she once occupied. She held the grief just back from her brow, pinned over the soft curl of her lobes. Like majong tiles I could never place the right people properly, too many languages misshaped on their minds, too many orders fuming, sucking in some temporal vacuum, of how here and there meet up when and then. A great story dropping out from her funny turned lips, sheeting on the driveway as the water crackles in the summer stones.

24 April 2005

Cherubs Stealing Empiric Souls

she hides in the library reading henry miller books
'til they flash the lights it's time to go
when she was a little kid she said
"dad i don't know why i feel so penniless inside"
she's on the promenade
she's looking for a dress
she's locked outside a world
just a manchester girl

Seconds are tinny clacks in swing song tables as a steady breeze passes like a world-over sigh just shaking. She's shaking. Call me ecstatic, rolled-up, soullessly invaginated. I am untailored, undrawn, outward [inward climbed].
Thirty seconds she says. I hear the twelve steps clopping off the clog-heeled black rubber, just a chunk-ed reminder of three small things I tend to like to remember. To forget. To remember to forget. Chainsaws burning oil skin lamps, shearing down spinal ideas of what sex has said in the past. They don't remind her of the topical stretch of thighlike beach we all washed up on coughing out the salt-slick mucin lungs, breathing through our skin. Wretched, we left those trilobytes, how wretched she was for that. Those damn aquatic beetles.
I have some homemade memories, brewed for years in the silk-tripped ball of imagination, furrowing like seals on a span of organic carrot filth. I miss the soup, the summer spin tipsy had to it, like houses in twilight rushing in the jasmine and lilac filtered screens. Insects would carry me if I passed out in the grass, suck me dry if I forgot to breathe for more than 15 minutes.
I laughed for exactly 6 days, made love for 9, died and lived and hurried through the stage act drama. The fast pace was what broke us, our constant strain to beat the sun from setting, to brown our backs and blacken our feet, just shuffling off the shore and dancing in the riptide knives of chilled atlantic seastorms.
Seconds are canvases that I can't paint, but she had a way with shapes. Like her hips and crooked hands, the cleft at her lips and the slip on her back. All I knew were colors like blood, red dreams and black and white ideas, blue lawns creeping with the yellow-orange autumn leaves looked over by a green plaster cast of an eerie mindset. Quite a delightful greeting to the world of life as an artshow, no? Cheers.

21 April 2005

Eggsalad and Quigley on Horseback

I been thinking I'd like to see
Your eyes open up real wide
The minute that you see me
But if you don't come through
I wouldn't wait for you
I understand that everyone goes disappearing
Into the greater grey that covers over everyday
And hovers in the distance...
I've been up all night

There are those grating flash metal panes of windows closing on the Chip Chik Inn, crashing in the later evening haze of muddled pink-orange sweeping streetlight dances that shadows play. It's the same ol' clanking of my eyes, tinned and tired of the straining in daylight hours. I could sleep all day to sit up and here that awful music rock me into the nightlines that angels spout naked on the stage. Several fingers of witches brew draining on the temples, already stewed from text and tampering [dabbling] with the lives that sit charged. Gotta be protons, highly positive, no chance to gain that slope-edged sense of reality that way. So much lonelier now with the steel screens plating the world, a highly reflective life, leading to one not helping but seeing the broader image of deep set smiles and dimpled sneers so soul-licked and puckered awaiting the first smear of blood on the sheet.
All monsters in moonlight like living by fire flame and sainted hoods. We rock the angels in their cribs and whisper into their dreams, wondering if the last bruise we left will ever settle back and wind away, graying as we do at the temples and chin. Hoary they call it. Dead to be, maybe. Funny how time tears away while we count its rapid token taking. I was 81 last second I checked, but I still don't know if it was just last year when I held out my hand in earnest. Honest [token].
Another puff of hale hell winding back on the tips of their toes, they've always been the ones to pirouette on shadows' bones. The shutters dropping the screeching jazz beats so vulgar to the 40's. Jive and forget life. That's the key to living, the only impediment is the thing itself that everyone tries to make sense of.
I need a new god maybe. Someone to lay down the blame on me so I stop forgetting to, but there's already a few of those, one fogey, a million and one sheep, a guy with a silly purple skull cap. [sad]I am, or rather I was, a voter. I voted for living, possibly mistaken on the terms, I voted for fucking up. I here Frankie going to Hollywood in the bus traffic slums, cracking pavement like footsteps of the men who have no home.
We walk, they and I. Washing the drab colors from minds, giving a match to the uninspired, building up a house in a city for someone else. The last thing that was mine, was that single melody. A clanking scratch of aluminum and steel, a gust and rattle of double glazed banshees waking me from some poor thought-out reverie on a city block above the thumping street, still beating with the drumming thumbing index fingers pointing to the next big goal. I wanna be here, go there, stay up to see the dusk light fade, I wanna be ten again, married, childless and poor, I wanna save a seal, go to Vegas and be a millionaire. You get the idea I think. It's a street of meager dreams that calls me in. Maybe just the music is enough to keep me thinking the great and passionate life is reeling beyond the next horizon or eclipse. It's home somehow, all puzzles and jagged glass broken on my doorstep.

15 April 2005

Olivier and the Mukluk Laden Swans

It takes two beers to remember now
and five to forget

Nonsense is unified in its own being, that is, it is utterly nonsense,all of it, completely. In this sense, then, nonsense makes more sense than anything rational. Rationality has trouble connecting everything to everything, just look at the wheelies that Hawking pulls trying to tie those fields down into words and numbers. But nonsense is utterly ridiculous in its every aspect and therefore immediately relates to the irrationality of everything else nonsensical ever conceived, like a child from a virgin. Don't break your brain into the eighties' frying pan and start sayin' no. With four white stallions I can chase the dreams that children do, or laugh in complete sentuality that real laughter procreates beyond the history of forgetting what we have laughed for in the past. Dunno what I've been lazy for, but I doubt it was the landslide victory of apathy over justice, got an inkling it was because she was a breach-born child tied up and wrung out feet first into the water of the world.
Stung in the wind and cooling hands we have let them sit so idly but then again, what have we waited for without a thought to despair? Artificial light tends to breakdown at the barrier of sound intensified lulls. That deadened space behind the ears just sucks around the rays, like a bending soup bowl around a spoon. Never confuse them for the plates which are flat in the middle and not dipped in toasted bits of artificial life defying lapses. Sure, it was your judgement, but they assumed you'd be more of a smart one than the health department. Sugar shakes in jars [sha-sha, kweller, sha-sha] while we google ourselves for bits of best parts. Not much to that one really.
We have been
but what difference does that mean for our making
connections in injunct colostomies
its a matter of cracking that source code, and leave Dan "fuck me I'm an idiot" Brown out of it all. Writing does not make a writer, art does not make a learned man. With no point or perspective its like climbing the wool on an inverted slide, pegs in hands and fumbling buttons on bras, etc etc etc etc... etcetera. [period asshole]
None comes at first and its a clay tap for water spicket. I like cake too you know. Jammiedodgers and cake.
You think its that easy, just stomach to brain to central logical unit of amassed whateverness, but I can't imagine an amassed logicalness thats ever more logical enough to ponder cake continually.
So I like cake. No really, I like cake.

25 March 2005

Writing Rhinitis on Dover

(my father my king)

When all else fails, when all other possibilities have been extinguished-- that is, when everything is fucked-- hang the rules, hang morality, get a good piece of pipe, and bash the living piss out of the first person to look at you. This is how I will open, how I will ascend the straits of mind and pit hand to hand in Bokononic tension. Then again there are two ways of reading: one may read until the book is done, or alternately they may read until they are finished, a bit like splicing a reel of good audio feed. One moment there's that sizzle crack pop hisssssssssssssssssss snap! and then all the minutes after are silence unless you're listening in your sleep. Just under the dreaming there's a wave of patterned numbness that isn't numbness so much as its own antithesis, an orgasm of brain tissue flaring out lyrical hues only the mind knows innately. So hang yourself, you might find it fun with the bar taped across your face, a blue dot where the pen had been left to bleed the last letter.
You notice this curved highway on her knee tending to bend ominously toward the cleft in the sky, but you never thought that the entire world was a simple line did you. Got to get that head out of the garbage gutted meatloaf you've been forking, fork yourself, fork your woman [paint]. Sick-mindedly is the half-assed of tomorrow, because it’s only fair to be insipid for a short time and not your whole life. If I ever leave this world alive I'll be sure to translate the banter onto an ipod for all the teens screaming rented lines of movies made a hundred decades before film, not that it mattered cos the production companies would still strip your skin, putrefy the whole can, just to save their souls from the likes of Hitler. She says I'm O-K, but those are just letters, I can't quantify that, I can't put an emotion to those to singular unphrasable monemes, I want to know if you're 984427, if you're a bit 2334-9, or if like me you constantly feel utterly ridiculously 666.
Headtonics are the generation past us. It'll be a milkshake rush of electromagnetism frothing at the mouth in good rabid fashion just in time to take that still existing cancerous seed from using your cell phones on the highway and make it into a throbbing piece of tissue that at will makes the best tasting gin and tonics. What no one will tell you is that the only reason they don't taste like complete piss, is that you're taking a piss, you're completely [silage] bollocks. Geniuses that they were, they knew the body couldn't make a delicious gin and tonic for its life, your local bar tender is proof of that, so they fucked with your brains, or fucked them, depends what happened in that maternity ward you spent so much time in. You get me? Run a few wires to a brain-al area and instantly you have nothing short of complete taste control. The premise being that you'll be so constantly sloshed that while that headtonic is eating away at your brain twice as much as that bit of cancer was, you'll never know that what she just fed you was the most rancid bit of food left. Well, maybe you will know when you end up throwing it back up with blood in the ambulance an hour later. Scream her name. That's right. Betty.
I passed that guy once and in an instant I knew his story had something to do with a scandal in the Parliament. But yeah, Jesus was a bit of a trick himself now and again, wasn't he.
Children children children children children children chicken. I hate them, well at least when they're not cooked. So tell me toss them loose and fold that last croissant cos I have polymeritis of the plasticum of my liver spot on the moon.
Crazy isn't ugly, it isn't even fun, it’s a freedom of value and moral and any judgement ground. You say unhinged, I say unscrewed except by that sleek looking number with the nice ass. Banality is denied by casual screwball-ity, a constant, how do you say it in English, je ne your mom, that makes one forget about the monster-eating kittens one raised as a child.
Goodinsderoopjolorb. [chess]

17 March 2005

Hoi Polloi and the Postal Service Interlude

She had four white stallions coming up around the bend
Four strong angels at her command to send
Four more seasons, for all thats broken to mend
I got four good reasons why I cant go back there again

There's a clover in the aerie, just crooked and carved in the heady white thickset foam cloud brick in which we all reside at one time or another. Just two fingers measured from the foot of the bar to grace my glass and tell me the stories of heroism and well-slumbered sensuality that merely terrifies the most vehemenent woman alive. I've a graceful breast to press to mine in dream, a hat that stirs nothing but devious thought or laughter of some maniacal kind, but tis more than just for all my repugnaciousness in the hours yielding until dawn. Fight in the bloody cries of murder and the vast bending scream of decries for the end of a fragrant night, stagnant of sweat and beer and smokey afterthoughts. These "what if's" and "how so's" and all the rest of feather and chandalier so cavalier in its movements abreast of the beating thumbs on cab doors.
No more mania can seep at the edges when the drain has pulled shut, the rubberised necks of vulcanised personalities always cease to accomplish an inch of vestige of empathy for the quiet and contained. What light shall break these hushed little eyes seen rooms across the way, floating as it were, on an endless reverie of maddened ideals of straightforward approaches and confidences so easily betrayed. Killing all the flies with a six-foot mousetrap is more than overkill or euthanasia (kids in china) can hail to their god and pray for when the oxen fools so belov-ed and spiteful will be lacking in the purest of entertainment like american pie with ala mode on the side. (REDUNDANT).
I've got wings beating flap like tarps, whipping up sand storms on gobi highways to Santa Cruz and the Antarctic, that's to say the opposite side of hell and the eternal undamnable oppression I hate. But I prefer to hat things, to derby them or bowler their mothers womb that sprung them still onward and forward into the field of melons I enjoy smashing for seeds. And maybe one of those sorry sots so ten-gallon-ed or fedora-ed can be shire-d into county-hood, municiple and just in some sense of grave equilibrial evolving nature that escapes the best of me

14 March 2005

Taped-on Tampon Rattlesnakes Shakin'

he's got fasting black lungs made of clove splintered shardes they're the kind that will talk through a wheezing of coughs and i hear him every night in every pore and every time he just makes me warm freeze without an answer free from all the shame i must hide cuz
look at how they flock to him from an isle of open sores he knows that the taste is such to die for

Evil. Couldn't quite hack it to bits last time you saw-ed it, could you? Just a daft idea of a daft people or person, place, or thing (noun). But I have an abject adjective for your brooding parade of ticker tape time bombs squares, a little glitz for your forty ounces and cool shade trees inside the corolla you pull to the curb in. Welcome to the holiday of national dis-awareness that allows me to procreate asexually these ideas in rudimentary
formulatory works of jar-manic
sensory extrudation
reconstituted like the hotdog packing suitcases that you are, no? Tight-fitting suits with folds unfabric-like, but skin all paunchy and mucosal like summer sweat-ed handkerchiefs. It's the Wassily on the wall, the Deluge, inspiration of the morose and insipid kind, no better
I'm afraid.
The dark, the dim, the utterly dorkified. I got some hat pins and collar stays, bobbies and bloodshed on my shovel and spade. Whatever that means. Just whatever. Failure isn't a mystery but a complete triumph of dilettante professionalism, weeding the daringly asymptomatic from the herd. Power in general is a barbarians game, a checkered past played on chess board ivory. Seems to me that the empowered (verb) are not the elected, the equatorial plane shifted up two gears (down and over up one), revving for a revolver, a gunshot to narrowly miss the revolutionary beginning of mad-hatter era.
I'm afraid.
Nothing, not even the people we squish in our bathing suit sundances have had more time in the sun then the long tanned broken back. A proletariat perhaps, but as they're happy, I am to complain. Of the poorest of topics, the lowest of wits, the foulest of gutters that I continue to wade in, all the more triumphant that still has some fun to be found. Is the microphone on, good, cos this is off the record strictly, or else I turn up my disemboweler ray to doom in your shorts. Begin like a kid and
rolling loll in the mud, give it two d's (mudd) just because this is the way language was meant to be heard--> openly
tilt head, gape jaw
rolling eyes back and say aaaaaah.
Callous, calcified, i wait, because its what entire lives are for, just trimming the time with scissors to snowflakes. Trains are comin, trains are comin, little wooden bobbing wheels clack clack clackity on a shoulder blade. I've only time to say that I am far from making a point, but I'll be damned if anyone else is going to make one of me first.
Rest is not gotten from bodily sleep, thus i will never truly find it; rather, it comes from an inner light that has long been darkened by an aching sun I burn beneath.

7 March 2005

Darryl, You Left Your Bunny Head on 'Deep-fry' Again

Then the rosary beads count them 1 2 3
Fell apart as they hit the floor
In a garb of black we must pay respect
To the color we were born to mourn

Come back to the airways like the solid gods of pirate media, microwaving my snackfoods on the radiation arrayed antennas from the farms to the fields to the towering steel eyesores, and half a world away, you can't wash away this stain on the velvet steering vessel south by northeast to home. Subconsciousness seems like a bitch when we hear the words ringing in 3D peals on some rope strung film reel that ‘our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us... as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same... as we are liberated from our fear our presence automatically liberates others.’ Sickening this rumour roaming like ice around the corners of my brain freezing off my own mortality into dribbling stew of digital comatic textual form sopped up by god knows who in god knows what forsaken fissure on the left side of the corpus callosum. Flared and fired and silenced by our repetition aren’t we all so shivering-ly fucked into submission as to be tantalised into graphic seething of light and power and transcendence. It's not that I want to FUCK every person that happens to leave me as a passer-by, I'd rather leave them all with a fragment of something burning, a mirror that was more true because it never relied on the eyes, I want to leave every wretched welp of them with a piece of myself until there's nothing left to cry over or hate for, just to be inspired by, pondered, wondered, spectacular dreams to be had.
Check your airways... check the 711, the local newsstand... check the Barfs n' Ignoble down the highway, cos what you're reading, its just rubbish, a dried up SOS thirsting for blood of a different sort, calling out on the waves of ingrained spirit that we've deridden but now must ride. Smooth. Take it as it is. A challenge to all authority and religion, a challenge to all ideas and systems. Cos we are an ASYSTEMATIC set of animals that create order that is so out of place from that which is natural, yet we're stunned to find it decaying and rotting and ruining ourselves and those around us. A mutual affliction is what they call it. We eat away at it while it sucks away at us. Yeah tune in those radios to a different network, navigate your little browser away from my bodiless domain, run and scream and cover your ears because what I want to hear the most is the very first word that comes to your lips when I tell you to beat down every wall, every psychosis that is in your head, to do every stupid thing in the book and yet to be written, to shamefully bear your soul to yourself and tear down what you have become to yourself. Then build it again. Re-compartmentalise, re-evaluate, redefine and compose with fewer and fewer parts. Then do it all again. I want you to be simple, not simple-minded, at ease in the feverish assaults that everyone endures working their way through the streets and sitting at home, all the far-flung, far-fetched titbits of lies and hatred and love and consumerism, or catholicism and nirvana and atman, all the speeches of well-to-do, never-before-common people that say they will do THIS for us. Don't do it for me, I'll do it my fucking self, I'll do it right the first time, and it WILL be beautiful. Don't do it for me, do it for yourself, you mindless wad of over-chewed gristle, do it because you want something more for everyone including yourself. Fuck altruism, fuck personal agenda. Bay at me what you will, turn your radios off, unplug your TV’s, disconnect your internet and smash the monitor to a thousand pieces of electrically charged plastic, but what good will any of it do. They're already in your head, kicking around the morality switch, pushing your partiality button, turning on your pleasure centre that tells you to stay at home and masturbate. They've got you. In the back pocket of a pool hall is all the world can ever be, an orb among orbs tossed around carelessly, and while you jab at her wet spot, they're jabbing at your side of the world, hand on the nuclear disaster of a cue stick, scolding you for not spinning anti-clockwise into winning them a million units of instant gratification.
Check please.

5 March 2005

Eartha Kitt Serrated and Gone Mad

If you don't want to then you could at least pretend
That the paper's your soul and your blood's in the pen
And maybe then you'd see the light
And read the truth that you had to write

Thirty-nine letters of malnutritious sustenance from one mad individual to another madly in love with the concentric nature of the world. It's like reading bad hailstorm trips just shearing bolts through flimsy inside-out umbrellas. A great little book plot, no? All tangled in a plethora of soon to be extinct candied ideas, reused and re-eaten, A-B-C style as kids on the playground slide and gum-stuck see-saw. Such a rush seeing scotrail tickets with an accompanying Kundera nuzzling in a dim lamp pool quite near the Neruda of my brain. Just a sensual book club for novels to swing and slam their readied ideas for anyone willing to hear the ohs and ahs. I have the notion that the I's and me's far outweigh the it's and they's, the relative assumption of beings and bodies and snatched up cloaks and masks to hide in and abide much as they did before. And oh, that was a nasty bugger of a sentence trying to stretch some simplicity. I suppose it will merely suffice to be brief and thoughtless while I'm attempting to think.
Should it take so much effort to create something grand, or is it more proper than my entire existence and thus come only with the simplest of dimpling at the edge of the paper. What god I have come to be, more impotent then the diabetic with circulatory disease, humbled by my own abject humanity slowing shedding like molted snake and skin rolling in the arid desert heat, a truncheoning burden if I do say so. I need some dialogue and a few more characters of appeal to me. Someone of a female form, warm as every woman should be, but more so divine in an unspeakable sense, like a twisting of dagger and nail in my own coffin.
The attention to problem lies in my obsession to detail. Exogenous little silly creatures that you are, you fascinate me in such a morbid sense, a downright hideous development that I am nearly certain I can divert or stunt or punctuate. Claymation movies have the same effect as masturbation, just brining thing to a head, making the dead move again in a torturously sick joke. Dance marionettes in a little dirge, please, because we all know the dead never stay dead for very long, too bored with the overcast shadows, too bored with the musty satin trimmings, and the pillow must be absolute hell.
I shudder to think what lies on the other half of my brain, like a bad Pink Floyd album it could be absolute LSD silverfuck, just a shatteringly devious pitfall for such a daft prat as myself, who thought it only proper to search for that which made it all awesomely real. Could just be an overgrown garden of retro ideas, budding ming vases, and carpeted temples to random items from the clearance rack at a Kmart near you.

2 March 2005

An Elastic Raincoat Isn't as Thoughtful

Animal is hungry
Been sleeping far too long
Gonna fill this lacuna

Don't believe anything you touch. Sensation and perception are the hollow-point wounds of psychological demons. Or something to that effect. I swing canyon to wormhole on subliminal message microwaves sliding neutrons in my pocket for snacks down the road. Just a wasteground here where the land refuses to grow. There's mob-action in the orchard all dip and sway for god knows what reason save for Gertrude Stein that saucy minx. Constantly addicted to the bridge light nightlife we all bus back and down the quay, just queuing up again at one end to the other grabbing neon signs and drunk bar fights on the way. There's always a gentleman caller standing at the doorway stone in stone on a brisk lit black night waiting for the whistle from down the street, and we would all climb in the car and run. Check the weapons and check the attitudes, the egos for basking in self-glory, all at the step up diner where we slung our stomachs full of chilies and beer. Toasting like the white marshmallows we were going diffuse in the grey matter slashing in the trees, we were only goin 30 last i saw the dial swing past Mars.
This is forgiven in the hashed morning grating of bones and cold stone mattresses the great old trees sleep in. While we all may wonder what holiday we began on, or what day we first started hauling the world our way, there were one hundred ninety-eight days of scorched silence and dazzling liquid words tumbling out the sideway windows to the aloof pavement. But at least we had some say. Lucid Joy was a bit more skeptical, just saying we were kids the whole time we were wild, drumming our legs and toes with fingers and wrists popping, just tatting and ratting the rumble in our threads and bones. She was a great gal alright, in for a penny as if it were a fortune all the same, singing the beads to our clefting threads, filling my lil lacuna almost all the way with something saltier than earth and rain and might. It was the essence of the old khakis in that drab hankering hue like
honey I'm gonna come to California
sleeping all the way on the train car through and lamp-lit lingo-ing keeping me up all night in the ramshackle slow dive effect these mean dug birds just these three doves a meal and four corners and a head hung low
by Samo.
Count your sleeping children in decimals and dogs, one per sweating brow in the granary or factory with all the stolen steel of men getting suckled down. There was one time I shoveled out a small hole in myself and threw in everything but the christ I knew. And in a herring's space that howling knew. Much like paved over sand dunes there was always a lot to say for the external obsession while holding my umbrella beneath the ocean tide. Its gonna bury the bits while the tires spin, just muddying up us both. Chortles were the best, the heaviest of guffaws were too unreasonable, and that Joy she said, she said it was just the same all the while humming every little piece of cold out of my hands. Just say we are kids the whole time we were wild and handsome and stoned, shake the steering column with the trembling blast of 'again' as we drive ourselves crazy blazing into the sun rattling the tune of towering dreams to come. Sing a lil Joy song to bring our sons and daughters home, like a lullaby with beat and clamour enough to wake the living.

27 February 2005

Seven and the Skeletal Fish We Pudding-ify

Got their wires
another way
its on the first page of the a to zed
and is
so easy to
lose your way
but you can find it on the motorway
and take
a wrong turn
but thats ok,
start again another day

Being on a bender (bite my shiny pseudo-scottish ass) is brilliant when it actually punctuates everything in life and acheives precisely what you set out upon such a task for. Namely, boredom, or the release from said boredom. However, my bender is just pointless because I am still bored and I've spent out of the last 72 hours awake maybe only 8 of them sober. Not bad if I do say so.
I keep hearing The Pop Song and My Father My King whenever I tilt my head to the right or left respectively. I fancy the predicament to a muse, sitting quietly in my brain until something shakes her off her tight little ass to which she strikes up all the chords that are sucked down into my flesh, deep toned and high strung, all knotted, contorted, and visually vile when painted on snow. I was never pure enough for white of any sort, thankfully. I in fact enjoy the darkness of a room at night with only moonswept shadows and dusty tables adorning it, I have been that peculiar for many years once I was able to get over my initial fear of the dark, fear of the unknown, fear of death. But it strikes me that there are too many people to count who still have these, who when entering a room I have been comfortable in, lights off with only streetlamp or early morning wading past curtains or shades, and continually ask how I could possibly like being in such a dim environment. As if there were something to fear from the room just then, that having the lights out made it completely unsafe or antiquated or a toll to death further down the road. Is reflection of ones own mind so bad, so cataclysmic to their existence that they rather run than even sneak a small glance at what is really behind their callow countenances? A pity.
Peanut butter is the glue of life, just a protein paste, a familiar example of simplicity, and a knife-full can last me from anywhere between .002 seconds to an hour and a half all depending on the immediate peanut butter index, or the IPBI. This you can calculate using a simple equation that involves no fewer than five differential equations and such random variables as toenail length. But its peanut butter, so eat it.
I think the next time someone asks why I am sitting in a dark room I merely remark, "is the room dark, or is it that you have not yet seen the light?" for I have seen the peanut buttery goodness and snuck a few fingers for taste and good measure, I am no wiser than the greatest fool but I have at least known what simplicity can be if done with no more regard to the "big issues" than a child gives to politics.
How many times undone can one person be as they're careening through the facade of their favorite fantasy?
Cheers chewable kittens.

22 February 2005

Irradiating Hollow Bones and Rubber Bats

Then racing for the sink
I shove my head in
And the world looks like heaven
It's all white

Pulleys and monsters squealing on the spin, and a single rope hanging the lot. Just a pretty little picture on a desk that somehow illustrates the diversity of the words "I hate school" as she said it the first time and again. Because it's not the professors that sleep with students and data thats contagious with BPV-4, not the line for returning the goodwill of all those before us, rather this is just textbook regurgitation through funnels past the incus, malleus, stapes suctioning down my brain amok with withdrawal from a cancer called society. I am prepared. Prepared to kill. Prepared to die. Prepared to judge. Funny thing is in all those centuries I forgot to prepare for living, just like bees, I did the song and dance, swept up and sowed the pollen need be sewn, but we all smack ourselves into windows or cobwebs while working to build the home thats not ours so much as ours.
Misdemeanor violations are merely demerits on our permanent records as we fold down the telegram lines between ourselves and what was the us of some greater social conscept, no? Now this is a rant I must say.
It's past late and early is on its way. Styrofoam napkins folded into party hats made for fashionable dips and sipping lasses, just tits flailing down and high heels in the midnight air above the bed, senuality and sexuality and fucking are all the same to them. But that's just more commentary, drivel driven from the same flesh-tone spark that slides its hand around waist and neck and thigh. Needless isn't a needed word in the english person, the American person. There are no politer people than the Scottish, for in the rest of this drab lil globe, wee tilted on its axis, people merely insist on smiling whilst they screw you in the back-seat of a volkswagen, volvo, or in the case of upper class, the rolls or bentley.
I am a simpering tired little child, wishing for things instead of hope, because hope itself is a failure of a concept. Released from its box, Pandora rifled through what was left and found that funny bazooka, took aim, and launched all the hatred past the stars and annhilated, extricated from life, that leafless flying dream-like nuance. Hope. Dead. Deal with it. But please do not consider me bitter, seriously, I really am far from angry or depressed, merely musing at the silly ideas we hold, as if we were able to resist.
A distict lack of inspiration or lack of motivation or lack in general is so befalling, it is fell, it is like drooling ghastly, gawking and at a loss for any thought cogitent and profound. Dried up.
I still see the beaches in hollow bones as I cut through the congealed marrow and beneath the periosteum, just a tiny mare, maria, saintly in its tepid pooling. Cut through mine and detours immerse the streets, just orange signs and traffic jams like donuts in a cardiac patient past his prime. Prime. Peak, the top of performance, but of what. I'll measure success just the same I measure men and women. I'll measure it all through glassy eyes on a death bed, not by the money or the women I've bedded, not this besting of others. Why so competitive, so determined to carry on in a biological fashion. So surreal. So boring, I realise, but you're no better to look at, all hips and curves on the A74. Just clip along, good pace with good things in tow, just move along looking for the people that will be fine with the mediocrity they impose.
No cheers for you.

19 February 2005

Sipping Lutein Milkshakes from Rose Petals

Waiting for some kind of change crossin' over the road
It's time to take control again and be the only one
It's time to sell your soul again and be the holy one

Late age and agnosticism are rival adventurers like Roger Moore and Livingstone, trapped upside down in a lions den, no pride or prejudice to the sparking wires. The store fronts have grayed once 7PM calls out along the brick wall walkway avenue, chanced that pink lights might illuminate the ruddy hue of skin and fishnet underwear. Cos these kids don't wear cotton or canvas, how trite would that be?, instead they mingle with leather and bead dangling, just denim and nylon and black lace over hoods. The redlight district is like hell on mars, dusty and musty and choking life in suffocating fashion, I am dry here. Not sober in the way sobriety intones, where liquor never touches my toes or my feet or fingers or shoulders or lips, cos I bathe in this drunken atmosphere and can't be anything but intoxicated.
The longer the spring takes to find its stride, the longer it rakes off the horned edge of my psyche taking ego and interest far down into winter's mild grave. The yellow-lit white-striped streetlamp street is heaven in a certain hour, when child doesn't know the shadows that crawl across me with passing cars and passing cares and passing doors closing with heavy, thick-warm sighs, just gilded guilt trips of should haves and would bes and no mores for the immortal sensation of passion can go on burning cans of paint that color flashes to sandstone flashing.
Late age and agnosticism as I said once is nothing more than hurling laundery and latitutde between you and the feeling of empty vessels floating down Niles and Amazons, those slipstream consciousnesses that suck us under. So then you stuff full a rucksack, like you knew what one was for, full of trivia and esteem and novels and good lots for casting, just packing it in so that sinking is half the fun of going home. Hitting the atmosphere in the desert dune hearing techno bouncing off satellites and mirrors on the cacti and tomato stands in the shade. Heavy soul these late August nights late in February frost bitten tips and tangled wire on the dreams, hanging like slack lines on the July prairie.
Sitting backwards looking straight sideways at a problem often makes it a timeless piece of art not worthwhile to cut and stip bear, cos problems are tangible abstract mosaic collages of lifes beauty. Write that down.
I feel the road banging away beneath my feet, yearning to be driven, walked, ridden, upon. Sitting here backwards and typing without seeing I have found this triumphant, a cold style of unsettling vindication, no fist or broken stick, no ash or feather. Just a long string of the same nameless text from non-corporeal type. Phantom, maybe. But not quite yet.

11 February 2005

A Turgenevic Shave with Dim-Lit Nachos

Got a man of the people,
says keep hope alive
Got fuel to burn,
got roads to drive.
Keep on rockin' in the free world!

I hope to see my friend and shake his hand... I hope the pacific is a blue as it has been in my dreams... I hope...

I watched amber ripples burn into the black machine-rolled paper, edging up up up and smoking fervently, and realised that I knew exactly what could be the whole matter with my twisted brain. I think there's a slight chance that while I may have died some time ago, while the child in me was suffocated and I grew to some strange blend of adult, that a piece remained, so to speak. Maybe I'm a bit confused, I do so miss a good jewish deli and the more I reread this it reminds me of pastrami and pickles and a whole lotta mayo and not fucking SALAD CREAM! But at anyrate, despite the similar taste, I shall continue undistractedly and without tangential angular acceleration of the utmost maximum kind. (say what, Willis?) Thats right, you heard me, tangential your ass right off the ride mo fo. But I was watching the night clouds, seeing them float on to the west and off into the isle and began seeing shapes, not even conscious of it at first but I saw a whole wonderful near celestial play go before my eyes. And I thought, 'Australia is going to say wtf when they see what I see'. A bull terrier and the subcontinent of India with an exaggerated Sri Lanka. Seriousy, where do these things come from.
But that has nothing to do with anything I purport. In fact the whole idea is that I always wanted new eyes to awaken with every morning. Just the ability to see the world as a child does, without prejudice and scorn. It's a tall order, I readily admit this, but In fact, maybe I have had them the whole time. I see things in a fresh light the moment I turn away and back again. I see people renewed in light and dark and dim lit shadowed corners. I see mugs of beer and glasses of rum strewn across the floor in fractals and serendipitous fashion, snaking into tribal designs and interlocking much like the loops of friends and interactions of everyone around them. A dynamic moving puzzle with such great assembly required to see the pieces fit perfectly. A fluid structure of perfection that most people are far too close to see.
Just a thought at 11 past the 45th day of reckoning in an asylum. I still feel the coal dust for lungs I had fought to keep, darker and bitter they were worn in and easier to breathe on the acrid dust I kicked into myself through word and tongue lash. But thats only the few days I had been in hell for. Here it's much more difficult with paunchy bodies and lingering lobes ready to shred, just flesh as another measure of the meek and weak values we dangle in front of everyone's faces.
I feel a bit Pygmalion for why can't I desire beauty that is tangible, a physicality of what I precipitate as perfection. Amid a life of dust-jackets and strewn-about plastics disc-shaped for lyrical content, am I such a sorrowful person as to desire a musty leather binding separating faded gold-tipped pages from the humidity of her breath. I feel a bit Pygmalion parapalegic having been filled with some awful sheets of music, architecture, an horrific ideal of beauty all lacking the shape-forming creation they so long await shelved and succinct but for chaotic rambling whispers of curdled pleas. Once dead, the dead look awfully appeased at their descriptive namesake, coddled fetuses waiting for chimes to ring new organs of Corti for their desperately bored ears. I'd throw some plaster in with the sand-blue acrylic and lacquer, paint a mishap of Maugham so far from identical as to be wordless and aged and idle. I feel a bit Pygmalion taking in every curve of the road
just so
BEAT, beatific
and burning in the way few still have. That restless
r-o-l-l-i-n-g of tongue waiting to expel some spirit of worldly sustinence devoured in trails of ink and sluiced into a frigid blend. Shivering, tittering, little shaking ideas with stick-standing leans upon my cortex, but that's not really funny, bunny. I have a feeling there's road to be layed, wheel's to be spun, and distance to be traveled, a rip of tar and exhaust cutting across continents. This is passion. An idea that is so striking that to utter it louder than a whisper would shake the earth and unchain the titans we call men. Or so I'd like to think as such of dreaming children, slumber bound and stalking their own shadows. Beatific... I can't wait to feel the sun on my skin and the wind in my hair, hear the engine firing, whirring, and pushing. That's life, I suppose. Cheers.

6 February 2005

Some Lengthy Tirade and Mo Cuisla

Looking back in time
Through verses set into nursery rhyme
At oil painted eyes
Of muses left behind
I swear I know not why

Worn out is a description I tend to wear, seething in ever cell, in every miswired strand of nervous tissue shouting down its barrel-axon toward my brain and feet and corded dorsal column. Loud enough and it might snap in a click and spasm. I wonder... how bright would that spark be, how long and drawn out because I see it in my minds eye plowing back and forth sheering across the meters of my arms and legs never tangling. And its warm. Like plasma it rips the veins and sterilises the senses, novelty in every breath, surprise in every vision. I wonder... how bright, how long, how far reaching because I want to scream into the world's ear, deafen and dumb the blind and bleeding; I want them to feel an intensity that I've felt forever now, the pure thrill that shudders and bloats, disturbs every frame of mind I can manage to get my hands on. Fortunately, it all abates, this war I crave, because why should it destroy everything. I only desire to see the old torn down for the new, not for the newness by any means, no, but for the rending of systemic parts into feeble sorts. The important made powerless and the powerful rendered to syncophants. This could all very well be a dream gone awry, or a ham sandwich on new york deli rye, I often get the two confused, even I admit.
I shuffled around the trees in the backyard once and found a baby bird, dead from the fall the nest took. How far up I could never have said because the firs often hide the deepest part of themselves so well, layer on layer of intermingling needles made to impose upon the rest of the world. They are so specifically designed to keep the juice inside, to prevent others from sucking them dry, draining them. Isolated as they were, this creature had found its way among them, lived in one of the sort, one like myself I'd say, that has the uncanny natural ability to unify the random ideologies, birds and insects and opossums and such, all opposed the others, conjoined simultaneously. And much like all angels, so fresh and new to worldliness every morning, that hatchling of a bird was rocked and fell, jostled from its glory in the skies and buried.
So I'm not all that accomplished at allegories, but think with whom you keep company, think hard. Cos so often the best of us are indeed the most fell creatures. So often the hinges of the group are the ones who are also the ones who will destroy it. Intentional is not a word in anyone's repetoire in such ways as this would seem. I think it's just another one of the natural rhythms, the pattern. Mo cuisla, dear me, how have you been so gone and off amid this sinning way, we did so find a fish to be the most peculiar of swaggering mammals once we gave it a cane. I still remember the gone way it looked up and said in its gruff gill-garbled tone that it was no more a human than I or the tin can of sardines, and I thought how brilliant the imp must have been to build a bridge across that city on the sun. These were the gone times we had had, when we dug the little things and let the big ones slide in the name of fun. But then one day I woke up on a train in time to see you jump. All the chalk painted pictures to the south, a highway ramp road up east, and then the grain of sand in my pocket spelled some message you had said once in a dream: you can't will yourself happy... you can't will your cunt wet, you can't keep standing at the station pretending you're being met.
I found a sink and soap, used both all the same, took up a brush and house and collided some ink to say, 'mo cuisla I have burned the earth I drank, and I will rise.' Little flicks of playful torment still throb at my sleeping temples, a deep sighed thwock thwock thwock and some silt-like sunshine sluicing through the slats. I called it Sunday, I called it home, it was hills and lowing, the type of dream I could be accostomed to if I could get the train to stop on the bens in time. I shuffled all along this world, shuffled all along thwock,
just shuffled,
i can here the water slipping ocean under skin

3 February 2005

Vernal Partruition

in case of emergency
stampede is coming
mastadon infantry
radiate this frequency
and show me just what
the hell you mean

"... you're going to have a miserable future. But overall you'll have a happy life."

It's a night life just falling down on me like starshine shoes in a hollywood production of life on a hillside slanted acreage. Peace and silence and dusty wives covered in the green they grew up from like frost bitten mammals that they were. So judicial these children in cribs and pacified dreams burning down through the stem. I still have trouble coping with their indignation and rebellious clout frothing out at me while I enjoy the tepid temperament that I've built to hold myself outside of this mess. The market closed on a Sunday noon right outside the last newspaper park article writing something of a ma'am and hiss of pride and default nature of another damsel. Could it have been a contextual fraud of rocking maturity throwing joke and soda down throat and cold cooler bottle stalks?
Then again it could be the crave for a pointless sea farer and his dolphin troupe to wage a war for land. Is it so wrong to desire war for warssake? No ideology just crushing violence against wrist and shoulder, pundit to squashed sense of humours...
Hmm, it might be of a better idea to consolidate into a more coherent existence, but then again, these are how the thoughts exist in their quiet reserve, shuffled and conversing on their own, conjoining and conjugating a massive orgy of information sitting fingertips length from tumbler and tumbled sleep. So what better way to throw them at the world than the raw seer formlessness gurgling and spewing itself. Interesting imagery I think. I've begun to see the fire eat itself and out of sheeer madness begin to lick at others. Oh how I did say it was, but then again, people think I'm just disturbing in my thoughts on god and man and gods among men and all the kind of us being flame in passion and working to no end other than a deep destruction of soul. Given that all that exists anyhow. Brilliant little tangent no?
I still feel some peace but it seems so fell and angry that I've let it fall into their hands. I don't want to be callous and cold, but it is merely the nature of evolving sons. Turn inward and silent in order to push the bounds outward and burn the establishment. Could be a lack of inspiration that drives me to read and find some old words for today's blog, or tomorrow's class, who knows. I suppose it is fair to say that I wish to stay here under the condition that I can live alone, without neighbors, near the hills, and with my cats. Just so that it all no longer rhymes with conundrum. A tricky gesture and floats off in imagination. I've always expected myself to be absolutely off the cuff and out of the area. Turn the corner and the world to look backwards and me forwards but somehow upside down, only to see that it is as it was and hasn't a chance at being unprofessional? More nonsense and no longer poetic I'm afraid. This is Spring in its burgeoning form, aching and sucking dry chest and mind. I suppose that's the only explanation of the previous posts before January left me in such disarray. Ah, well, it's been warm and the books have been piling up much to my delight. Some new Turgenev and Stendahl, some Vonnegut and Adams. All I need now is a plane ticket to Bhutan and I'll be set, methinks.