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.