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.