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.