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?