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

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