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.

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