12 September 2006

Ancor-What and the Graphical Representation of Rhetorical Sentences

Everybody's trying to be the best
What about the girl with loneliness
I like your sundress

With one eye, that’s how you see them, as they fade in and out of the swarm-red light, fazing themselves into the bits of stranded thick filaments woven around our reality visions, our caudal incisions, our sanctimonious sanctuaries deep covered in much and piss and shite. Canvas traps these are. You see the bus-light reflections against the burnt out lividity of the haze and city streets swamped with rain-night lonely wandered dim-lights pulsing softly to a death-tick. If you continue to read, you get lost in the pages, lost in the story, unaware of the pieces of your own story, the one that nearly everyone in this dark stew becomes obsessed with. They call it living, living with a purpose, a fetish or passion, but it's all just an obsession of the worldly kind, a religious, sorrowful struggle for amiable convenience. they all get caged by their stories, their troubles and dramas and victory wails, they all get caged by their feelings that feel for no one but their tiny ids tempted by the egos, their actions too weak and hopeless to avail them of the guilt-dawn splitting them into all the morning fractals of midnight chevrons. All there sick-sad lettered days fuel them into some form of pangs and bangs and kicks and rage, they form and form and firm and headlong spindle-wire walk the tapestries they spun circling them, noosing them, nursing them. That’s how you see them, with one eye. with two they can walk between your sight, hide in the pockets of neural suppression from left to right, those overlapping plates of animal regression, avoidance of everything a species fears. We're holding our breath in ornithological loops and knapsacks, the percussion thronging, beating the gentle life out of our footed traffic and senicious thought ploddings choreographed to a heightened bodhisattva-straddling safety pin. Wedged.
I submerge myself in the beats, in the charged Czech and Japanese, not for their drug and sex culture, their obvious pins that wake so many juvenile minds, but I like the taste of the words. The flavor of the words as they come onto my tongue and out again because its one thing to regurgitate memories, the black poenic syllables crunching out noise and breaking up the long winded intervals of paragraphic, hypertrophic musings, that’s one thing unto itself. But these. These are neither slow nor swift strange careenings of genuine thought and amenical letters swatting at each other in a buzz of quick conjugal creation broken back into pieces from holy cities of infinitely long words that would never make sense on an ear. It’s a gargantuan strobe. a flash that incenses on forever and never, only a flash to those who see it, a pyre or brief insurrection of rebel fear and portraited, beaming, soulful crashing, thunderous thunder and lighted lightning, quixotic, keyhotic-- melodic-- burrburraburrburraburrburra.
If I could afford a piece of paper for every blinding thought (have at thee) that slippedsorted into the foaling crest of constant tectal innervation, I wouldn’t need to be in this ministry of medicine or pecuniary plotline that seems so maundanely twisted. If I could afford two bourbon bottles and a weekend in hospital, I think I might actually have a fair weekend at rest. I'm more and more like the coaxing ocean, seeing me seeing me and knowing the devil can only tempt himself for the upperhand because revolution is the oldest cannibal-- self-eating and greeting and making of the hatred and love and spied secrets of the allnone and everything of the self but not. There's no ambition, just the dark destructive light of creation ceaselessly slumping toward the tinder and home.

19 August 2006

A Chef's Antigonal Parade

Two tattoos of skin
One of ice one of tin
For the days have gone by

The song in the bile says I'm sorry sorry sorry like a backbone rhythm could ever shake it free. So patience plays this game with us as confused unconscious kids will do, leaning backward in the moonlit shade just trying to wait. Leaving these crumpled bones for carpeting, we're not so meant to weave the dextrous sort of papier mache dreams. What is this wanting? What is it that we haven't yet named? Pretense. A postural reflex to the dynamic foam of scrolling context.
Why have everything? With all secrets owning and paranoia drowning out the resolution, what has everything to do with us? If I was a Hannibal with the trampling hooves, mountains would weep at their own trembling. Yes, there's bad timing, but we look off between the words helping ourselves to their cankerous fray, yearning to defy and define convention from the arbitrary so some miraculous fate may give out that love is...
Love is. Love is. Have the everything without and pour yourself and your kind beating out the cascade, the orchestral and further that blinding bank of ecstatic everything into that resounding am following the I.
It's an impossibility, that cooling incompleteness, the white scar folded over the earth. An astoundment. Just here an H-shaped hole slithering in the obstetric void of everyall sucking in from possible abscess across a neverend to more alleverything, but it's sharp and forked, unkind in how it lapses us in our shrouds. How improbable that each of we are conjoined and disincontinuous to each of the other and them. Pagus. Sorted on a length of belief extended parsecs and Mosely-Einstein leaps deep into a temporal conjunct, how inseparable are we. Marvelous, that love is and hate is and I am and you are. And this... well, this is everything. Just here. Just now. Marvelous.

28 July 2006

Paradiso und the Hassenpfeffer Altimeter

when will the flame break
and spare the good people it takes

Today was not a bad day, nor was it unkind or heated or many things. Many things have gone unsaid through many years, but to them whom I owe, I pay them rightly, pay them righteously. And this is not meant to be in a godlike manner, not with stiff tempest or shattering hail-like tears. What use is such effect. No, it is meant that they are to be given the grace and slow wax of true cordiality, the subtle warmth and tease. It's a cocaine abstraction, a summer phantom twilighting in the headlight wash. Such passivity is our winter, our barren gravitas blown through the green terraces.
And so they'll all build veiled little kingdoms on the petty, proper, pauper graves and they'll come forgotten to me asking for a simple hapless ray. Because I am. We all are in an eventuality, but then again there are only enough hope strings hung from the corpse that is the land. We cook our sacrifices in wars and holy, shambolic, godhead-bloodshed, like so many relieved columns pushing forward our eyes to the fronting gape of bluest lacquer, blackest ribboned, deeper vermillion gorged over each sky.
I am a plant, such silver branches are life I give to go as deep in earth as high above framing the world, this greater outer pin that I is. I am but a plant, a complex vessel full of frail tribulations, conjuring magic so scientific. I am but a plant, a tremble, treble leaf so green with vigorous pride of youth, but failing to find the converse mention of daring simplicity breathing in my stoma. I am open. I am open.

17 July 2006

Why Be Ahead When Ought Is Further South of the Sun

some things tie your life together
slender threads and things to treasure
days like that should last and last and last

The problem with aging, and being conscious of said aging, is the constant reminder and remembrance of major shifts in life that we all idly passed failing to realise just what it was we were buying in for at the time. Our very own psyches are nothing more than thinning spheres of vantages, losing detail with every spin while the winds speak their friction and coarse language of cold and loneliness and fear. All we have in the end, the small specks we define as personality, are just Monday's leftovers. This pantheon of ours is merely cast on a die, an evil wicked turn and our little lives may seem ever more poignant or featureless depending on the perspicacity of our own Van der Waals and eyes. May seem a little more horrible, a little less brilliant, a little more contagious, a little less sane. Oh, we are thriving, spinning on an edge of glass ceilings and wageless sins, how we do thrive and lie and dive and live. Odd they don’t sound the same, those, thrive being the very essence of living we think so clearly on in old morning showers of soap and lather tints. Just goes to show the lack of continuity between everything and the everything it represents, that which is and isn't being the same and not, the constant contradiction that always nudges that ol’ piece of grey matter lurching forward with every quantified leap we mark as achievement. I have achieved. Nothing great nor remarkable, even markable or marketable would be lovely, I assure you. But I have achieved, and always forget the fall of the step that left we on the sinister bank of such rubiconesque delineations, such masqueraded victories said of we. Last I checked, no one thought of me as one of them, us, or otherwise adverse fittings or stays keeping all this shite in check. My personal hell is my Holyland. Society, the vile tutor of all the chummy swimming rays. Society, the fearful republic that never thought me able to handle truth. Just the same I've long since thought truth was no different from rest of the grey din. But this is the tumbling friction, the momentary contact and exhale we lift each other from... lift like a fretful moment retracting saintly and slyly shrugging the whimper for a black and embered hmm. Lift, lift, lift, lift, lift. Even the improbable, nay, the impossible is possible, inevitable when the universe stands infinite in its infinity. How fortunate I don't care about being liked, not when falling means death and death means inevitable and inevitable means spinning and spinning means fury and losing and fading and paling and dreaming and sharing and serenading and breaking and loving and puncture and friction and heat and joy. That breathless, soft girl. Joy.

3 June 2006

Canoodle-a-Doodle... Ooo

We can struggle in the web
We can struggle
With white spider stars coming down
And night blowing black from the ground

            the carrion-crow-feed never need to speak
about the unfortunate invisibility they find in the deep
womb of afterbirth.
oddly coital
coital coiled mortals of a granary mill
grinding the spiritus for manna
men need
Head-heavy moles burrowing through the aparteide
numbly clumsying the ether subsorrow
a pastey-
portioned single-serving
of unconscious sandwich spread
Poor Samo.
Por Samo.
and E, E, J, C, K. The powdered faces wasting
living on a dying breed,
living nonetheless,
these flawlessly bruised holes in the latex of

Here's a head hung low by the potstill streetlamp
a pigeon fork
resting baled to the brow.
And all the greedy
whisky drinkers and their tinned whisky dinners
sinning on in black-marred knuckles
and coring bones with cheap excision tools
more daring Rimbaud revisions than a satanist would
Religiosity and relegated managerial
affairs of those two feeble shanties paper
all the crinkling walls in the customs' gaping bureau.

Pat the bunny. and think Pascal and Bastille,
think turtle and turrepine, but always.
Pat the bunny.

18 May 2006

The Little Knew Too Man, Or A Tetrahedral Guru Hutch

All the stories in stones
And in beakers and bones
All the salt in the sea

It’s lonely out there: 16 satellites homing in on the cold dark outer rim; an edge of oblivion that becomes populated each focus of the camera; an outside ear listening to the tittering of some terminal star. You’re just the juice from someones’ apple, a slick-wet subliminality draining backend forwards, not even a tear-jerk response, but a salival rush attempt to stamp out any recognition, any connection between their dialed up self-volume and your edgy whisper shaking the chains. It’s all in the image of higher consciousness, the place we call emotive, that never once could be thought animal. Here's your fear. Simple and low brow you gag on some spoonful of what ifs, gob a gasp and settle back thinking there's nothing outside your belief that could ever be more real than your rolls of money, your thick thread count sheets of portfolios. I know you have a secret, a pile of asps nipping at the inside cuff, that all that’s you you tie up in them, their shadows and words and pantomime hands acting as much or more than you’ve known yourself to dance. So this is sociopathic, I suppose, but maybe I’m just a different egg of another clutch, maybe I’m caught up in the solar Ephesus, winking lash of Luciferan expression, the possibility of dreaming freedom in a form of fledgling divinity.
But with shirt sleeves buckled and tied, I cant per se argue against your social clan, your obvious god-like wisdom read out from black books and dusty volumes still scratching at the surface of my lens. You get in the way of me, with your love and loyalty, your idiotic prophecy, your human rationale washing out instinct of what you know is.
I’ve a split cranium from sun poisoned streets, baked pavement leading along the errants and viceroys, and this blue blown summer gas is more depleting while the young live for melanomatic activity. So, rub your eyes and adjust the subtle hazel to brown so that maybe without squinting I can see around your void bodies ambling crudely through my thoughts.

9 May 2006

Invalid Arguments of Gonadal f(x)

You're like a messiah, pal
Little kingdoms in your chest
I told you we'd make it, on for another
I told you we'd make it, on for all night (Put on all our best)

I strain against you, this perfect violet weight, all gone in pallor, caught up in the orange-dew-dropped lamps curving for a black-tar tongue of pooling litter, and such rush begets another whim: to run flat out across the bland-square hedges and fallow, reedy lands, each mire a miracle of aggravation, a causeway to uncoupling this swollen link and lymph, an easing of the passing time to heady rain cloud language of unbearable levity. Joy in itself is a joke, though death is a heartier guffaw, a faux end and drop leaving sigils to tell the bedtime tales and tie our dreams on end to end to end. What a ladder we'll all build. What an uncanny harmonic device like the throat-thoughtfully blown blues in the deep green ring of the night, the lulling horn-howled and heavy-souled blanket. Pagan aren't you? Heating the soft earth between your creased and folded fingers, healing whatever part it is that sobs against the browning fields of crowned wheat, and all-outward wave the broad flaxen heads ululatus ulu ulu undu ululating shifting stalks in slow-sad chatter sounding out to the wind the rusty nature of their destinies. Ulu ulu undulations, cathartic fences catching the final beat. The vacant thrombosis gorging a thin blue-black bead of soil, still meaning to lift off the sullen strand of wordless conversation, just vilifying itself, growing aged and sick with the yellow-green hue frozen in tufts of gingerly falling leaves waiting for the curse of convection to let them soar, sucking them down with turbulent ends. So this is the christian fruit you brought, the godly good-natured, death-bound and despaired from conception, all its ears brimming and picked upon, singing with tasseled pollen ripped into currents you would like to carry off by hand. Some voice we've left to, an oratory silence and finger tracing word, sketching our biographies from crumbled temples and impish derision. Such is tradition, this purple-pale midnight Europa.

28 April 2006

Palpebral Artichokes Lunching on Sporks

Im coming up only
to hold you under
Im coming up only
to show you wrong

So this is my solitude, the prison i built myself into, more than four walls, unlocked doors. Oddly. Oddly. There is no safety, no comfort. This is necessity, a control of environment, a chosen environment. All organisms need specificities to grow and branch and continue on. This lack of sunlight, protecting my eyes, the lack of human sound other than my own, no ego pressing in on the seed of mine. This prison is the only formula for reasoned and rational freedom within a stoicism such as society. This poingantly obvious reversal of definition where a tin shed may be a haven, a cell an oasis, so that perhaps i am so mentally obscure as to think that all i need is this continuous exposure to my own thought bubbling out in a rivule, ticking in the covert guise of fizz from the juice in the glass. At anyrate this is the campus that would seem to hold posture for all the works that are an individual, all the frantic and frivolous energy amassed in schizophrenic fashion, the juxtaposed victorian castles playing shadows on the postmodernistic waves of titanium sheeting. Everything here, and here is not limited to any coordinate i mean, as here seems flexible as thought makes time, at any rate, here, everything is, was, will be by all contemporary theory, a function of, mean or median reflection of, all the manic chatter and conscripting forces that compose the mind's eye. This is why travel seems so extraneous and frustrating, trying to invent the initiative and conception of movement far and across, when all the while the only thing moving, if indeed thing be the proper term, is, in fact, our perception from one mode of collation to another. Of course all modes are interrelated because the machinery is identical, so it is entirely possible that there can only be a finite number of these modes, these altered pretences that shift around us. Then we have an accountance for all things, if they are things, being identical. You only differ by one lens. One lens making you a passive solution to whatever ails me. How cancerous are i, myself, and me?

4 April 2006

Boreality, Though Unconscionable, Is Neither Arcturan Nor Archetypical

run like a race for family
when you hear like you're alone
the rusty gears of morning
and faceless, busy phones
we gladly run in circles
but the shape we meant to make is gone

Restless. Restless and all I've got to show of it are some broken flowers and a few tracks which seem to be lost in translation like so many foreign novellas thrown into english sofas, rumpled underneath the tossing night's duvees. Such a pretty settee. A casual glance and I may notice the frightful little pub out of doors, or I might not with all the rearrangement of familiar skin over the other side of the bed. I can't be sure, be told, sadly just what to make of all this jumbled existential muck. Restless. And now I check myself of that nervous twitch I'm fairly settled on gambling with each time I use the old words, the almost unfamiliar ones, that merely sing to be sung of the overly familiar things. I think the suitcase is far more appropo. It's short, sweet, compact, a better relation than family or friend, fucking. It's even bent out of windows and into the slim vase of a plane with little remorse as to just how well it may not fit, how well the room is lit for better reading of the hotel room service hours. Clearly these baggages carried on are half out of the bag and wandering, always slinking, always squidging around corners and past doors, wondering. How appropo for an anamorphic leather trawler, a collagenic entity mired in scripture, either way aiming for an animous position to me, to an "us". So, I like suitcases. They may even suit me, you could say. But don't be so jangled, don't hound at me for my own very much ill, in wit or mentality, disposition, because I have nane, not to this road anyway, or those mountains over on the skyline, or those phantom green-washed curtains lipping with a purplessence and mauve regard towards me. The only possible persuasive blame I may hoist in some awful freudian way, well that, that I cannot seem to vocalise. After all, restless isn't a thing of the language so much as the bones and their showing or moaning together so very bod-il-y. Much more heavily in creek beds, much more goaded in ash-lined gravestems, they moan, old and brittle and griping, oh... how they moan. This love or that. But they're bones. White and conjured into a skeletal corporation unknowing of just what the anima may go about creating in Ethiopian horn play. There burns.
i think you spilled wine
on my shoe
in a rosalie pattern
in an awkward leather hue
And he's not dolomite, but neither is her Kate Spade lacking a Sam. Ornation, ornamental, ornithology. Run out of verbs to string along and what's left may be more mystical than sensible when spoken on a mobile just as the microwaves beat in syncopation with each word in the lended, crooked phrase. Of course to sit on it would tell me how hemmorhoids might feel if the monemes could possibly mar an anus and outright swell with a lurid taste of pustuality. Because i am curiousity in a carnal niche untying my own seams and landing outside some taken hands, barred from signing the same peace I would feel in the awkward slope of here.

15 March 2006

Contra Chorial-Atlanticism, Cases of Twinning

you look like a perfect fit
for a girl in need of a tourniquet

One more time for all time. Sine and cosynchronous players on porcelain 32's fraying away a pair of slippers and roman numerals trying to make sense of long division, and its a strung out cascade as we dream and sleep and dream further in, a deepening slumber bereft of gravity. There's always a mean low waterway tiding in at our pulse's lapse and brevity's graciousness, juxtapositioning of porous lasciviousness over the mouth and breadth of ever-waxing moonlit skin, the ugly breaking branch of ripple-worrying wave and interdigitation of flitting cell and cellulose wandering these reedy warm entropies. And I've piles and miles of excitation brimming beneath mortar and skin, a chain reaction postulating out the bliss. So what is lovely in me, what of all gods' facets have bound me in any beauty or rattled radiance that even the sun may wane. There is far haste in my own contrivacy, far weakness in tongue and stylus edge that I would be undone at the pull, the succubus libation, a soft touch. We all contain pastoral faces, vast tracts of long-welled time we grope for, press into with vehemence while the old creases burn back at the dark and what is grappling on these facial plains that long pose against us in the pooling mires mirrors tend to be. We've shred these fetters that harass our corporeality, wearing the birdstock paths into our micron films all collagen projected, worrying more time into a hush-filled rage, wreaking a deontological scythe at the bits of life we may have thought held by infinitude.
All our gasoline coils in the tinfoil strings, a colonnade for the more poignant, misanthropic tendencies harbored no further than the arcuate nails ringing into glass plastered panes. It's this sexuality that reigns us, pulls hard into and out of and juxta-posed upon that maybe once we might fall right into the the jigsaw set places our bodies gave us to be in. Past the neon lights we are human, inane, boring, contraceptive and colossal, we are pigmented with xenotransplantations of our forefathers and weighed down by the ponderous hymns of our mothers prayers, but can't we be ourselves in this? Can't we be counterintuitive and interesting for more than a moment when our lies cease look like the long lines of kanji riddled down the next 48 hours running past my projector light. I still have a fiver in my coat, a name on my mind, a beer lingering in the back of my throat, and three hours of tilting jaunt to couple to the infinite rolling of thought that careens in a railway fashion from idea to action to consequence, but there's no cab that can carry all the heady foam dreams I've lofty-bent tumbled into wondering 'what if' resolutely dispensing the last fear. That tiny little nag of a thought cinder and smoke seem to huff and cough out in lacrimal wheezing. The price of our individual freedom, the price of decent sleep, is a surrender. Back to one again.
Wake Les Moonves. I have a few things to shove in his various orifices.

18 February 2006

I Paraphrase Only in Elucidation

We all do what we can
So we can do just one more thing
We can all be free
Maybe not in words
Maybe not with a look
But with your mind

There is a portion that yearns to unlearn, ravel away as the other builds up with the bricks and dirt of this firmament, wants to crash over the wailing veils that stream over the blacker waters and harder clay. When I'm drunk I look a little like Bukowski, red wine stained teeth and an out of vintage bottling shirt hugging tightly to my corpuscles. And I am disengaged and disingenuous, made failure and fallible by the sting in the look of griping grief shredding through the ears thrumming on the last verberation of a subtle oh. Maybe not in words, maybe not in television, the grey waves crackling on the blue fuzzed carpet where the cat slinks in a tawny vibration of light landing sideways so that we can do just one more thing. Old times on the nine listening to wood planks rippling from stem to stern and rolling, just going our way. It's all in our palindromes we recite on our bedsides, shuffling our thoughts in the small, old drawers we once kept all the children's dreams in, and those were the keys, the turning hasps like shutters squealing in the golden dawn-break storm of light-- that's how we all came out. Five kisses and a dollar bill go fluttering out the window like the stripes waving in the camisole, busy hands worrying stones away trying to comfort the burned-in nature of minds missing ideals. I've had time to weigh the judgments, to weigh the lightness of this thing called love and find it all folly, all folly. Entirely folly. I know that despite the contrast, despite being the dark other I am still governed by the child of light, this gestating firmament that burs the horizontal. I walk the stairs and try to remember the logic, tried to dispense with the polarity, but it is flux. I am completely adjective to it all. Pine and peal, there is no more to matter other than the pattern of indicative, the positive fragment of unhealth and sovereign reign I represent in foetal passing. Perhaps it’s inescapable that no one will see the footfalls or smoke-driven cascade of underestimates I've been privy to. Even now, I know the thoughts escape me, the myriad of knowing this. Knowing you. Not on paper. Not on any template, and I am grieved that I have lost it in two seconds time. I ask to some god that that Borges's own work asked, that but I had a year to form the coherent, the justification...
Not of myself this once. But of you all. I knew it then. That eternity in time while the clove was waiting to burn at my hair, that passable existenz I confused for a reality before the shot and lead and primer explosion that has carved my soul into cohesion beyond any portent you'd been wonting.
Forgiveness is more than futile, but you would never have known.

9 February 2006

An Errable Rotation of Crap Circles

"There's no poetry between us"
Said the paper to the pen
"And I get nothing for my trouble
But the ink beneath my skin"
If your clothes are getting weary
And your soul's gone out of style
Blame the miracle mile
And the bottom of the ladder

My Pomeranian is a fruit-loop, ten bowls and a spoon full of Splenda that the FDA never got around to approving. It's insidious in a whisper but laughable at night when the open mouths all chatter and clouds lift their heels and let the heat out the way. She wore a cornerstone around her waste and a keystone she never bothered to shave except on the weekends after sex and salt had made their way to the beach and dried up on the lichen and leaches, and that’s not all bad if it weren’t for the bus fare and the long drive back at 2 A.M. That's right, pause and rinse, spit a few kazoo castanets before you role down the window, otherwise the landlady might scream about the overdue novel or orgasm or exceptional circumstances of the life you left upstairs and two doors off to the left. Completely plausible though it may be, the orange wedges do not come buttered prior to the 22nd century, not before our crags and nose slopes taper off and the skull fragments of the frog you once held in the osh kosh pocket are scooped up and thought wrongly for the next pop album Wham decides to release. I only say wham because hatred is worth putting two in the hat and waltzing my fair lady in a derby gown and Worcestershire tainted cheddar, only because I am completely mad and the rest of the world has an anger management issue to resolve before little Timmy Connors is allowed to play tricycle with it again.
Clever. Not so much as Cleaver, June, or Ward, they were the same, no? Like mounds and almond joy switching dire for drag and a dope nose habit squirming tissues through the plexus caudal to the dream, they weren't so innocent or bequeathed of any special certainty leftover from the fear generated an era before Jackie Gleason managed to name the characters sent off to the moon 30 years on. 30 years from now. 30 years today. It's an open book jacket, the dust covered plastic bound in masking tape and a folly of a narrative that even Hemingway thought more of a joke than Gertrude Stein, a sallow cheeky fellow in rain gear and a quarter to call home, but no one told of the long distance charge associated with extraterrestrial Etcha-Sketches, tuna sammiches, peanut butter, or the 0[o]zone. That's why we as kids ate Elmer (the DRA was way too high, you see) and needed no enthusiastic mammaries to tell us that white mustaches were better than Dirty Sanchez in Cleveland where the steamers were rolling over Detroit.
Oh, she played on words, too, you know, a grand game called Su Doku [soodookoh] that the window lickers liked to chew on because the Quaker fellow's hat seemed a bit too brimmed for the brisk, baby. The rug-munchers [rats] in kindergarten wonder why their pallantine sinus aches from the ice cream, so they gave em all ferrets and told them that they'd cocoon and pupate and rebirth to puppies at Christmas, but only if you leave them in a sealed egg carton underground. Fuckers. The problem with lying and laying is the lack of stimulation for creativity, like a perfect team its been beating on itself since time immemoriam [hippie days, for the layme people], so much so that the horses caught wind and fought off Hitler single handed just to get a go at that leggy Eva Braun fellow. Parturition was the last straw for dad-dums, what with his post apocalyptic cubist phase, something about the paint fumes I'm sure. Had anyone been astute enough to throw salve on the bee-sting in-between her heroin tracks, they might've seen that tiniest of tattoos, the Mona Lisa of life's artful bookmarks, but sadly the dress was already around her waste and the fingers clenching elsewhere. And in all the mad madness bereaving, like Xavier, life is elsewhere. Life is elsewhere.

1 February 2006

Deviant Circuitry in the Mammalian Machine

I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie
I have my freedom but I don’t have much time
Faith has been broken, tears must be cried
Let’s do some living after we die

She smelled of old tomes bound in finest leather, sweat from heat and passion strained, dew of the frosted mornings clinging dryly to slim-veined leaves like her own lithe limbs, a tender and lined, pale beauty that echoed the wolf's sun in soft radiance speaking in the umber-brown tones of silt and mud-earth. This drama wracked her marble tension in a veil of alabaster and silver feigned emotions, a concoction of struggle and reprieve set upon a stiff and vaulted mind looming in shadow and barely visible light, a haunting aging phantom worrying away at the statuesque ivory giving and giving of its idyllic frame. This is chafing, she would say, a gladly taking of the slim ideascape incorporated into the slants and curves of the light as it was bent into her skin and back out once more, a blue lamp of inhibition networking along the corded muscle, tone and taught, all caught up, in a blending of madness and seduction. On cannot cope with the abscension, the emptying of a soul, the silt and sand slowing quaking into the watery ellipsis boiling over with transduction and raining out the amalgamated bolt down a length of wire so thin as one of us. She was glass beads brimming from her tongue the jewels of life and laughter falling at a rhythm, a cadence and contractual hoom of her pulse dipping the frail chords in ecstasy only to shake it free in the tackling, tossing monomeric fumbling for words that consumes in the din of flooded love and consummation. This beauty corrupts us wholly, entreating the wandering of souls to blacken with yellow-sick sin while profanity is stark truth, a lovely bold reflection of vulgar row and conquering contagion in search, constantly warred and palely raging fingers deep through he skull. Suck in, drain in, expedite the delirium feeling only the rudimentary shear of a palsy shift in personality. She held tight this time in the gale force careen, the mauve-wrinkled twilight perfusing the last collapsed vessel as she hemorrhaged out her own Canterbury tales, blindly seeding the fallen mess of own pearls and parcels sloughing off the hips. Green glass shoals breaking the meagre number within the elder seas, casting what few tithings still flat off at the far end of sanity. Very well she may cross the line or swim to provide better ballast, a greater keel to the vicious, hurried wind she presses to others ears.

25 January 2006

Terricloth Galleys in a California Den

Just before our love got lost you said
I am as constant as a northern star
And I said, constant in the darkness
Where'’s that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar

progeny A generation of martial children, raised on strings to marionette tunes, free to think and bleed and die, free to whisper and cry. No words too loud, no ear wrenching actions, but syncophantics and simon says are fine games we're told. How about we take offense, offense at helping hands and generosity, offense at ancestral wrong doing, these sins that spiral our histonic DNA. I'm offended that my actions are thought too nice, that my efforts must be cut back. Substandard is the mean, the most normalest feeling; how dare we raise the bar and fill others with guilt, how dare we do as we feel and effect change, but self-improvement, you see, requires one to feel inferior, its a state of masochism,doubt and hatred of the ego, self-masturbation.
digression A fluidity transcending bounds of thought, of cogitation and rationale. Scratching at the skin and flaking the words of poor desparity I have accumulated the sins in casing the people the surround. In penning the thought I am condemned, by myself and nay who might know what has become. Not all things may come to term, a chord may slip in variance, a lyric may vanish, but it all still goes on. The stain finds the clean, innocent bit to distend, corroding all shape over form, and I am the only breeding shadow the shades know by name. The areas set in, invading, invectifying our subtleties of humour, of defense, the sharp curve of tongue and hasping clack of teeth, the foetal idea of childhood lost, miscarried, or freemartin to its darker brother, violence.
What an abyss we fated feel, there but for our eyes we may constantly reel. Battered by indecision and carnal incision, we are pasted bits of everyone gleaning a small notion of I.
I shall practice as if I know what exactly is real and what precisely is mind's own. Just before our love goes...
in existing In ordinance, biphasic transgression that we are war, committment and competition, a blast of semi-transduced laughter, quivering. There's something I'd like to know, just before all this goes. We are infintesimal and partruited through this virgin microfoam,keep your eyes open wide for the first bit of fresh air, fell, sweet, and sublime. Sobriety is by far our worst of vices constantly worshipped for its clever attempt at wit. Belated as we are, so off by our own volition, what violet ambling lay there for us at the sortid juncture of our pleasantries. We are lips and hands fumbling in empty embrace, caustic to our own lamentable insecurities. But then you hold yourself and I press in, the reception is more encumbered, more than either full or past. Oh, there are blessings, each one a wound to us, a screw knitting our polarities tightly in a crush, so much more violent than brass and fists, beam and bone. We are lovely. Incendiary and translucent, bridging the worlds we fail to fully occupy. Part and part, we are hardly whole, hardly full, pangs and hunger in figurines, we are weary of the lost and losing, the holy omission of one another. There's love. There's always something akin to the spicules and folded hands, a brush of hair and tips, this service, this time. We disassemble our maturation, weigh our flailing thoughts against time just hoping for an onset, an exit. Exeunt. We should have gone as well, our skeletons tying the last knots of our focus and so we didactically chaste and throw the other off, winding our own way after our love is gone. Oh, there are blessings, and we have none. Only the other.
pale Pulled from noiseless earth, from wet womb combed over with shit and dead and dying. Pulled, thrust up to power and anger and vile. Level me to a point, a solid one-off statement that no novelist can cling to. Pray tell. Pay til. Til an end comes into sight.

21 January 2006

Collapsible Placentae: A Story of Afterbirth

we climb
and we climb
to the light
to the light

sacer. Sacred, this discipline lining waste bins in kit of latex milled out. Rolled. Rolling. You roll down, oblong, tonic, abrasive shoes shifting in cylindric space pacing matrices like parking lots in the matinee of July's shortened light. We park in these eschelons, tight rope tied leaking serpentine-belt-built time from our corrosive touches. Finger paint. Finer paint faces on the hoods, shadows disemboweled tumbling from the bumper-tuck impacts with the sleeping headlight wind before our fat. There are looser grips on souls, on her shoulders where the purple stains dye black from the hellish train tracks she's bent backwards on. That's comma for you Karma, leaning sideways in the backseat, one cracked rearview eye poled for a better index. Ink sits marrowing, perfused by alveolar inadequacy at an interval from one instance to the hepatic fraction portaling green violence at the air gasps, thin warbled wreck of concavity, before tip follows hip in tracing the first design, mahogany landscapes dwindling near obscurity.
Clark Gablesque they say, painted in oily dimple stippling from badger hair sussing on burlap rasps. I don't blame you for the hat or hatred, the green spring here that plasters walls and wills as it burrows in with its toes. I've no patronage, no mental acuity that I can longer aquiesce for the franchising of Joy, while capitalists buy and trade the monetary interest in passe intelligentsia and flamboyant pink shirts. Chartreuse, no. I want art reviled by passion-thrown blues, a good rhythm... for we are blessed by this Promethian extension from dust and ashes that we burn in our cloistered homes. Don't come in on this grand mosaic treading where I've already gone.
There's a patriot in everyone of us crying over a country yet formed, formless or dreamt. Dream and mass murder, dream and weary pilgrims, wary dogs running on and angels crossing sides and setting borders for possibility to bruise itself on. Baked into stars or ethereal bodies or insert your own poetic images, cast and carved on, our totems, the blood and porcelain, the meaning we move to has forgotten. We passed out on the sand, they said. We passed on. We passed over on our way to creating the unimaginable. We were gone. Sounds like nothing but the plica shifting under our skin, the last pulse of the cave walloping our long-rested lungs deep to our gravest demeanor. Why would we ever stop. Ever strip. This earth wrapped in metallic halos that we long ago gave up on. There's still a pace to follow, that track after track fast-born clickity clickity clickity and cracking sails pulling us in. It don't like being pissed on. The aged face of withered corporate wisdom, entreating our last blitz, but she's already gotten well in behind the wheel and feeling the juice again. The song's on the road waiting for the train to pass and the lines to hiss: it's Joy's turn to drive, and all her musk airing into us feels the pummeling throb of that sweet driving rhythm. I hear her foot tap. Heel hit the floor. The seat tips back...
And we're gone.

7 January 2006

Lens and Lemming, a Ticket and Poirot

I know we all, we all got our faults
We get locked in our vaults and we stay
But when you’re gone all the colors fade

A porrage breakfast on china-shop morning, the freezing fog gone tizzling on in the sealing throats of milky-faced smiles, beads on bending strings warping to the weight of a Monday afternoon chafing the horizon. It's a warm mealy-mouthed mush, much too much tangibility surrounding the pagan tongue, a bluish hue to the window pattern, a silk board woven over with dewdrop pearling and gray gnawing age. Let's partition the hortatory and blind the woman shivering on the black ice, a snake wiring her arteries, a venom parting her legs, shes uncontrolled and helpless, a kind of serial vindication from system and systematisation, she checks. First the sign, then the street, then the rabid froth she keels over in her stomach, the sign, the street, the blush on her cheeks. Red. Too red from the corner of her eye, it was a bad trip, a sweating, stained, and hollow seed worming around in the tympanic bulla just shaving its way to smothering her brain. All slack-jawed and comatose, stammering in the blistered-crystalline mire, swollen tiptoes sunk in the idea, a mobile movement, a statutory revolution, shame-faced and lovely, drunk and dressed with heel in the bed, file on every face, a lie in every wandering-sudden breath.
Karma's a bitch they say, a flaunting totem of a woman, amazonian maybe with a hint of alligator tears, flipping switches the other way, rumbling blind-eyed for the deedless. We're two-seated and hell-bound, a cab door locked from the inside, and her red eye sighs like an old leather lamb in a diary page. -Too red she says, but it's not its war: the light slid out on stippled rasp of former non-existence, neither light nor dark, from nothing and everything to the contrasted fields. It's a watery grave in the line in between, stuck and sucked in on the middle ground riding the hip of being, slick and thick with the glaborous pit giving in for a thrust. The lead lines every cell weighing in on the living expense, its a gravity untouched, an atrocity unknown, overlooking the background that your love played out on.