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.