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.