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.