29 December 2007

Cab-analities Suffering In and Organ-Grinder Schemes: Pimentos on Sweet Bread

So save these precious moments
For the child behind your eyes
To find the thing's we
Lost along the way...

Some comfort.
It's heart-ending, some time in the snow and veritable oscillations of the coal fire sending subtly-blue-fleece-burnt-flares. Carbon stars of oscultation.
It's heartrending this habeus corpus of laminated life beneath a plastic cap and green glass bottle, wrapped, one day degenerates for miles. There's a stone cold ozone caffeinated by intracellular micro-lies, small whispers tidaled into fools of coronary, episodic, poolside curio-shop. Come in.
Come closer. No seeking, no sin. We're manger-bound for sorrow, but, as all kind and feel, they transverify the Titian color to chords for sad-song, ambi-flex walkers hiding in the vermilion doors elsewhere in our mind. I don't like the taste of fluorescent. I don't like this jangle-band brown, this maritime gin still.
This argon djinni. A rapping stutter of stalled steps arch, eddying behind white gas-masked labels leaking out. A la scala aria librett-ised for deaf inconjugates. Leeching out.
Sleeping in.
I see coronas, halo-ic invertebrates, like joint mice jittering slowly from sleeve to red-lip ran fear. These tetanic angels like midnight horns wail-on to train yard rhythms, blues-y fashion throbs of oversexed adipose, overdense antipas-to.
The old, red-wine stains bleed an ascetic stigmata through cab doors riding sullen streets carrying indefinite articles jostled with sand-dunes and sand-dreams arranged zedibetically. Thus is advertisement as silk-sable-sunk pavement waves beneath the bail-out echoing in rollover dimerised binding, a lyrical-launched-language of pain and aggravated gravity.
Push. We'll out bamboo in cane-chewing chivalry, leveling the spastic, clock-coded limbs akimbo in hives and mud-jungle levity. Here cymbals abound; from ð to three sided, trapezoidal, god-head cattle we bathe in luminous tin-clash chasms all-ignoring of shangra-la, bearded yaks. They look much like "yokels" in an -ese yet-to-be.
So seen-countries choir twilight Roman-ants, small peddlars of ten-x confessions, infinite convictions. Much like saracens in musical tints, there's belief piggy-backing off their rent, parasitised on neoplastic styrofoam lining felt-drawn toilet humour and puritan ranch-style homes. Amen-ed.
N.B. N.S.F. J.W.C. Over. Punctuate.
Abbreviated destiny. Briefly.

19 December 2007

Laboratory Pyridines and Dysenteric Hippopotami

I saw Abbie Hoffman’s ghost in the distance,
We got Saul Williams keeping up the resistance.
And punk rock and blues music keep dying,
We keep buying

I am a pleurisy of noise, a loathsome crackle of fits and starts berating chondral grinding, shifting like painted grass in the red tide eddies.
Canadians may seem confused in their frigid decibels ringing cantons with finger peals, but what cannot be compressed into a mitred function of the heart is not worth the indignation of static variance, inaccessible assurity.
Lifelong safety is a hypocampal contagion driving the flex from our limb as we're pressed across the crux; for, wheresoever the golden diary lies the loss is no more than a catered fish-tea out of scale.
I won't panic. Cannot dismiss. Will retain to discover. And in this somesuch nonsense the plasma feeling will careen, and I'll seal the fission, fuel the schism of my tongue before the mull cracks away.
So all along the dragon spine, the tide might sieve some strife from cold, organic, pyrectic calf. The crunch of brittle sandalwood and sage...
Your children are enrolled in polyadenylation, a cortico-triumph of anti-humanism breathing out in the lead-knife compassion, a traditional enumeration of enucleated, biblic hell. Why so inoriginal, why such conflagrational pews reserved? Like some bulbously elite, thumb-narial dysintelligensia por bourgeois edification we swim, a grey harried vote for the sun from some lunar spirochetic derision.

16 December 2007

Delight ad Eccentricimum and a Sepia Disorientation

Your hands are warm and my body is wide
To hold all the promise of blue-velvet dark and stars
All it takes is a little faith and a lot of heart

Canned ham is an effigy of oneself spun a golden in delirial syrup grown frozen with dyscontent and the great green flow of barbie-patrol. Three tins of petrol tagged inflammable by the burning, the passion-made reminder of cortisone bleeds slipping off the printable margin. And I am just getting warm. No ire. No undiluted, caged frenzy for this corrupting kin; for we are two of a hoof born horned and lyred, haloed and pitch. So, let us eat paste in the wan fluorescent odor of Sundays and Winedays
and the flatter Pitadays, no yogurt.
This mesa-nic kitsch clique, oh plateau, so Colleen-ic with the collander head-bent-wear, streaming applesauce closed captions to the millions of fingerless, chided children go cloaking in fancy dress and apéritif-tied gowns grown over with ivy and pride.
What skill, what goring delight hissing through the vitreous humour they show, grandly sewn wit quilted in their monosyllabic skin. We are something like oedema ignoring the kindly ones in their rage, clammy and corpulent, distended with non-agony as raiment.
ascension is a condition of non-regret, an incapable escape from the turbid lumber, the quake and shock of violence. This is a subtle length, this apprised cut, a standard weight of fleshy excision, a vague vacuole of spiral design leading up, deeply-darkly in. You are catastrophe, cataclysm, disaster, a hooded breach of simplicity, craving for a half-hearted whim, an infinite desire, to feel, to fill, to come.
Pavement is the motion of anthropic erogeneity.

4 November 2007

Sown Vanity and Archipelagosian Valises (or Fame)

You paint yourself white
And fill in the noise
But they'll be something missing

They filled all their graves, built marble arcs skyward-breathing but still hidden from the world pinned in leather prisons, bound in paper chains. We're paring skin with simply-sable shades of idiocracy, shaving our pride along the long blade of debility. In-ability, wantonness.
These crafts are leitmotifs fragrant to the pulse-wound Willis. Two cats chatting of fugues in orange and grey, calico movements colouring portraits in oil and tuna and synecdoche.
You have tempest. Four courses of wind-worn, corporate paradigm rubbing tin foil to tin-pan flint, becoming flash in its raucous foreplay, tympanic in its groaning gestation.
Slim collusions of thought rotting into migratory television, a nature channel broadcast of brimming dys-originality, culminates in a ".org" confession of hypostatic force, gleaming concavity of mores, a waking personality dynamic in non-abundance.
They're too often too ready to laugh at a string but for all the unfortunate mysticism of vagueness and depravity, such odd jewelry of mechanism and Gogol-ular, parasitic capitulation. If you take all the venting, the auditory dumbling, what void there would be in context of the finite, unconscious ebb into dream. Something like cyrrilic Atlantics gorging on entire continents, shaving shorelines to sickle blades we break ourselves upon. Commit this to memory, ad momentum, the deep decline of corduroy rasping grey in elephant-sloughing skin, a tremble or tumour in the unconscionable eye as we fail to focus on the trundling underground sublime.
Somber, perhaps sanctified in a subtle aquamarine, paleolithography in a candid-born blood.
A capable, culpable cunt is so kitsch, a carnal median of sliding traffic where collision sounds so ugly and tired.
Red canonic words exchanged in heated glass eruptions like obsidian chips driving home along headlight glazed thighs. Some rotten world with chrome trim and patent-leather sin, here where peace is a fraction derived from gear-ratios, a calibration of just how well we are suspended before our heads hit the pavement.
She's leaving a contrail of language, an appalling pall that tucks into everyone's sleeve, and for such gossamer gowns dripping ichor sand, there's an incomparable beading. Like tile sheets, we're dendritic, climbing up oars, washing away in the sun, convivial conjunctiva of corporeal colossi comparatively complacent in their placemat-caddish lives.
There are six corollary rules to these axioms: by fist and skin, by tooth, by wind, by scales and chimes, by death, by this.
We are forced to make signs of our existence, nothing hidden in or about. Cavity open to the inconsolable, a finished gash, a fatal wound, a frown of your inconviction to love, lie, and liberate the vessel of its storm. Salt, serous, and sly a fold of jealous carnivore speaking entirely without tongue flit against teeth, an infatuous ribbon of dilettante dilemma, a conservative bliss, all the while courting peril, convulsing, vilifying. What murder is this, this hunger, this dear derogatory flight, this confused arbitration of limbs, this dendritic corruption as we dig into skin? How is your fear weighed and meted, does it bleed the same musk, mask the same sins in sex and grieving? We've elided this fissure, this grave fault, for another; you've shuddered and strained and blackened your eyes, sampling the light, chasing patterns in the surf.
A caffeine haemorrhage just leaking letters into contrails of language, clove-spit smoke trafficking horizontal dreams across a glass television screen. They stream achingly soft doors to morals invading, infiltrating, the woodenhouse grains of personal ideals, the barley-store beliefs that cook down your christianology searing in myths with misconstrued sciencology.
More than just physicality, we are forced to become and, in doing so, to fear the impossibility of self-same difference between numbers and letters, satellites and sun. No place to fall asleep, no place to arrive at inconclusivity.
You and I collide in cold-harbored somnia, isolation a dream of blue-black photographs taken in caffeine cities and swan dive public houses where brass taps and close tops tint the sky a liquid hue. Caffeine dreams, they say, caffeine hallucinations, caffeine doodles, and caffeine screams.
Three corners connecting one billion microcosmic tadems, a continual spinning of elemental axioms, S-shaped electron extrapolations grossing the jittery, side-long, rejuvenation of state of mind. Overbreed me, unbound parameters and stick them with syncopic chasms between-- the fine synaptic line stitched and sutured, sucked and sank. This is our misery cry for simple rights and unsubtle multiplication, idiomatic complexity just buried in misderivational thinking. I want sandcastles. But I'll leave you to build your fur-tapered towers, your empirical system of thigh and heat.
What municipality do you do good common to, while we whiten some lyrical grey verse, a minute ethic in the moral carol goading on, droning in. Weaving papier mache horses from dead ballast and coopers' scraps, whittling rungs into the flesh of each others' backs, we'll climb-- an ascension of decay and cluttered magnanimity, an arc de trauma erected to your fold and its fleece you entice behind.
We are all carriers of this thing, the disease we ellip-seize by the olives and wrack with our negligence, farrowing blackly blank offspring into a cult. Into the cleft.
Caffeine fever, caffeine seizure slackening the limply tongue fissure-deep in tangled subvernum sopping the wale, rifling the cord, our hands quenched for thirst of garrulous comedy, some feet fall aside the paradisio. Hell is other people, life purgation. Express the curvature of silt and sin and revolution in terms of linearity, in terms of convection, in caffeine vocabulary for caffeine people living with the roar of a thousand landslid cities, of a million caffeine dins, caffeine drums. Rising up. Up.

9 October 2007

Sunday Pasties and a Chronicle of AntiTerra

Something tastes different, maybe it's my tongue.
Something tastes different, suddenly I'm not so young.

I dream of cavendish and lavender swimming softly in Rubicon hope, a blackwatch rain bouncing off black slate stone at Haddow's square store upon the square street. Tintintin, a gaggle of bronze abhorrations sung in microscopic peals; so let us speak of crassly blazed and bloated blue Hogmanay, of richly brown Walpurgis Nacht, of a deeply inked and indigo sate. But I can never ripple the way you ring with laughter because my chords are not tuned to your key of Echo. I cannot turn my words as you roll your littoral wine humming in a low tumbling rose, reeling in your cheeky, bi-valved blush, rounding over your lips in a silky crimson crush. So left to suck and stall, I can only toss the earth-sodden tonic burning back, twisting in revel and twining in skin, the scarlet-amber threads, the peach-blue veins of your dusky summer drawl.
Having fallen back on this earth, its true, as they say, thoughts interrupting other th-- its only bright round sliver-sunk jesus cannibalising cherry-blossom cunts, waver-wafting in an enzyme-turbid plea. Cocoa-Rococo, Henry the E-I-G-H-tH infested ba-roke-wood sins mauving sutures. And once we're spun in gossamer feathers, tacked and turned, spun and strung, we'll once have been carrion-crow cameras photographing green.

15 July 2007

A Dame and Erlichia-matosis

Here I see a shadow
It's a flicker 'round your mouth
Are you laughing at me or with me?

Every doppelganger knows when its too warm. The blister paint stick peel of a twin pan-fried egguardo coming climactic at critical temperature. With a slowly psyche split gone two-shoed strings; we'll see if mobius is certain
if not true.
If you can keep up, if you can keep up if you can keep up if you can keep up I'll see you on the other side in the house we threw
across the river, across the twilight city, across the land
that is
buffalo horns and woman's breasts rising
And I'll sidle up to you all cheeks and skin, cheeks and skin, and you'll vascillate with something
quixotic, danger overcame. There'll be an "oh my my" and an "my oh my."
And I'll eat my tail
eat my tail
so the music can play on; just me
Edith Piaf
and a light so young...

16 June 2007

Carpathian Hamurabis: An Treatise of Brown Portent

Here I see a shadow
It's a flicker 'round your mouth
Are you laughing at me or with me?

Underwhelmed and unkempt like chafing against a texturised fashion we watch the utrecht lights ballast and blast against the starry inside of cheap window frames. Canada is a dream now, much like Guam or the Peloponnese, and with that we waver slowly, spit-turned. Another icthyo-ic, landless archipelago. A grease-paint Aleutian chain. Maybe this is cancer, crab-claw-crackling of limb in the water-stained heat. Like I'd eat these sapped-up, commercial vanities loose in the sagging economic drain pipe. Some stem, some pistils firing leaving smoke signals of death to blot outside the sun, plain clothes hung on an Egyptian cotton telegraph line.
Picture this. Halfway between here and five minutes from now I will be nothing more than an ant farming foreign revolutions singing nothing-songs in a nothing-hum bleeding out of nothing-vessels unborn, liberated in no-land of a nothing-sun. I have no photographs from this borken camera. No film negatives fit my funny little lens of humour and manage to see all the color bits outside the UV, the cinder smells rising up in phosphorescence, cracking splash-white Samothrace. These are precious threads growing through the vanilla schwag, just an arch of meerschaum blistering into the stone claw of deep, blue night. And when she drizzles ichor, you may believe in the dirt castles wallowing around your feet, one thousand thousand generations ludely playing with our meek shadows as figures ghosting down meadow leas passing secrets, passing regrets. Cave into this. Never cease to wonder in the hopeless, loveloss life that ever marvel is a sin and each sin a holy joy; candid as we've been there's yet to be seen the crying thunder growling at the rubble of our own fetid, fallen Troy.

7 June 2007

Pantomimical Bids for Cross-coptic Septicaemia

... and who
ever said that life is suffering
i think they had their finger on the pulse of joy

Save for a canvas and billow-blown flares, the steering appears easier without air. Without water or sand, without weight or person or pearls of wisdom. Claims of silentry in the lost lingual scratchings that tumble and terminate in our off bantor or sly, red-wine-stained brass, our struts and affront and collapsed silver in congress claim us. We are thieves, thanatopsical deliquents mad with sex and sin and gathered in at the pleats. Forsook. Forsaken. Utterly lost for the words and ways to make the idea of love believable and impossible. Profundic. Prolific.
Spaces. Spans. The without all the more apparent, the lack concerned and adherent, all bottle-empty, lolling lack of amphoric syllables to couple mine. Simple. Without you here there is less to say. Commas take up the cause and push into an ellipsis saving space on the uselessly said words, the social-strata tap dance. The numbing gratification has postponed from the lidocail foot-to-foot foray, pretending our suffering from happiness is somehow less futile than the futility we feel from each other. Impractical patience it seems, impractical dreams of grey noons in the heathered green rains, hats at jaunty angles, slick-slate woven streets crystalline under the hogmanay lights. Impotence in white snow and broken spun bens, and all the ancient musings positing new lives sans lies with finer cold curls of wool and cotton jumper threads. For ten minutes more I'd run my finger through the condensation bleeding through the glass from black draft to amber-wine table, wandering thumbward in the dimly-snug-sung tallowed lamplight.
The blaring magenta-green gashed through with violet still dances across the northern black ice of some same cold corridor in my veins. Sewn into my sleep is a reverie of your skin-clad, portrail beak, all your gone, dizzy spun sanity that shamed those hallowed haloed-haired belles, clanging timorously to our peals. Simpering little knots that they are, little hindu sorel bits that flow jasmine and orange.
Home. Handsome-faced women oozing lilac poems splayed on corduroy rugs. Given a few things. We are home. Together.

31 May 2007

Amential Coiffeuses and Quaker Resolutionism

She said I think I'll go to Boston...
I think I'll start a new life,
I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name

A captive audience for a dementia, a turbid, occasional, cystual, flux that she dramatises in powder and wigs with flaring porcine hips calling achtung struggle a dance for megalomaniacs. I'll keep turning cow hides and spinning vinyl plates on etui-esque, plastic-cast confidences, keep spinning the windmill rolling curls robbing the geisha of their flaxen hair.
And they'll wear Noh masks for each other, a convalescent few, with no fine senses, no five fences bordering on the futility of mercantile gladness. There is sex in everything, even in the phantom limbs, the locks and chains, bound twigs and coiled, worn-woven veins, there is sex. We'll browse for lust and lacrimal evenings built on thrust and subtle words the turn the girl to subtle murmurs that rumble the column-stilt altar of some bleeding jehovah and the guru-sodden M raked between the fur. This is how we raise tributary malls, rase Elgin Marbles,
                 and seal our own tombs.
gone girls will tabulate our stones divining
the sole meaning
the soul meaning
of Thom McAnn
misery of adobe baked in
Shoe shopping on day-centric beams of vastly cast grey-blue fluorescent light, a dismal buzz reminding the ennui to enn and ui in ultraviolet pulse, sublime rhythm of nausea. If it weren't for these shoes, one could not travel, no Glasgow or bust, but I can still sidle up to some thread or gloss ribbon tied-tight. Three suit cases. Five pounds-sterling. Sixteen generations. No shoes. No shirt.
No hope or greed.
Will travel.
will travel
Say something commonplace, something highly jaded and gold-set like Assyrian yaksha-godhead-guarded dime conscience-ness. You'll only plaster the scraped knee and leave off the bruises because you know I know you know me as well. Just the same. All the same. Cold stone headaches. Concrete grass roots.
She'll give you stock options for cunt, a paved payday to Canada-land and some down-home, country social-something. And while you're weaving baskets and stretching out seal skins, you can file that away. Somewhere under "M".
Something like misgivings.
And lest we forget, something like                     dispatriotism.
Say one ticket.
Four or so stubs. One canceled vacation.
A death of the fundamental type. Three reasons. Two tones and an infinite number
of you.
Objectionable you.

5 May 2007

The Non-Union Pundit and Excoriated Self-Denials

And on Sunday mornings you will still be thinking
Of how the things didn't stay.

And we sweat. We scream our earthen names into cotton prisons and waste ourselves in fretful nightmares, wallowing and swallowing each successive success or failure. We get clean again in our bestial matters, non-inventing the non-invention but corkscrew-coining of clever terms; a non-advancement of human unintention, a dissolution made ghastly with our clever apparatus, liquid fat flicking at a wick. Not so hard to imagine that soap is made with lie and fucking made of hate. Birds are birds, dogs are dogs, cats are gods, men are clay, plaster, and plastered. I suppose that's what shaping is: this thin, taut feeling of the distance carved between the people we've always known.
Oh, and the sleeves feel more grim, more snide and sneer in the teeth they cuff, inhabiting the honorable whim of arm and arm in extolling slid-aside-grace. Like lockjaw, we're alone in our clenched forfeit, that soundless-sapping-suck of distended droll. And I am sorry, but not for this, this wee tear you shed for all things sung and suggested, long and longed for, this tiny shadow of a bridge we traced and chased our lives in exchange for. With the little capillaries wasting away, culling off species, capering the caperless, the tophat trend bearers; with all this we shuffle our die and cast our deck and weigh our adorned, weightless babies, our blessed dreams and scorned hope; with all this we come away as alien.
You phone home if you like. Ring again back into that void. Don't be surprised. Don't ever be surprised by this obvious obsequiousness. I am not surprised by this cup in the sink.

20 February 2007

The Cat Found His Blanket and Other False Pretenses

I am going to push them way
Fall into the leaves of the winter trees
Drowning, slowly, lonely, my city of rain

It's something like 5ht, a little bigger and bad-ass sideways from a christmas-light in situ situation. You can't just tuck-in, curl-in, sink down with these fabrics and trim-slim Vatican II release form, not with the by-laws and by the ways, the tax bracket stairwell stairways. And with a spine of stars we can clash and offend, grab our jar of earth and never touch ground again. Just spiralling. Screwing. Ever so seemingly non-chalant
a braying (brahe-ing from catechism)
What's your candor like in these age-wrung ounces of boredom, that joyous tittling evaporating into square homonyms, shaping humunculae, becoming hominids? I won't be in that brown paper box, the pine resin dripping plainly into my legs and caught limbs caculating, cackling. Can't trap me, tricksy little spider, I've my own webs to weave, other lives to paralyse and dessicate, turn them bones to brittle little spells in own wicked ways much worse. Much worse. Catalytic legs churning down the noise and coupling the joists, a thronging nation of indivisible, cascading noise, red-flare toes to jagged-edge knees, this is how gods dance in the grim. We've no need for hats and hairs, no need for teeth to hum the drone and rasp licks rumbling from our bellies, now do we lovely?
That is, if you're listening...
My my my, if you're listening, I could thread a yarn from here til the beginning of time, spinning it off the loom to each cave and eddy of the chapel of stone letting it drench in the ageless sun of no-time. I'll know better than to bead it with tiger teeth or spin feathers between the strands of glass. I'll write my story in the wee fires lit in the night, all the beaming, boasting, fading voices cackling to the streaming thrumb.
Truth has been traded in for a temporarily convenient infallibility.
60 impossibilities all mired in the spicket twist forgetting the unfortunate of probable nature surrounding the sucking sound wheeling down the waterworks through the sink. Profundus, stepping tip-toe-paw-askew and circling only three times for an electrolytic chromium hue to appear. Simple images carry on in candor and shuffle the long-arced dreaming dance, shuttering and blurring in a swoon wrapping just tight enough to ache for the moonlight.
And now we know juxtapose, patience in turn for patent-pending immortality, a fear for afraid, a need for a strain? And now we know iuxtapose, a dream for.