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.