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.