3 November 2008

An Overture In Posies and the Capable (p)Arts [or "Just Like That"]

This is the one I will try
to be lonely with

My heart is a bawdy hotel of stragglers, thin static characters holding up the walls, their tacky phrases hanging the paisley paper. These pigeon-dreamt apartments loll on the cigarette smoke, old clothes piled wine-stained carefully carpeted to match the threadbare hall. Every atria is in atrophy, sinking from the sway-bent, hell-sent, quiet, maniacal cast pounding in silence at the boards and beds too worn to dream on. All you want is somnolence, hazy red puckers and loose leather thighs, ten fingers taming shoulders in a vaudeville swoon skating south of the border and west of the sun. Here's a leather-strap suitcase bound and gagged, buried and burning from the mercury lithographs taken in better times stirring the roaches in bent gaslight.
This ventricle eviction notice, boards clapping in the rising rain, stands nails deep in the rust, no vacancy. Every cornered parlor singing in wan piano play, a carousel of glasses laying torrents over tables and sucking into chairs, only dusty March photo-frames gilt in the bleeding septum separating lives share the old home's grafting pace.
There's no management in all this, the lobby-gone bell lost in history never left charming suspension in all the wafting disaster painted down the cardboard patched panes. All these names dripping through the tiles, lost in the dead snow radio symptom you've learned to call love.
My heart is left as an afterthought. Three decades in the milling world ground down to a morning drip and the sicksweet succour you divine from elusive morality you're bullied into, and I've fallen through the slats and slept in the furnace, fired and branded, steeled and stolen, ticking away all the letters ever stored in a bottle, ever bottled in filaments of cartilage and bone.
They can have all the rent and room, the pulse and feeling of sunken-in snow laid heavy on water, all the partisanship and blameless apartheid they yoked me with. I can live in these falling pipes, these pitches wound in December, the air pockets retching out shudders like thunder in coked veins. I'm clean of this, all the apertures I can see through beetled eyes and slip another shade under the skin.
This heart is a motel slum.
A single-set quadratic roadside paradisio for the umber-spent underbelly aching of the soulful-sick gash no longer willing nor wonting for the leonine chords roaring rush between the beats.

12 October 2008

Rusted-Tin Roots and the Monmarte Cabecous

This cycle never ends
You gotta fall in order to mend

The wilting words worry away the rim of sleep, those tiny canthic syllables pacing along the margins electroplating the sticky wounds you left along my mind. I feel thrilled in thirty cigarettes, open my veins, and let the road pour in, just the hissing street lullaby along the octane jet stream feeding me lovely-lucid starlamp countrysides curving coldly in the preceding dark.
And its a deeply weighted peace sleeping in obsidian wings, a formless grace of darkness kept darker in the closed curtains of moonlight. Besides, what's a strand of cascading sparkles slipping slews over Ashton Lane, sleeping sweetly in the mired drink your souls display? These rain-soaked pitches growing over railways trundling through the pre-dawn artifice Eos laid bare, barely amber in the umber footlamps of Venus travelling spun? Barely aged in the agelessness of some ebony harmonic hum.
This god-particle particularly sinning, casting round about shadows in its treacle den, coughs simply for its vanity hiding sweetly under your skin. So force of forces you swing out for raving contentedness, dissatisfaction with desire that dissected your happiness, you swung down at your feet saying
"come claw this madness
come sickly drag me in"
your feather reattaching to robe-moral melee. And in this I wish you greatly to feel the free fall of two tandems to time encroaching, blissing at the brim, hoping to be convex, this dysthoughtful harrying pasture, the forgetting and the laughter lustreing within.
Can't you hear it in your sleep? The grey doom whisper on the cusp of dream etching out fantastic groggy chords, fluttering old black and white films just beneath the pale blue membranes. Maybe someday you'll get it, everything all the time and, like levity, weigh in on the night.
I am flush with this, brimmed in the salt air fogging off the firth, and the cloak of my youth is refined in the supple-strung harmonics jangling through the bones of the land. A cold lip twisting in a vicious elation borne out along the slimmer hands of a voice caked in deep brown earth. Just blistered eyes caught scheming for joy in the stone.

24 August 2008

Meridianial Kokoro and a Coarse Subjunctive-- Caftans Aside

Our homemade choirs, like forest fires,
Hiss 'neath golden rain
And slip the leash and the chain,
And slip the leash and the chain -
Cause some hearts are true
But some hearts aren't hardly true
But some hearts are true

Humanity is the cruellest hunch we wear, an insipid, wee inkling of a sweetness undefined, wedding artifice to ingratuity and a fumbling index finger resting on tongue for the fallen words we seed in others' flesh. And the cherry-red slint you whitishly profile carouses in parallel lines all the grave greed slushed in salival digs, stippled, awful sneers impinging the dells and dimpled cheeks.
Despite all the irony, the plaid-placid assiduousness creeping alongside, I've done my best as lithely in lip as thumb, though no golden aleph will herald me nor tongues loose from the subtle furrows along the slimming folds. You have vested interests in this magnanimity of success, a sweet succour worn of victims struck from cephalopoids, velvet-draped and valenced of indelible-ill ink.
Would that it were cursed instead of mittened in favour, a carbon-silk cold chemise tracing tinder on homely faces, these few silences and reapportioned visions of inecstatic polarity compressing politic in gems.
These things will and end badly for you, tied-up in gamble and towing vista-ponce-de-leons merely wanting of wonting, dreaming it impossible of the never-to-be-alone. So carefully crop your bigoted roots and dye the remainder bland, following the partitions and shaded sulci swirling anti-australialis in milky-spiralled bedevilment.
Carry me home should I alight from the wind, waterdrawn and Aran-clothed, so often besotted and wine-hung. Sing the clapboard houses huddled on the shingle, of the wee stones we toast to while rocking in our sleep. Lead me lamplit-gone-lanterns through the ivory-gloved invernacht, wanly washing, wildly starred with sewn mantras tatting the spoked background bleeding through this coiled corpse we've spun through.
Should you see as I do, would you really-truly, deeply-darkly, the unorthodox whorls of gasply-ghostly fading reticence in the gleaming obscurity, the diminutive murmurs of love and fleeting beauty scaling volumetric curves of lash and thigh. Those architectures of twilight tittling raised to laughable joy.
Come, candle and sash-blown taper, come karma and feral fit, and so we wean ourselves of everything in hopes that we might find it, the afterdark in the slant.

8 August 2008

Monotreme Meta-Moles, an Elan L'Insensé

I loved like a fountain
and it left me with nothing
except memories of walking
through Washington Square

And I love some words because they sound of an incise, a grave split where the blood first refuses to pool. Slowly trickling the evening news sludges forward in repetition ad nausea, just another ten seconds of the same ten seconds of the consciousness and dire manic storm. Whereas in the forbidding light I ease the sacred joy of my womb, the fleece of the gradient day sucks and clucks and draws of the mireing imitation of life.
Heart beats pause in the puddle-jumping Coriolis. Two fingers and a deeply darkly bitter. All this staunch for an unfoetered stench that bleeds in depth of blue and yellow-black. Why am I confederate? Hunting tails that sly back in counter-intuition, sleigh-back beds dreaming of a form more noise than jaundice. The folding dawn draping in feline respite over a world much too small for its infinite disk.
If I had cab fare I'd carve out the insistence of this biology, ride the brakes until the lines squeal with sand and invertebrate skin. Maybe I'll passenger to a leitmotif in raven-and-auburn-bent bones or slim satellite fingers vegetating gothically for the shift. How spires the inspiration gasping minarettereal as lungfish corpsing along the midden drift, go awed and in-able to content, to satiate the satyrical hoof we beat. Each thrum a pulse push of acceleration, I wait for the cropped insurrection where the pavement nods in recognition of the street and the street bows to the land, and the sky blazes on as aeon-ic, a filament bound by thighs, settled between the conjointed etherea of templed masses. I go.

4 August 2008

Monotreme Meta-Moles, a Bourgeois Sophism

Now I live in the shadows
where light is electric
and time is just a number
that rests on a wall
Nobody knows me
my friends and my family
are as far from this city
as Washington Square

We find our voices in the predawn. They blink in the crestfalls of migration, twin rasps to the raving madness. We scrape our knees against the worn world thread at a time, sliding awkwardly through the ages, ridding ourselves of the night's skin and truncated echoes.
So, turmoil, we turn dazed in dream, and recover our sundry silence and radial hue in cor and sultry limbs. This happenstance we mire. This sought sleep coital warmth conspired to pour in us.
We find our voices in the clasping havoc and disgrace, the bleeding ulcer thronging in caprice. And in the pale magenta your Antigone confides the labiled, blue desires running fabric in the blindly cast fold.
All this continuousness, this buoyant inertial being called cunt, would seem an indelible weight from shift to worried stem. Call this catatonia Sunday, call it antithesis or misfortune.
Call us twilight and abdication, the sickle and the suffering.

8 June 2008

Cameo Velvet Lost on Stage and the Endless Other

I got a pair of wings for my birthday, baby
and I will fall down through the sun this evening

And in this halflight I wander, dirty little notes to women stacked thin in my trousers. Some dew-called-gong wailing vacantly of the what-ifs and ands of separate expenditures. Sometimes I find ungodly gods grazing at the pedestal, wearied of the born objects I have not belonged them.
We suck veins like thunderclap violence gaining winsome curves in thronged hip-length faces. Come cunts and mangle, utterly compact and untried as pleasant contentedness. So we queue. Frustrated in the unbecoming attics ventured through, crept like arboreal pangs of ileic roots.
Our ground.
And i'll sleep tonight in dreams. Dreams of memories sucked from sentimental sepia of what has and hasn't poured through the loom. I'll hurm and groan the life catching us up.
Canada sleeps in the hills tonight, a glow-violet softlight of fever-bliss, and soon I won't be able to carry you anymore, through the salt sea, in the deafening dark, late in the wan night when the strangeness hits us. Nothing much ever will. No fountains of pens and leaded papers strung ink-tied-tethered gone wrapping sing-song live here, but in that venetian silk-violet violence, that old dedicated winsome blow, there's dance and light and life and lavender-cold carols of the tundra-ic cotton calm. Come on down, love, come sink in and settle and suck in the mud, the great grey earth worn lively and lovely, sonnet swooned.
It's this mercury glass that spends us of common syllabic speech, roughing our edges to needle-point appendages, all fingers and toes tasting the umamic lips of others' skin. Such uncommon commodities, these souls, brown-lit sweet lights swinging slow-stamped in scuffling breezes, and all you do is say they sway
And we're all white against the gloaming, our own salt-fired-slips born like tapers through gathering storms whipping six eyelashes cyclonic.
Another pride of lost last wishes.
Another curve of subtle shade and laughable joyed love.

11 April 2008

Styptic Amiability and the Cloverless Duvee

Things are coming into focus
Things are coming into focus
I've got wind in my face
And it's getting me on
I've got wind in my face
And it's getting me on

She was white against the snow.
No one loves you, not now in the least. They'll love you when you're old and grey and gone, no longer gorgeous, but they'll love you.
They'll love you for all the things you never loved of yourself.
They'll love you for the poison you drank your children on, for all the sick sad words lost in dismay that bruise the backs of a mother up in arms. They'll love the liquor soaked tones wedging non-dulcimic to violence breathing shallow in the sway, obsequious little woes that they are.
But they'll love you. All gone gorgeous golden grey. Some joy.
It's funny whose voice esteems in such turns, some siren out of the see-saw, green-foam, linseed mattress abutments. Some vestige. I've worn the wool and tanned hides, felt the salt-sting of fettered gasps and foetered spleen brush this arush with dim survival.
Come claim me. I alike a prize and fit of mania. So folded, the suitcase relics crumple and stain in sepia with every smile worn deep in glacial skin, a splinter of semi-blend garb, too close-fitting, slung, too abjectly course.
No next bold move here, much like Pyrrhian bridges swaying beneath some scorching amber anti-weight. Such addenda to our carriage spoils the pace for wrestling, for ambling on in the tilt. They've said to cover me in ash and golden sunset, sorely autumn red.
Day three hundred sixty-one of an edifice redefined, a finely aged caste shedding through to thickset scabs, an argyle mosaic cusping herpetologically scale by waxen scale. I am thin, blue lines lying along the event horizon of the next marketing tide, the emporium of fad-ridden mouthfuls, wicking away the forget.
In Sao Paulo the blocks intersect faking semblance to the ordinal timeline of where and how far. With eggs Florentine, a grappa rolls softly in the churn, only drums tuning the abomasal. And when you're sick sick it bleeds like umber.
It's gone quiet in the routes with just glow-tense-terse conversation grappling hand over lip for a halide fix in spinning Martian light. So prescence bound the coffer of letters, a plaster cask for innocent features, stencilling mnemes that stick in my chest.
Here is your synagogue, bright gothic clique, and astral canton cajoling. Cold creations, these mitred fits. This momentary schism only deemed life. I'll pass.

28 March 2008

"Pardon the Kettle of Fish" and Other Faery-Tale Spruces

I'm taking the knife to the books that I own and chopping and chopping and boiling soup from stone.
Things I have loved i'm allowed to keep.
I'll never know if I go to sleep.

We tear each other apart, blood in, blood out, we christ, crucify, sancte deo and still our sacs are no fuller. Cut deeper. I've swallowed a dragonfly in the headlight grind, shearing my words and wings in a callous growth dipping headlong sleep-wise in between the dappled drowning drops making rain.
Just keeping time.
These soviet stockades we're replacing in an archetype like single malt gin, soaked and slattered, I'm sot and sought after for nothing of kind. And intentions keep us harboured, no gauntlet to fall or guillotine to swing, and the scars keep pouring out, acclamations of magnanimity we bolster our coy corduroy elbows with. How hallowed. And you few are but many by broken math and mislaid promises, appropriating incentive in misguided fear. You've forgotten your nom de plums, left them hanging dryly couched and stuffed in fetters of cheek and tongue.
There was panic from the thunderous womb, an earthen portrait of cunt and cunnilingus foreshadowing the lean gleam of her former skin. Some capitol boiling over, a spoiled child, spoil of war, gifting, ingratiating, but alien to the allantoic mournful tune.
We are motherhood in an abject equation left after pale parades droned out the insanity of phantoms and limbs, life and sin. And we chafe each other raw in unreliable gestation, wrapping the altar in wool and winding cords to hang ourselves in, ignorant of the inertia we bring outward carried in vestiges of subtle sighs and held-over whims.
In three feet of shoulder I find sentimental aluminum dreams whispering in the gardens of stars and passed by litterings shy of the bin. In six feet of pavement I have a home and rustic folly trailing out from canteens of octanes and catalytic converter streams, a paradise of carbon monoxide heavenward carrying me, an infant soil-snatch-seed avec l'élan.

6 March 2008

Cheesecloth Wives and Cheesecloth Husbands with Cheesecloth Children That Dance for Dollars in Skin-Tight Carnival Clothes

Don't know the meaning of devotional
Pictured me hanging threadbare on the blacked out wall
Purposeful, in your weekly disguise
Surrendering to arms, fixing up those seeded eyes
Dress it up, down the alcohol
Feeling so much better

I was a partridge in my childhood, twenty seconds of blind mercy and a pillow paunch materialising. Some adipose. Some anti-pose to humanistic calling cards like Hallmark and the Great Scottish Bender, or so I fancy coining an in situ phrase. Consider this my in vitro lullaby. A fare-thee-well malintended and hollowchested, just the crunching-clatter-scuff of polyvinyl tin foil. Some cessation.
That's life. An apostrophe. An afterthought. The last word and laugh and sudden shrill wracking. It will go on.
Just like that. And again.
Sorrow forths forward on aluminum gaps and swings, seesaws snoring through the spruce blues of aquamarine life on land. {pointless} {touche} There's geese booming against the tight-skinned sky, besseled, a hazel iris stretching out in the umbra, each eat brilliance failing in capacity. But so you'll be getting it tomorrow, the point unlikely. We write too many checks on the empty pages; pages meant for blessings and wine. I feel like a stroke, heat-sealed and tongue-tied, a marble or two swollen in my womb. Just pills, and a stuttering companion tilting. Just tilting. Into phantoms and burning feathered pillows, an eider-down night; we are a canon. Give over your bible and tin-halide bells, and give in some halcyon, some codeine schwag, like Dogma was ever your name.
Nane here. These word idylls, objects unto themselves, they only vanish at the narrowest hum of a lip. Have we castrated ourselves, strung up on barbed-wire fences. This is my rushblood. A pounding quintessence ablating the courser torn memories, wrung astride. Loom me some opticality, a contextual hyperventilation of weave and pigmented astrocytes.
I like drowning in the aura of cataclysm. I like the part where the film ends.

18 February 2008

Sporks, Knives, and a Wooly, Patent-Pending Homonym

And all that time, I felt just fine
I held so many people in my suitcase heart
That I had to let the whole thing go
It was taken by the wind and snow
And I still didn't know that I was waiting
For a girl on a slow pony home

Satisfaction is akin to something like silt shifting the ocean floor, a deep fissure guiding the grind in orbit of synecodochic space-walk. No candid general junction to the looped-braid prayer, the contestable plea boiling in salt-vinegar.
Some sepal pellet drolls in palpebral flutter-sash slams gong-rung mediocrity obliging. From all sides now, we aren't doomed but had discontent gorging on vine stem colostric jasmine and cancer. Some old fish with blood-ice fins surging tidal eddies around the horn-cane.
Children of the blue-black ink, hematitic divisions divising an abatement strung through needle-eye gromets hanging up phone lines, run ravenous seasons expending their thrift for a few short phrases of mock-poetitic expression. All lavender.
My name is a three-centimeter tumour syphoning off of my lateral cortices grading grey, topographical sand dunes for little more than cinder-brick drug stores and white-striped pavement. And I can see the tow-lines caught in the labile haemorrhage dredging out the cast-iron wreckage of isobaric lungs stippled violet-nitrogen and gaudy-gone-grail ichor. Blame me for the moonshine hail and tannin-stained teeth you dream for, the three black lies of my whiskied liver and the quarter of the fifth of gin you drank on the curtains like the cat used to.
Kiss me in codeine fever so I can taste your violent skin weeping off the years of sex and love and torment, you're so physically syncopated. So sick and stuck in with me like chain-bound manners to an English Tea, and I'm dry.
Some fish we are. Only swimming upwind. And they call me difficulty. A mass of projection from the ice and spleen; so, they set up bleachers to find the definition of an ironic gesture laid to rest. Three quarters of a billion of a million fortunate fortunes are reigned in at our beds, but still you shudder and shoulder the swollen-bead sweat as pain.
We'll split cartilage like wearing throats and suck-stick-thunk down all our air and esteem in one tetanic lifetime gulp, overdose on the coma-scent of florid pastels of rich sin in religion and righteousness and puncture.
As though our hands may heal. My head will linger shoulder-length from some fate.