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.