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.
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.
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