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.