21 October 2009

In-phyllocladoid Pomegranates and the Pleiades Grove Grown Wild

I am in exile, a sojourner
A citizen of some other place
All I’ve seen is just a glimmer in a shadowy mirror
But I know, one day we’ll see face to face

Yes, hell is like this.
This blank, wee corner of dis-emphasis tucked away in an axilla off common boulevards. And I drink the streets coming into me, disowning the loss that people have felt from it. I am not responsible.
I am not much of anything.
The cruelty wages war on you from a sheltered nest of tar and twigs, just laughter reigning in cranberry bloom blossoms of colour languishing in the death of tidal pool prefuncta. I can't make these things up, unfortunately. What's real is as you like it, my dear, all the clay-made catharsis I comb up from the tarmac in mackintosh mannerisms solely set aside for that purpose. These skills are unavoidable in margins. It's a thin crease of paper in which I reside, life flickering only on the occasion that brilliance overflows, but I've managed to blacken over the lines that people ride between, forming shade and shadow and tattooed glean and gleaming space that humans have forgotten or abandoned or left tittering to itself once.
It all needed a home. While I've none, while I've void and vehemence, this darkness I've comprised, this comfortably little lacuna twilled in the absence of matter or meaning, this will be the deference.
And it's nice to make little difference, don't let them fool you else-ways. They'll talk of tall hopes and dreams, deep desires and meanings they should put forward and defend [parry, thrust, riposte!]. But this is about me. Well, me and the nothing and no one and non-willing and nether-ways of nevermind. After all, there are millions of billions of infinite infinities you've disregarded or unrecalled after a first somewhat promising but unimpressionable introduction, a fatal blip and beleaguered non-entity. And there. Just there, now.
Or so they'd have you think. Inattention being utterly inextricable from doom. But this is about me. And doom. Wine stains and all. Whisky and smoke, snow and silence. A film noir without charm or chin or even a whim to explore the possibilities of one or the other. Not even both, I suppose. But I've never been stranger to the secrets and soirees, just stranger to humans and morals and rules and saturation. Just stranger. To. These cities are dormant shadows, a facing of tundra and blanched sandstone carrying harmonies of manifestos festing on flesh, delicate delineations settling to edges with the unwritten and unwitting. The authorless me. Every scribble I've meandered in, leading a quiet sort of listlessness, unsheltered against the leaning wind and whorl of bloody, god-awful phrases and infractions made fractious within me.
Yes, hell is like this, my dear. It is unnerved and unnamed. It is immeasurably blistered and burning with war.
But mostly. It is yours.

19 October 2009

Ampersandic Divots and the Fournier Arboreta

but as you see i do not have an awful lot to tell
everybody’s sick for something that they can find fascinating
everyone but you and even you aren’t feeling well

There are centuries of cameras out there, millions of tiny irises adjusting to the adjunct light shaping golden hynds from aurora just before twilight. Bone-thick bruises bleed in fluorescence, wound in laser-light and counting each adjustment of your lashes, each flutter and flail, every vibrating architecture suspended in the soft rush of nothing more than just an echo of the whisper we began to forget when first we asked 'who'. All you see is squinting in the blue-black haze, a gaudy-god-awful purple blending in the stagnant red milieu, like fingertips ribbing retinae, apposing sewn-up gowns of riddled distraction. There are only so many heartbeats left in your chest, each bliss of explosion a blossom of ichor feathered to the rhythms you thrive on, outward in filamentous flooding, a violent crimson crush suffusing violet skin.
You feel the worn words slipped into you, riding past your ribs in rough woollen gauze soaked in fear and fallen expectations, and while teetering yourself in the silver-flake, you murder the blearing sense the laughter lines had given you. You've wasted a lifetime on foundation, carving out the stitches and eroding the long strokes a finger once left across you fretting tender strings against your face. A blind melody, canticle and canon of fate.
And so careen and care alike, always waking in a state of gladly-gaited deference, meaning to enjoy the slight swollen suture and eclipsing vanishing point, meaning to exact with deftness the widening difference between forgotten and this. Out of pace.
How did it come to such lingering demarcation, cutting and scarring, scraping and tearing, wearing and weary and thin. How have you gone missing, how without winding the great springs or fleeting pendulums declining, how without measuring the errata you've managed to adjust to or from, without setting one soft lip to the other and forgiving in all this gravitas.

19 September 2009

Gating Monomeric Dimerizations and the Icthyological Phosphatase of LCs [Lewis Carrol's]

Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids
Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs

You might just be a pandemic. Yet there were deliberate forces in this, deliberate choices, this laughter called grey ringing without echo out and out and out. Just a slow hiccup into the stardust, a spun whisper falling farther without a home, and the garrulous melancholy dimpling at its delicately turned strands.
But you may just be infectious. Paralytic.
They all turn in you, and as beacons in the dark you've blinded each other, always searching for the sun, never seeing the hard-brushed strokes of blistered grace cascaded across the darkness. So, to me, you're all stars. Tiny little thimblefuls of resonance, inundating, teeming in warmth, you've come to swell and sweat, to be belaboured and hard-set against all the stillness. All the missives sent. There are still things that quash, things that bound and burn the light, seething into faint and fuzzy greys, things that dream in unconscious science of anti-illuminary slings slinging arrows through a reedy, pitched night. Such fever and frenzy, such swapping of satellites, an uncouth clinging of gravity's feathered fingertip brought, like hope, in tantaluic mastery, just before the crisp snap of space settled your dust in thin planes and black holes.
But you've never felt so fraught, never so ungiven in the parallel bars spiralling. Only nebulous nearly-limbs lathed into sparks, you still tear each other to pieces, hardly feeling the cosmic-lit destruction toppling every rung and chatter-clapped carnival of lamps lighting your way, sightless and seen, into the ever-contrasting darkness of me. Every blue-black wave of banding oil spilling out in sleep, drawn down into the pale etches flaked in pointillism, every graded pallet a parquet damned by dreaming shores.

12 July 2009

Ortagonal Dimentia and the Beanroot of Paused Elaborations

Still falling
Breathless and on again
Inside today
Beside me today
Around broken in two
til your eyes shed
Into dust

It's still lonely out there. Only seven stolen satellites moored into you, calling back the trivialities to home. All the edges of an earthen-sloped scale slide further out toward the spun monastic isles counting back the lapses, the strained-empty conjunctions, touching each supple space and bending the dark in fantastic lenses just to bubble the doves-down gaslight of a far more distant planet thought to be you.
Everything without, perhaps. And all the language we've fought against, you wield in some delusion, so sure that by making the sun rise it has risen, and in making me human you will be forgiven for every cut and scrape and incidental bruise you've managed to scale against me armed with teeth and tongue and cheek. Only the whispers dance along the edges of my vision now, accompanying the ghosts in their promenade, little utterances still gasping at the edge of dream, craving the remembrance that long forsook their shadowed sills dropped from the calligraphy of their mention. Even then there is pain, a deep folding feeling the flux of imbalance, and all this cold rift cannot be fleeced with sleet or rain or salt air slimming along the red shored sandstone.
Not to say this is impossibility. Impossible is to be so sought and caught in these threaded piles, twined and twixt and twinned by a few spools of gathered flax over foundry fire. Impossible is to be and breath and spread silver fingers like swollen fires, breaming fast-fallen flares, around the grace that freedom has no longer been or broken. Like some childish chime, you can still feel faint from the gesture, a pitch dark swooning in scarlet fever, caffeine clarity bubbling in fervor, each and every time you lift your eyes, every time you saddle the trident a little lower, every time you swallow the sea. All the clamour contained.
Perhaps the wandering is a lust. And in this cradled courier you travel nowhere but in situ, diaphanous in your own splendid gravity of confusion and culpability. Quixotic comes to mind. Nevermind the troubling splendour curled cat-like amidst it all, or the playful nature of discontent always failing to subside between the costal places you've woven your amiability through, it's only a single moment built in complaint complete with repetition.
So, restlessness, we endeavor to design. We strive to create. An instance. An expanse. A mere addendum to the turbulence lasting only briefly, within the interim, lasting only for as long as eternity can be progressed and poured over, every word in the spell made mention, every prayer in the binding offered to ease, the gentle rapping of slipper-gone-scuff-shuffling, winding coarsely in angelic whimper to those fettered in dream. Sleep well. If only.

17 June 2009

Propafol Iridesence and the Tripping Twilight Noctilucence

Tonight, we're the sea and
the rhythm there
the waves and the wind and night is black

You wanted pictures, so here is my home, a single shadow traced in the light of a million burning suns, these edifices placed lowly along the the shifting reign, dazed in glib foreign veins of mercury plating along the agonal architecture hung from meager frames. Children have pasted in cowstail the lasting impression you've settled to, an inarticulate hue of fusion flung blandly bending at the event horizon gone of your tongue slung in attache over arms, but their blindness bleated the beading, singing sag sung songs slipping off the rungs of wandering. And at last they've a palace of teeth to chatter, and clapping eclectic sparrows' with waxwing waxing warnings, circle heavenly curiosity kicking at the shine of growing dreams waking in the copse.
Sometimes there is.
Parallel cabinets plying in hinge-drowned debate, and a strive toward blight leads blindly on the copper greened girls pouring on their skin all the mediocritical vanity horses play at in the beinn. Some hearts are true. And listening from their cloyed branches buried in the mud, you've lost your time clasping to the strands of trees falling in the flood; so, however you give up is nearly an advance of just how greatly I've given in, sailing the cities pressed along the palm of the sand. Some weight.
Good gravity abounds in these lost losing of ways stripped down in cancer and clammy civet-sewn kabals puckered with gin, just how you've never known, seeing Sundays fade in faze fortunes to drove rhythms culled in artifice. Found and following, bound, biblic, and lacquered losing beauty in the land sometimes thought flowered and forward, fabric bliss conspired to wear out. So threaded and bare through these eyes. A starker version of me painted in the ugly phrases set aside for all canthic, callous moities.

14 June 2009

North Umpton and the Tiddlywinks Duodenal

Bring tea for the tillerman
Steak for the sun
Wine for the women who made the rain come
Seagulls sing your hearts away
cause while the sinners sin, the children play
Oh lord how they play and play
For that happy day, for that happy day

What is this panacea, this directed mission they hope for? How collapsed, this trident, crowning Eos over water; how came this dreaming noon, this lulled whisper rushing reeds and galeing of eyes blowing storm?
I call her calamity in ravens' cowl, hooded sphinx that she is, wallowing against my jamb, steering the unkeeled throttle, blushing from the heat of the pavement turned to stirring sand.
I can hear her whisper through the split-slits and gap, a slow prayer unto eternity, an exultation on to selves, tapping softly thrumming slick-smooth hands to steel. Glaring lights red on the rain.
Come trim the shoulders, letting the slender slip fall gracefully as we cross the sky, playing endlessly in the lamplit gloaming fueled by the sparks bursting off that graveled spin along us.
Capsized, she and I. Tangled in the throngs of echoes rimming wide of the wind, strung as mosaics beaming in cruciated songs whorling through the singing bowls.
Just give me one more stretch, one more run, a million small forevers, an infinite number of hells, just one more lick of concrete, a small scrape thatched with blood. One more.
One more silent cry of Joy.

7 April 2009

AKim-bo Axolotls and Ursal Ornaments to the Usual Misunderstandings

Both heads fell like
Eyes on a crack in the door
And Sodom, South Georgia
Slept on an acre of bones

It's called animosity. An indigestible toiling for nothing grating against the grit graining in the pearl. And like a silver vein it threads its way, chafing through my skin, an ecstasy exacting without momentum, a loop of inertia unerring, collapsing, failing. Fantastic. What choice have I in emptying this apex, draining the clipped words chamber by chamber sloshing on past the fibres while listening to the lulling thump--[gap] leaning cautery-wise to the empty vessels, somethings without meanings. Without.
There are only so many cords, you know, a specific number of boards applied across the door. Sixteen. Three nails each.
And what you can't tell me, Pygmalion already knew, that the bone white clay you're mottled of gave grace as an antithesis to cracked-stone angles, rough-hewn, strangled lines driven at the plating of my skin. Am I the discoverer or the discovered of these soft places, these sand castles wind-spun in dream? Have I carved out a singularity too splendid, a deeply blue bowing arched across some midatlantic conundrum you drummed out in defeat? Maybe everything I see is just some tortoiseshell composure tickling chimeric cells, issuing dys-enfranchisement in litter and pavement papers stuck to windscreens... a soft germanic ripple of queerly questioned inqueries and a flash of old 110 stock burning out the light stuck beneath a rubber-skidded blade.
How candid these laughs, caught up in the gropes of ego and non-egalite, rolled in paunchy billows of blouses and blood-red lips spinning woolen warmth from tanned-skin tents. And the cat is asleep at the register. He is one left of money sifting through the floor, all tale-wrapped prehensilities telling how kept in fur the coming court stands when sitting, not a care to count in the blaring gales galling the perfusion silting solemn prayers across Stephen's Green. Only four signs and Bowe's tavern lighting, inviting the vitrious nature of rapture to claim some sin, and a subtle twinkle of whisky and guinness growling round the tipping chair legs, rolling syllables to the curling tongue-sung songs of an august march 'long O'Connell.
What's in a dream, they say... what young and furtive fledgling finds fancy in the impossible, in the cupidity of arrows idling slung, in the harlequin jest of targets and teetering tall composite collosus, stone giants building granite violent, vices holding jewels like freedom to the ethereal breeze.
how now brown kittens.

5 March 2009

The Arsenic-Baked Croutons [Cretins] and the Quadraphonic Acerbity

Oh, where do we disappear?
Into the silence that surrounds us
And then drowns us in the end
Where they try to get you out to get you in
And all these people who impersonate our friends
Say, “Come again, come again, come again, come
again, come again…”

And all the oil rolling in our tumble-down-driven veins pools lactic little comatose currents, thriving sleigh-ridden dreams of eclectic foundry-fraught thoughts screaming echo-archaic into loose folding rhythms winding staircases down the aurora. These long risers roaring arctic light. Its an awfully big step to make for wounded pride blinding, an unreasonable reason for your latex-bound art menagerie. All the same, I'm still better than you. All the same.
Those ten years you spent building the himalayas to the heavens, the hours of babel roaring down the sides, and 15 generations passed on the 15 generations onwards, leaving no stone safely rocked in its belly. Just the same. An unearthly brood of brown ground massing, moaning, and the sea goes on swallowing the lowing song leaving sky with one white eye to mumble in fluorene stationery, smattered in its hydrogen ink, the lean long syllable of suns sinking, "I'm high."
But I suppose you're saner in the smell of novelty, or couldn't grasp the mottled cuff link of your hand set in a million years of calcified dispensations you clung to in the primordial infancy. All your what-ifs. It's hell on wheels. Hell on hearts, too.
But, oh, the magnanimity, the sweet depraved conjecture, the crumpled stockings of a painted louse stuck leeching on the woolly wee stump you call your life. or Manhood.
Funny that.
Because its unchanged, my changeling.
I was born for war. Born for bearing on and down the long drawn knives that never had my back, born for blood and baying out against the light all the doom-worshipped sodden sons feed into. None of it's the same this time. Where monkeys have no tails and ring canticle bells, since a thousand thousand stars rose in my chest shredding the breath in stammers and stops and sharp, coiled, cart-away rasps I don't know if it's just me. All the same I can't bother to see just what makes that ounce of flesh so transubstantiated, from goose down pillow threads to the lingering immortal ribbons tying tresses to rusted-out haloes. Some winking, some wondering, some hung tiltly in the twilit neon on loan to the loaners lending pawn.
Grow old then, soaked and sot in the tannin mess slinking out from doors blacked-out and murderous annoyance blaring chlactic-crank in chittering windows blingering in the summer heat. All shadows.
They know the noise of leafless wings minus the hum of carotid tinkering sitting in multiples at the bar mourning. Ringless rings forgetting the vein blowing vanity through their aching teeth, quiet chided children of conceit thinking lawless thoughts and pantomiming the moral play kissing rills in reflections of their grease lined tankards.
Sobbing at their quartered bones, mawing at their missing fingers that finely played as shadow puppets on the miniature stages in the soft places of our dreams.

30 January 2009

Waffle-Bound Greyhounds and the Hunt for Harmonised Aneuploidy [ala S2B]

There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings

You comma, and I flux. Ten words and the wisdom once removed rings in enamel bells...
And I've lost what trains train thoughts on the lonely, existentiating, landless mass of metal. All tipsy spinning, topsy-turned in the quilting strut of strident sun, passing-push past the autumn grass across the laps leaned homewards. It's the barking-bite brumbling of exit-strategists that trundle gulp-thunk through incapacitant canals, an odd dreaming of dreamt dreams restirring the sense of soft patterns waking in guns. Come on over. Come stretch tongues.
Come lay by and whisper all the words in all the songs and all that your quaking soul ever sung. But pace yourself in this gloom, small rappings-tap-tap-sigh-snappings, portenting in fingertips the finite infiniteness that swam across your little, limbic lens. You go threading in feather beds twisting hands from cardboard landlords, posting bulletins in tin can lids undrank too often since your calendar forgot the months that March had made. Hard angles slip intuitively, all seeking in the already sought for, and, yet, you've found.
The clack-chink-thonk echo drawn chain reminds you the ride must go on, no show stopping velvet fall to catch your cuff, drop your flowers. You can still give in. Feed the darker feeler, the three freckles pulling round the dial, counting the mole-hills you've come to climb, feed the ugly secret you've stashed stone deep in your chuffing ribs, a diaphragm's push from puncturing all the gleeful emphasism you've placed on the rattled staff pumps of your aching organ.
Have a little heart.
The goal is disturbance, unremitted feasibility, uncompromising deniability, with such given floors falling from clefting-open clouds, twisting Escher-itically emphatic; given dream and reason. Plan B. Also known as. Can cantons peal out of the basket, weave fish from desert stones, flap over flap cutaneous climbing, a slim song ravelling ravenously, clinking limbicly along her tepid tongue. Clack. A suck-thunk-hum [clack]. Click. Like ebony honey humbling mumbling soft babble babel language, reaching an amber hollow coitally coiling. Venetian in the cruciform crawling, sprawling in fountains falling spawling, a fatal carnal claw.
Oh, cat, feline in sundry-drawling respite, come pleasure and grating pure pouring prowling from crook and sweeping tails, slinking in sybillant curls of fawning teeth lipping tongue. Kill kitten. Kill. gracious moonlight.