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.