Good-bye small hands, good-bye small heart
good-bye small head
My soul is climbing tree trunks
and swinging from every branch
They're calling on me,
they're calling one me...
Testing, testing, reel and wail... It's a mad world, you realise, full of mad people with mad problems, so much so that they spill right over you, into you. It's trouble, you see, tragedy that you seek, a right turn, a left hand twist, a rocking chair in mission oak and sable. Powerful things seem too impotent to take such egregious importance, toys out of their box, strewn and wood hewn, a dismembered assembly of the blind and lame, plastic soldiers spared for a moment in the swale of attention breaking. Peppermint now, a distension of leaf and spear, a night of long knives and drooling sand at an oasis only dream knows, coming lately in the gala mask of seasons' brother, does now in turn creak blackly ill a rust tin hyphae snapping lid-like. No neutrino or quork bouncing in silver ether aromatic on bent rings could bleed such field to gauche logistics, a tête-à-tête on the old aluminium girder. Chinese radio sunken in at the rivets a sound similar to out of tune harpsichords plunking down a step stones, pond to pad to rift ripples clutch, and a floating falling blossom of tiger trim feeling. The decay remarks of the un- and irremarkable, the stakes falling from favourite to keenest plain of materialisable orange paper, such gracious gravity to swarm and curtsy and goose-like howl with a flutter. It's all past the religious state of rite and wrong number, an idea of stolen hiccups and antiquated estuaries tripping on the opposite side of indifference, rooting for apathy through the eyepiece of electron monocles, a manic view of insensitive dust scattered out on the toy room floor, broken shapes origamied and shang-hai-painted on porcelain lips. Myriadic pygmalionites, a crackled army, sycophantic pools of carved-shadow organs forcing thrombocytic chateaus down the pulling juncture of hip and belly friction. A pause in the examination, a check of sound placed verbs, does this make new sense, warp the current syntax into obelix and asynechdoche along the caudal parameter of our very fine vicryl line of metacholic existence?
Cheers.
3 November 2005
25 October 2005
Of Ovales and Traberculae
We could be daytime drunks if we wanted
We'd never get anything done that way
And we'd still be ruled by our dueling perspectives
And I'm not my perspective
Or the lies I'll tell you every time
Through the hook-ups and holidays you crave for that touch, smiling into glasses, staring through cups. And the haunted eves are ghastly pale, faring alone these days on the darker roads for the pairings are loose in the ghostly breezes tossing the auburns and blondes between branches. All the white coats and linen scarves shackle the disappearing phantoms in black screens flickering hertz-felt psalms, a wide-whale trench line on the Southside of noon. A warping world view changing cardboard in an antithesis. This is what we need, an umber salt lick to stain our souls, slant them in the polarised draft of harsh fluorescent pulsations wracking our brains. Maybe they still remain, deep to the melanin, pouring out through the skin, the mirror shivers them back until they spike the blood a bog of ethereal and mortality, molten gung ho pacifism. Red lockers with the grey beat caps swinging on hooks, a cane tap rhythm driving like madness in veins, but its all that sound of hell gone frozen, a rain blown hallowed eve. This little north Atlantic fossa, a carnal pooling divide where all hold tightly in the turbulence feeling the slow depolarisation of their lives. There’s a fusion in this a converging vertex of hope or fear or palms, and then a cataract thrashing with sheering sounds brewing bones pale and crystalline, fracturing the whole of us in a congestive detergent slaking the individuality. We are one. Parentheses aside I'd struggle with the taste of green, all moisture warped-Mosley and an event on every horizon bleeding of prismatic creases, welting into orbity the choking mass of pretexts that begin every apostrophe. Petty thieves and nameless sorts are all the caste of thousands... cheers.
We'd never get anything done that way
And we'd still be ruled by our dueling perspectives
And I'm not my perspective
Or the lies I'll tell you every time
Through the hook-ups and holidays you crave for that touch, smiling into glasses, staring through cups. And the haunted eves are ghastly pale, faring alone these days on the darker roads for the pairings are loose in the ghostly breezes tossing the auburns and blondes between branches. All the white coats and linen scarves shackle the disappearing phantoms in black screens flickering hertz-felt psalms, a wide-whale trench line on the Southside of noon. A warping world view changing cardboard in an antithesis. This is what we need, an umber salt lick to stain our souls, slant them in the polarised draft of harsh fluorescent pulsations wracking our brains. Maybe they still remain, deep to the melanin, pouring out through the skin, the mirror shivers them back until they spike the blood a bog of ethereal and mortality, molten gung ho pacifism. Red lockers with the grey beat caps swinging on hooks, a cane tap rhythm driving like madness in veins, but its all that sound of hell gone frozen, a rain blown hallowed eve. This little north Atlantic fossa, a carnal pooling divide where all hold tightly in the turbulence feeling the slow depolarisation of their lives. There’s a fusion in this a converging vertex of hope or fear or palms, and then a cataract thrashing with sheering sounds brewing bones pale and crystalline, fracturing the whole of us in a congestive detergent slaking the individuality. We are one. Parentheses aside I'd struggle with the taste of green, all moisture warped-Mosley and an event on every horizon bleeding of prismatic creases, welting into orbity the choking mass of pretexts that begin every apostrophe. Petty thieves and nameless sorts are all the caste of thousands... cheers.
15 October 2005
Tracheobronchial Dichotomic Escalators
this was unlike the story
it was written to be
I was riding its back
when it used to ride me
Grass shoots and movements draping against the railway tracks of bamboo gardens, only a bit overgrown and smartly dressed in the chinos and pink lipstick. I’m sick of sleeping on the rain arced mornings with the ale wagging in my throat, chocking up and back with surge and bitter force draining back with all the lymph and tannen. I’m blue and pale in this fading yellow burst feeling the greying slew oozing through the mob, a darklight spawning from sea foam crowning the isles shores with dead laurels and holly. There are pomegranate pin stripes behind an old roll top desk clucking in a low melancholy about a wretched pence or three ill spent and flavoured of cheap white wine, but how many windows have you known to let you colour in the scene itself, the icy mood of low flicker flares in under the mantles. It’s a softer carpet we fleece others with, dragging out porridge and poor words long contracted and slurred over with another nip of a highland shadow. And this pasty face focuses for mere seconds shivering under a damaged swing song of a speaker hearing the nananonating of a throttled warbling wren grating the courser fabric of his jacket potato. The servers and served of a racquetball existence this night sleep side to rear and bang the wall with dream-weaving blue fascia still lacking the squash-able sounds of oomph, still institutionalised behind the white doors and plexiglass castles of our foundering fishbowls, turning in their own white-lined mania. A twist to the plot that splint scaling into tissue. And the pornographic mall is American and Germanic, its British and brutish and Jewish and catholic, its carnivorous and Canadian, gracious and botanic, it’s us and them and the we we avoid saying to not incriminate ourselves. Cheers.
it was written to be
I was riding its back
when it used to ride me
Grass shoots and movements draping against the railway tracks of bamboo gardens, only a bit overgrown and smartly dressed in the chinos and pink lipstick. I’m sick of sleeping on the rain arced mornings with the ale wagging in my throat, chocking up and back with surge and bitter force draining back with all the lymph and tannen. I’m blue and pale in this fading yellow burst feeling the greying slew oozing through the mob, a darklight spawning from sea foam crowning the isles shores with dead laurels and holly. There are pomegranate pin stripes behind an old roll top desk clucking in a low melancholy about a wretched pence or three ill spent and flavoured of cheap white wine, but how many windows have you known to let you colour in the scene itself, the icy mood of low flicker flares in under the mantles. It’s a softer carpet we fleece others with, dragging out porridge and poor words long contracted and slurred over with another nip of a highland shadow. And this pasty face focuses for mere seconds shivering under a damaged swing song of a speaker hearing the nananonating of a throttled warbling wren grating the courser fabric of his jacket potato. The servers and served of a racquetball existence this night sleep side to rear and bang the wall with dream-weaving blue fascia still lacking the squash-able sounds of oomph, still institutionalised behind the white doors and plexiglass castles of our foundering fishbowls, turning in their own white-lined mania. A twist to the plot that splint scaling into tissue. And the pornographic mall is American and Germanic, its British and brutish and Jewish and catholic, its carnivorous and Canadian, gracious and botanic, it’s us and them and the we we avoid saying to not incriminate ourselves. Cheers.
8 October 2005
A Plausibility with No Gain-say
I know my head is my worst enemy
Swallowed too much of it and started to believe
I know my heart is my worst enemy
Swallowed too much of it and started to believe
Searchlights like sand probes grate the flesh with pale whitewashes crackling a static sulphuric acid into our cement cortices. Our hooves wont slide so nearly now, this devilish burning carving out our steps in train. Some philosophe I am, yet to live and stretch the limbs I’m given in mind and spirit, long needing the space of a depopulated realm, all stunted mind and wishing-well beliefs driving ecstasy in a haze of morgue-ish anticipation. A black eyelash as key initiate floundering in the gentle up-wave and breeze path, coasting medially back on the ethmoidal daylight shuddering at the fragrance of the woman we begot in our easy, heady smoked dreams. We crave the horizon with its pearl sculpted fuchsia tendrils draining out past the humid lines in brows and corniced crowns, a canvas of pertinent sharpening the knife blade to rod and temple stone, just sheering slant edge back and crossing the chiasma sleeping by seconds on shoulder crook.
The archetypical demon whorling and heaving in the sidewalk parks, this earth is a breathing animal slow fuming with exhilaration; this mist bathing us beastly. Where I come from people don’t have fins and scales, just smooth pink fingers and thin pinna folds, they chuckle and trip in their theological malaise, vaulting the hoarse mouths lisping out blue peat and a spice called virtue. But all the terrible things these monsters say just eddying in the dark pools we all once visited.
Cheers.
Swallowed too much of it and started to believe
I know my heart is my worst enemy
Swallowed too much of it and started to believe
Searchlights like sand probes grate the flesh with pale whitewashes crackling a static sulphuric acid into our cement cortices. Our hooves wont slide so nearly now, this devilish burning carving out our steps in train. Some philosophe I am, yet to live and stretch the limbs I’m given in mind and spirit, long needing the space of a depopulated realm, all stunted mind and wishing-well beliefs driving ecstasy in a haze of morgue-ish anticipation. A black eyelash as key initiate floundering in the gentle up-wave and breeze path, coasting medially back on the ethmoidal daylight shuddering at the fragrance of the woman we begot in our easy, heady smoked dreams. We crave the horizon with its pearl sculpted fuchsia tendrils draining out past the humid lines in brows and corniced crowns, a canvas of pertinent sharpening the knife blade to rod and temple stone, just sheering slant edge back and crossing the chiasma sleeping by seconds on shoulder crook.
The archetypical demon whorling and heaving in the sidewalk parks, this earth is a breathing animal slow fuming with exhilaration; this mist bathing us beastly. Where I come from people don’t have fins and scales, just smooth pink fingers and thin pinna folds, they chuckle and trip in their theological malaise, vaulting the hoarse mouths lisping out blue peat and a spice called virtue. But all the terrible things these monsters say just eddying in the dark pools we all once visited.
Cheers.
3 October 2005
The Fifth Parenthetical Conduit
I've seen your hope on television
Where you've been, wore my word
They've got tricycles in skirts
This is a mouth that needs religion
I’ve been towed out to sea soaked with the smell of crude dreams and long pressed earth, just waiting, drifting, and quietly rocking with the constant roll of unspoken words that crack like thunder into pure foam. It’s turmoil, this. This heaving feeling in my gut, the never-ending thoughts that I am. That I am not yet, not food for the devilish sort I’ve bred. Its troubling, this. The whole-over haul that tosses me, empty as I am, lighter than the ethereal and soaring wings of myself I’ve known long to be. Oh yes, we are all akin to something stronger than we claim. But I’ve been dragged out and left, conquered in the last, conquered even at the first, subdued by rags and masks and the paint we call our skin, tapped down by the hail and hale and worth less of them, through my younger inspirations, long off the coast, this.
Car travels are like daydreams, mild cruises between desires and responsibilities, a reconciliation of the mean ways we choose for our lives to bend to. While the grey clouds spit and spire, whirling to wield their flash of power and curl back to let the sea mend the carved gullies of the storm, I crave a last word in this growing, furling cave. A last whisper. Faith. Folly. Forget? [Ia mcon fus edma yb e]. What lurks at the farthest edge might never be the nightmare we suppose, might never be the part of ourselves left in a ragged way by the sale of soul. This is the consummation, just an endless streak of ravelling hiss, one edge burning, the other searing smelling still of all the lithe sways emotion makes. We all had are moments that we gave up for our gods, estranged of our faithless fellows to long for the greatest of all, stuck up on the hillsides wringing ourselves in peals,of laughter and of mania and of course the horrendous silence our empty places beget,of sadness and amusement, but surely of our worst fears.
Cheers.
Where you've been, wore my word
They've got tricycles in skirts
This is a mouth that needs religion
I’ve been towed out to sea soaked with the smell of crude dreams and long pressed earth, just waiting, drifting, and quietly rocking with the constant roll of unspoken words that crack like thunder into pure foam. It’s turmoil, this. This heaving feeling in my gut, the never-ending thoughts that I am. That I am not yet, not food for the devilish sort I’ve bred. Its troubling, this. The whole-over haul that tosses me, empty as I am, lighter than the ethereal and soaring wings of myself I’ve known long to be. Oh yes, we are all akin to something stronger than we claim. But I’ve been dragged out and left, conquered in the last, conquered even at the first, subdued by rags and masks and the paint we call our skin, tapped down by the hail and hale and worth less of them, through my younger inspirations, long off the coast, this.
Car travels are like daydreams, mild cruises between desires and responsibilities, a reconciliation of the mean ways we choose for our lives to bend to. While the grey clouds spit and spire, whirling to wield their flash of power and curl back to let the sea mend the carved gullies of the storm, I crave a last word in this growing, furling cave. A last whisper. Faith. Folly. Forget? [Ia mcon fus edma yb e]. What lurks at the farthest edge might never be the nightmare we suppose, might never be the part of ourselves left in a ragged way by the sale of soul. This is the consummation, just an endless streak of ravelling hiss, one edge burning, the other searing smelling still of all the lithe sways emotion makes. We all had are moments that we gave up for our gods, estranged of our faithless fellows to long for the greatest of all, stuck up on the hillsides wringing ourselves in peals,of laughter and of mania and of course the horrendous silence our empty places beget,of sadness and amusement, but surely of our worst fears.
Cheers.
1 October 2005
Wilted Panes and Folly-Wrapped Participles
Cause behind its door there's nothing to keep my fingers warm
And all i find are souvenirs from better times
Before the gleam of your taillights fading east
To find yourself a better life.
There’s campfire twigs and a small slate tablet, crackled with dabbled paints and scrapes, a riddled mind may wander here, just like a forest in fear wanders itself. There are piano keys and bled out reeds whistling on the high floating tune of ohm and woman, just jasmine and lilac, no sage or sandalwood but all petals and green fields that flow through every jolt. We are spiked with ideals of perfection, tonofilaments flaking into spines, thinking all is eternal in flawless heaven, forgetting that the imperfect is perfect for a second. Taking a hacksaw to the limb, heaving slant like shaving ‘til that first drop of blood crystallises in a lachrymal bead just hanging, weaving down a blade spreading meander glaze of sticky sap and sloping sloughing off in the glint of liquid sunlight. It takes a moment. A lip lets slip a small moneme, a syllable[con] of ecstasy, suspended, wrung out and hung, still wet, still ringing; in momentum it carries on for a millennium in that nano-measured bit of time, clung hard to the soft palate with excruciating pleasure, the beginning of a word that is boundless, cut short in breathing near expulsion.
The gaps and waste.
Your beauty has not left me indifferent, indifference has left me without beauty to compare to. A nullifying wash colourless and striking all the same like a tongue tip pulse settling in the shiver from the tacky sweat. The edifice of unity is ineffably gone with the slow decay of salt and skin, a woven blanket of textured emotions rent and worn out in the friction of heart against ribs. A ponderous groping that stretches at the seams folding over the album pages where remembrance lay out a pictographic table of immoral moments caught up in heat and sundry swelters. Flicker and cold snap wind wound dancers these flames licking exorbitantly at the stippled walls, snickering in the languid whispers and warm handshakes, acquaintances still curious to introduce the other. Meddling sorts, these mindless trips.
Cheers.
And all i find are souvenirs from better times
Before the gleam of your taillights fading east
To find yourself a better life.
There’s campfire twigs and a small slate tablet, crackled with dabbled paints and scrapes, a riddled mind may wander here, just like a forest in fear wanders itself. There are piano keys and bled out reeds whistling on the high floating tune of ohm and woman, just jasmine and lilac, no sage or sandalwood but all petals and green fields that flow through every jolt. We are spiked with ideals of perfection, tonofilaments flaking into spines, thinking all is eternal in flawless heaven, forgetting that the imperfect is perfect for a second. Taking a hacksaw to the limb, heaving slant like shaving ‘til that first drop of blood crystallises in a lachrymal bead just hanging, weaving down a blade spreading meander glaze of sticky sap and sloping sloughing off in the glint of liquid sunlight. It takes a moment. A lip lets slip a small moneme, a syllable[con] of ecstasy, suspended, wrung out and hung, still wet, still ringing; in momentum it carries on for a millennium in that nano-measured bit of time, clung hard to the soft palate with excruciating pleasure, the beginning of a word that is boundless, cut short in breathing near expulsion.
The gaps and waste.
Your beauty has not left me indifferent, indifference has left me without beauty to compare to. A nullifying wash colourless and striking all the same like a tongue tip pulse settling in the shiver from the tacky sweat. The edifice of unity is ineffably gone with the slow decay of salt and skin, a woven blanket of textured emotions rent and worn out in the friction of heart against ribs. A ponderous groping that stretches at the seams folding over the album pages where remembrance lay out a pictographic table of immoral moments caught up in heat and sundry swelters. Flicker and cold snap wind wound dancers these flames licking exorbitantly at the stippled walls, snickering in the languid whispers and warm handshakes, acquaintances still curious to introduce the other. Meddling sorts, these mindless trips.
Cheers.
22 September 2005
Persnickity, Maybe, but with Handlebar Ties
we should shine a light on
a light on
the book of right-on's right on
it was right on
You feel it at the edge, an itch and dry heave all rolled up in keratin and foil rubbing and ruining the paint stained dimples. It can't claw forever, not this deep, this rich and vibrant incising like a gaff before a howl. It rasps the sanity just corroding at feverish pace sinking deep and lithely humming its tuned derision. Pot stills and wheel-wound buzzes shifting in anti-climatic gravity seem to blue your seal and sand, like a depravity marks out blanching the bend in logic, making sure that some kind of half-eaten wall of a soul still stands for sale. You want to poke through the skin and scrawl out your fingertips signing off on a contract life owed to the darker closes and their frosted crpyt-ic smoke. Two cloves and a black wool coat, a feeling of movement without rotation, chances are its all coincidental, the acid and silver slit eyes wandering, but why throw out perfectly good conjecture when the occult thrives on thrill and totem. You might pass a fancy, or pause at a misplaced progression; you might think it’s rather a heavy box for being empty. But the wooden splinters keep slicing down your throat, jagging hard carved words like truth and sensibility... mania. Keep containing those nasty first impressions, keep weighing your soul with your hands, just sieve the sentences you trail off in and pray that there's meaning.
There's something wonderful here. Cracked joint and simple tick-click, chances are you missed it. He's looking for his destiny, looking for his god, but where in man would you hide divinity except in a still brewing concept of creation.
Cheers.
a light on
the book of right-on's right on
it was right on
You feel it at the edge, an itch and dry heave all rolled up in keratin and foil rubbing and ruining the paint stained dimples. It can't claw forever, not this deep, this rich and vibrant incising like a gaff before a howl. It rasps the sanity just corroding at feverish pace sinking deep and lithely humming its tuned derision. Pot stills and wheel-wound buzzes shifting in anti-climatic gravity seem to blue your seal and sand, like a depravity marks out blanching the bend in logic, making sure that some kind of half-eaten wall of a soul still stands for sale. You want to poke through the skin and scrawl out your fingertips signing off on a contract life owed to the darker closes and their frosted crpyt-ic smoke. Two cloves and a black wool coat, a feeling of movement without rotation, chances are its all coincidental, the acid and silver slit eyes wandering, but why throw out perfectly good conjecture when the occult thrives on thrill and totem. You might pass a fancy, or pause at a misplaced progression; you might think it’s rather a heavy box for being empty. But the wooden splinters keep slicing down your throat, jagging hard carved words like truth and sensibility... mania. Keep containing those nasty first impressions, keep weighing your soul with your hands, just sieve the sentences you trail off in and pray that there's meaning.
There's something wonderful here. Cracked joint and simple tick-click, chances are you missed it. He's looking for his destiny, looking for his god, but where in man would you hide divinity except in a still brewing concept of creation.
Cheers.
17 September 2005
Pantless Frivolity and a Mayonnaise Roof
bad dreams like this roll in like a cold front
thunderous thunder and lightning in tow
and your tiny little life gets even smaller
as you heed the heavens mighty show
and i dont mean heaven like godlike
cos the animal i am knows very well
that nature is our teacher and our mother
and god is just another
story that we tell
Clever aren’t we, three fingers and no toes, tripping lamp lights in order to stretch our own shadows to ceilings or through windows. Calm is a hue nearly grey on the cherry woodwork encasing tired old tomes like me. Funny thing is as books may say, the truth of the matter is more than people may want, it’s a matter of beauty being genuinely ingenuine and wholly corrupt, its beauty as a cross-hung wickedness that follows the corpse through boat-swung rivers. Passive aggression is what you are, a species derived from derision, long mounted in bass strung timbres about to rock the concreteness of the world you desire to live in. Walk past a bored one, a lonely one, a dire old dame, walk past yourself then in the same context, frame, obsession. Pointlessness. Fear. Pain. Words are words I suppose, stream lined by the usage, the everyday wear like tyre tearing on pavement, strips left off somewhere between the here and then, long out from the last stop made for gas. Funny thing is, the distance to joy is exactly 3635 miles, though its exactly 5 paces to adventure. Knapsacks are vessels for the life we wish to live, to bottle and travel and touch the earth that you may wish exists. Life never was intended to end at the borders you drew on yourself, there were the rickshaws and the damsels, the towers and the keeps, all jungles of tangles of hues of your psyche. It all means to you, everything it isn’t supposed to mean, because what you may have forgotten is that life is just this. Moment. Eccentricity. Hush.
Cheers.
thunderous thunder and lightning in tow
and your tiny little life gets even smaller
as you heed the heavens mighty show
and i dont mean heaven like godlike
cos the animal i am knows very well
that nature is our teacher and our mother
and god is just another
story that we tell
Clever aren’t we, three fingers and no toes, tripping lamp lights in order to stretch our own shadows to ceilings or through windows. Calm is a hue nearly grey on the cherry woodwork encasing tired old tomes like me. Funny thing is as books may say, the truth of the matter is more than people may want, it’s a matter of beauty being genuinely ingenuine and wholly corrupt, its beauty as a cross-hung wickedness that follows the corpse through boat-swung rivers. Passive aggression is what you are, a species derived from derision, long mounted in bass strung timbres about to rock the concreteness of the world you desire to live in. Walk past a bored one, a lonely one, a dire old dame, walk past yourself then in the same context, frame, obsession. Pointlessness. Fear. Pain. Words are words I suppose, stream lined by the usage, the everyday wear like tyre tearing on pavement, strips left off somewhere between the here and then, long out from the last stop made for gas. Funny thing is, the distance to joy is exactly 3635 miles, though its exactly 5 paces to adventure. Knapsacks are vessels for the life we wish to live, to bottle and travel and touch the earth that you may wish exists. Life never was intended to end at the borders you drew on yourself, there were the rickshaws and the damsels, the towers and the keeps, all jungles of tangles of hues of your psyche. It all means to you, everything it isn’t supposed to mean, because what you may have forgotten is that life is just this. Moment. Eccentricity. Hush.
Cheers.
12 September 2005
A Convalescent Duck and Its Darkhorse Jumper
youre right as rain about the benefits
but you might be wrong about the costs
and it feeds my heart that you came looking for me
but im thinkin i need to stay lost
I like that about some records, that whipper-wobble in their spin, that tin string sound i cant stand to sit with. The conjecture a sound makes is something intrinsic in its hate for the meddling air, the swooshing way it claps at the tempo or timbre rising continually from edge to edge. I would put it in a pine box as a child, a resin-slide and toggle-side case of music that would always delight the upswung cheeks of children on their way home. A thousand generations, a hundred years of solitude passing may only be a second to that brumbling bramble bush that always burned in the corner of the inspired man's mind, might only have been a quick inflection point on a carriage lamp's parabolic light. Nothing much going on these days while the callous builds over the flame, its burning heat as all of us, we as one, arch our backs and hail the sun, nothing much to the fading light and cooling lips. There was that look under the umbrella, from one to the next to the last furthest from the curb, a sort of hello that said something more like "is it safe to be so secret of this life". And sure we nod, we grin a quiet tangent thought that says we may have been, may have been partial to an idea, may have been partial to their cordiality, may have been carrying sign that said yours, but that's not what you'll get. It flows back off us the last oozing cloud of humanity, all the fun momentarily forgotten for the bits of fear of wet and wind and flock life we grew from. A Sunday show on single layer cement slab, the thespians ill trained and ill practiced, but these are the ones I love. A face crossed by fist, an arm hooked by hand, and all the players moving toward the reaper at stage left glare wholly up while they promenade and dance. You find angels in the ground shadows to the feet of man all stepping clockwise in sandy shoals like legs of good wine running in the lights of the river home.
And the madness leases time from all our candle-lit games, streaming down in lacrimal parcels lost, irreplaceable to the strange hollow that frail pear-shaped hole in the universe that blows out with a whisper from our doppel-ganger selves.
but you might be wrong about the costs
and it feeds my heart that you came looking for me
but im thinkin i need to stay lost
I like that about some records, that whipper-wobble in their spin, that tin string sound i cant stand to sit with. The conjecture a sound makes is something intrinsic in its hate for the meddling air, the swooshing way it claps at the tempo or timbre rising continually from edge to edge. I would put it in a pine box as a child, a resin-slide and toggle-side case of music that would always delight the upswung cheeks of children on their way home. A thousand generations, a hundred years of solitude passing may only be a second to that brumbling bramble bush that always burned in the corner of the inspired man's mind, might only have been a quick inflection point on a carriage lamp's parabolic light. Nothing much going on these days while the callous builds over the flame, its burning heat as all of us, we as one, arch our backs and hail the sun, nothing much to the fading light and cooling lips. There was that look under the umbrella, from one to the next to the last furthest from the curb, a sort of hello that said something more like "is it safe to be so secret of this life". And sure we nod, we grin a quiet tangent thought that says we may have been, may have been partial to an idea, may have been partial to their cordiality, may have been carrying sign that said yours, but that's not what you'll get. It flows back off us the last oozing cloud of humanity, all the fun momentarily forgotten for the bits of fear of wet and wind and flock life we grew from. A Sunday show on single layer cement slab, the thespians ill trained and ill practiced, but these are the ones I love. A face crossed by fist, an arm hooked by hand, and all the players moving toward the reaper at stage left glare wholly up while they promenade and dance. You find angels in the ground shadows to the feet of man all stepping clockwise in sandy shoals like legs of good wine running in the lights of the river home.
And the madness leases time from all our candle-lit games, streaming down in lacrimal parcels lost, irreplaceable to the strange hollow that frail pear-shaped hole in the universe that blows out with a whisper from our doppel-ganger selves.
6 September 2005
Gravity's Monochromatic Archway
empty hearts and winter riot hopeless blue
Keys to Survival (in no particular order):
1. Always remain yourself. As malleable as you may be, forget the pop culture drama and just do what you fucking want. Change the medium. Prats.
2. Hat everyone. No, I don't mean hate, i mean hat. It's like hating, but not, which I can see is confusing, but ignore the confusing part and focus on the not likingness of hatting.
3. For fuck sake, never agree to take on responsibility. Freedom does not come from resposibility, it comes from maintaining yourself in a complete state of lack of obligation.
4. Alcohol is like ambrosia, respect it for its tastiness and you'll find that while traversing from a state of sobriety to a state of completely off your tits, you might have actually had a rather delectable experience.
5. Never doubt that going to class drunk is a better idea while drunk then when you're yourself [sober].
6. Trust no one. Even when someone's offering you a favor "out of the kindness of there heart", realise they expect something from you every time they see you. What it is they expect, they cant say, but it's often something you're not willing to offer to them or part with.
7. Friendship is often a one way street where you get dragged along unwillingly. Don't let it happen. Limit your exposure to people to events that are on your own terms. This will allow these "friends" to function as acquaintances allowing you to be more free and to look upon the activities with them as entertainment as opposed to meaningful or weighty relationships.
8. Science is a pack of lies. FIBBER!!! (I had to say it)
9. Fundamentalists of any type do no one any good. Don't marginalise them, just outright kill them. In the long run you and everyone else will be happier.
10. Western culture, while supposedly individualistic, is quite collectivist at its core, often focusing on the General Good. Whoever this guy is, he must be a big jerk, cos the laws passed in his name are often completely ridiculous; so, break them, at least while no ones looking and you can't get caught.
Canvas shoes and canvas bags make for ease of carrying me, packing the satchel and left hand pocket aside with small lint coins good for buying dreams. Through angles the angels sense the pecuniary resistance to hope and lessness that streams outward on human terms, the solitary confinement of soul in skin and flesh and saran wrapped nuance. Fresh out of the package that starch crackle in collar and spring-bound chin forward to the sky, and all the weight of the world works it in. We all tuck into the manna of complimental speeches and fragmented phrases of good will, cheer, we all tuck in the wave of haggard hisses and blown away rotten snipes that hid in our hoods and hands. Silver leaf lined purses and alligator sails dragging away the windward beach from seaside glasses clinking, lip edge scraped with salt and sand. Oh all the wounds blister in the sun bursting with ache for a blue clean slate and white foam wash crashing out the old haunts. The laces tied themselves this time, knowing the loop and swoop by instinct and predilection, and while soles anchored for gravity's defiling, a gradual curve rending to an outlined plan, a suck and swallow of earthy grit plummeting back for an infinite space to fill. Dance steps are hand drawn dioramas of toddlers learning to walk.
Cheers.
Keys to Survival (in no particular order):
1. Always remain yourself. As malleable as you may be, forget the pop culture drama and just do what you fucking want. Change the medium. Prats.
2. Hat everyone. No, I don't mean hate, i mean hat. It's like hating, but not, which I can see is confusing, but ignore the confusing part and focus on the not likingness of hatting.
3. For fuck sake, never agree to take on responsibility. Freedom does not come from resposibility, it comes from maintaining yourself in a complete state of lack of obligation.
4. Alcohol is like ambrosia, respect it for its tastiness and you'll find that while traversing from a state of sobriety to a state of completely off your tits, you might have actually had a rather delectable experience.
5. Never doubt that going to class drunk is a better idea while drunk then when you're yourself [sober].
6. Trust no one. Even when someone's offering you a favor "out of the kindness of there heart", realise they expect something from you every time they see you. What it is they expect, they cant say, but it's often something you're not willing to offer to them or part with.
7. Friendship is often a one way street where you get dragged along unwillingly. Don't let it happen. Limit your exposure to people to events that are on your own terms. This will allow these "friends" to function as acquaintances allowing you to be more free and to look upon the activities with them as entertainment as opposed to meaningful or weighty relationships.
8. Science is a pack of lies. FIBBER!!! (I had to say it)
9. Fundamentalists of any type do no one any good. Don't marginalise them, just outright kill them. In the long run you and everyone else will be happier.
10. Western culture, while supposedly individualistic, is quite collectivist at its core, often focusing on the General Good. Whoever this guy is, he must be a big jerk, cos the laws passed in his name are often completely ridiculous; so, break them, at least while no ones looking and you can't get caught.
Canvas shoes and canvas bags make for ease of carrying me, packing the satchel and left hand pocket aside with small lint coins good for buying dreams. Through angles the angels sense the pecuniary resistance to hope and lessness that streams outward on human terms, the solitary confinement of soul in skin and flesh and saran wrapped nuance. Fresh out of the package that starch crackle in collar and spring-bound chin forward to the sky, and all the weight of the world works it in. We all tuck into the manna of complimental speeches and fragmented phrases of good will, cheer, we all tuck in the wave of haggard hisses and blown away rotten snipes that hid in our hoods and hands. Silver leaf lined purses and alligator sails dragging away the windward beach from seaside glasses clinking, lip edge scraped with salt and sand. Oh all the wounds blister in the sun bursting with ache for a blue clean slate and white foam wash crashing out the old haunts. The laces tied themselves this time, knowing the loop and swoop by instinct and predilection, and while soles anchored for gravity's defiling, a gradual curve rending to an outlined plan, a suck and swallow of earthy grit plummeting back for an infinite space to fill. Dance steps are hand drawn dioramas of toddlers learning to walk.
Cheers.
2 September 2005
Painting Wheat with Another Moniker
and the things we said we'd do
and the whisky and the line
rolling all the time
She said cognac was a thing of the past just like white moles and karma,a kind of transcendental lapse of the mapped out rhodes, almost misshapen except for that tiny fold along the perforation. Kind words elope in the space, they steal off or just steal the accumlated fragrance of old friends, fur, and tangled jazz trombones. That delicate peace erupts inward on a tangent, strutting out on the fly and find no more than a lip to tremble and welt, like ice cube kisses and plaster-made sides. I won't be brandished as a passe phenomenon when all I see is a comet's tail and stars curving round the narrow alley, a close for a queen draped darkly with the ghosts, or maybe a long day meadow pulling bens behind. Might we tear away the background fumbling, the host of images barraged across these wires and red bricks baking, might we carve the taste of gray hung rain into some sapling potted deep and purple in our cracked psyches letting it green and grow warm like an umber clay desert. I'll swirl the glass and bite my lip with the etching hollow voice that swills down the gullet rocks, a branded brachial nerve remembering the shock of blue flame spark arcing out of us. Just sputtering warble-warped monemes in a tremor of viscous oxygen pulling heart through teeth and tongue-taped gawking. It's possible, entirely too much so, it is, an inch worm of motion ligating fibres of one thought to blade of grass or nettle itched skin. Scrape it raw, peel it back, grind it out, all the envious goodbyes. And blink.
She said cognac was a thing of movie-time men, a lazy shadow that never ran from the light of day. Our cracked sidewalks talk all the time of these things and that, the hand prints lifting the cut capes for all the sauntering spats. There were pianos then, and violins, and one thing named Joy, but she never knew much of all the forgetting they'd do after her dance. Laughter, tittering, bell-blown glass tingling, a jagged fasting weening seersucker away from sultry bodies. Guffaw-lined felt droning in a cabaret, cigar-tied nicotine chuckling past chandeliers, whore-found buyers in the deep, ugly heat of a night-spun bar, the fans all twirled drooping in the weary haze of a trumpet and clarinet swing. All the dust that settled the tabs got pushed off with the steel cannon of wrecking balls, crashing out steinway chords and sucking back the boas and fedoras before settling for a dry gin martini. Dirty.
Cheers.
and the whisky and the line
rolling all the time
She said cognac was a thing of the past just like white moles and karma,a kind of transcendental lapse of the mapped out rhodes, almost misshapen except for that tiny fold along the perforation. Kind words elope in the space, they steal off or just steal the accumlated fragrance of old friends, fur, and tangled jazz trombones. That delicate peace erupts inward on a tangent, strutting out on the fly and find no more than a lip to tremble and welt, like ice cube kisses and plaster-made sides. I won't be brandished as a passe phenomenon when all I see is a comet's tail and stars curving round the narrow alley, a close for a queen draped darkly with the ghosts, or maybe a long day meadow pulling bens behind. Might we tear away the background fumbling, the host of images barraged across these wires and red bricks baking, might we carve the taste of gray hung rain into some sapling potted deep and purple in our cracked psyches letting it green and grow warm like an umber clay desert. I'll swirl the glass and bite my lip with the etching hollow voice that swills down the gullet rocks, a branded brachial nerve remembering the shock of blue flame spark arcing out of us. Just sputtering warble-warped monemes in a tremor of viscous oxygen pulling heart through teeth and tongue-taped gawking. It's possible, entirely too much so, it is, an inch worm of motion ligating fibres of one thought to blade of grass or nettle itched skin. Scrape it raw, peel it back, grind it out, all the envious goodbyes. And blink.
She said cognac was a thing of movie-time men, a lazy shadow that never ran from the light of day. Our cracked sidewalks talk all the time of these things and that, the hand prints lifting the cut capes for all the sauntering spats. There were pianos then, and violins, and one thing named Joy, but she never knew much of all the forgetting they'd do after her dance. Laughter, tittering, bell-blown glass tingling, a jagged fasting weening seersucker away from sultry bodies. Guffaw-lined felt droning in a cabaret, cigar-tied nicotine chuckling past chandeliers, whore-found buyers in the deep, ugly heat of a night-spun bar, the fans all twirled drooping in the weary haze of a trumpet and clarinet swing. All the dust that settled the tabs got pushed off with the steel cannon of wrecking balls, crashing out steinway chords and sucking back the boas and fedoras before settling for a dry gin martini. Dirty.
Cheers.
29 August 2005
Clamma Firma in the Autumn Dig
hand me stones
to break these walls
hand me grief
and ill change it all
Sometimes I think I’m wasting my talent on the sciences when I should be ranting on my own weekly cable access show. I’d totally have a following, and then, the cult: mass suicides for everyone! Yay! And ill bet you’re asking yourself right now, just how much crack does that boy smoke a week? And the answer is a lot. And not a little a lot. Like a lot a lot. I bury my head in the stuff like two big crack-y boobs, it’s the neuroticism really. If I had a choice, id totally sleep during the day and just stay up all night long and then go to bed at sunrise. I like cities at night, they’re so much better than in the light.
Write that down.
Forgive me for I haven’t had a good rant in weeks, and my website hasn’t had one in months but today is autumn here, cold, rainy, wonderful. And the rant is back. Like a cruel mistress it'll sway the words on the breeze and sling my head into a frenzy. Ah the love, the loath, the wistful whench. Indeed. The streets can't claim me just yet, its far too early with this summer vein throbbing in agony and heat trying melt off the chill fingers of our loveliest of seasons as she climbs back o'er the heels of us. There's no statute that says this aire of green tepid touch hsa to prevail so late into the year. I have been waiting.
There's little that makes for a proper evening, little that makes for a solemn night. The smell of rain against the sound of sobbing leaves always lends to the alacrity, the pomp, the overall vestige and fanfare of fall. Spring has its buds and heat, its astounding renewal that shoots, upheaves the land and colors, its grieving, blinding. But autumn is the aged wisdom of the earth, the melloeing of a smooth whisky that rolls with flavour accross the pallate. It is glib and gallant, but subtle as well in its ornate vox and acousticum. While spring airs itself hollowly, promising a great rejuvenation, a great cheer that is swallowed with the end of summer. Death is different in its compact. It is full as proffered. Autumn comes before summer stales and it files down the great spaces of green, letting them wilt into the drab congress of tawny browns. It leaves nothing untouched, and in truth it doesn't end, it is usurped. Thrown back by this capricious spring, so rash and young. Lovlier seasons merely must wait.
This framework for monarchy is all a bit wholesale and shoddy. We trim and rake and wait and pick, we huddle and wallow and pray that all will leave us fit. The cannibalism we have for one and each other does chafe at our strength over the seasons. This humanity that we claim is our suit of a soul is more makeshift, handed down, scuffed, and torn. It is a farce.
And the streets will have us show this violence, this gruff framed wire act. It'll bend and narrow and lead. Coursing fates are the asphalt gods, lying in wait for our feet, taking their turns and time to meet some orchestral montage. Like a clip show laid to cork, a half-eaten bagel and bordeaux braided stream, theres a chance we'll twist a misplaced limb in that gorded hand and flail in merciful pains. Time and again, we'll find what we need. No point of order, harping or harpies playeing for the seat as this, no charisma or cabby turns the tram off the wringing rail, just throttle and volume and chord echo straining to loose this firmament from an aerie in our throats. Cheers.
to break these walls
hand me grief
and ill change it all
Sometimes I think I’m wasting my talent on the sciences when I should be ranting on my own weekly cable access show. I’d totally have a following, and then, the cult: mass suicides for everyone! Yay! And ill bet you’re asking yourself right now, just how much crack does that boy smoke a week? And the answer is a lot. And not a little a lot. Like a lot a lot. I bury my head in the stuff like two big crack-y boobs, it’s the neuroticism really. If I had a choice, id totally sleep during the day and just stay up all night long and then go to bed at sunrise. I like cities at night, they’re so much better than in the light.
Write that down.
Forgive me for I haven’t had a good rant in weeks, and my website hasn’t had one in months but today is autumn here, cold, rainy, wonderful. And the rant is back. Like a cruel mistress it'll sway the words on the breeze and sling my head into a frenzy. Ah the love, the loath, the wistful whench. Indeed. The streets can't claim me just yet, its far too early with this summer vein throbbing in agony and heat trying melt off the chill fingers of our loveliest of seasons as she climbs back o'er the heels of us. There's no statute that says this aire of green tepid touch hsa to prevail so late into the year. I have been waiting.
There's little that makes for a proper evening, little that makes for a solemn night. The smell of rain against the sound of sobbing leaves always lends to the alacrity, the pomp, the overall vestige and fanfare of fall. Spring has its buds and heat, its astounding renewal that shoots, upheaves the land and colors, its grieving, blinding. But autumn is the aged wisdom of the earth, the melloeing of a smooth whisky that rolls with flavour accross the pallate. It is glib and gallant, but subtle as well in its ornate vox and acousticum. While spring airs itself hollowly, promising a great rejuvenation, a great cheer that is swallowed with the end of summer. Death is different in its compact. It is full as proffered. Autumn comes before summer stales and it files down the great spaces of green, letting them wilt into the drab congress of tawny browns. It leaves nothing untouched, and in truth it doesn't end, it is usurped. Thrown back by this capricious spring, so rash and young. Lovlier seasons merely must wait.
This framework for monarchy is all a bit wholesale and shoddy. We trim and rake and wait and pick, we huddle and wallow and pray that all will leave us fit. The cannibalism we have for one and each other does chafe at our strength over the seasons. This humanity that we claim is our suit of a soul is more makeshift, handed down, scuffed, and torn. It is a farce.
And the streets will have us show this violence, this gruff framed wire act. It'll bend and narrow and lead. Coursing fates are the asphalt gods, lying in wait for our feet, taking their turns and time to meet some orchestral montage. Like a clip show laid to cork, a half-eaten bagel and bordeaux braided stream, theres a chance we'll twist a misplaced limb in that gorded hand and flail in merciful pains. Time and again, we'll find what we need. No point of order, harping or harpies playeing for the seat as this, no charisma or cabby turns the tram off the wringing rail, just throttle and volume and chord echo straining to loose this firmament from an aerie in our throats. Cheers.
7 July 2005
Short Writ of Common Indecency
and they listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met
you know it's time
that we grow old and do some shit
i like it all that way
There's always a desperation, a challenge, a "god doesn't live here" moment. Pasting shapes to faces, superimposing some semblance of humanity onto a mirror, and silent, slim hook of a hip curving into palm as irony chuckles in that silver smirk. Yes, this is an obvious contradiction to yourself, but you have to laugh. Smile. Maybe even love if you knew how. How is an awful word. You feel bubbles under your skin that somehow echo the sound and nothing makes more sense. The decompression, the weightless rising of idea, threading nitrogen through veins and vessels, bloating and surging hitting your lungs.
Breathless.
And you're sucked between worlds, a human divot in the atlantic contriving the currents and stewing in the juices that slip back from their skin, eddying, hailing. The rocks circulate and swallow. They tip and wallow, break the caps and arc with the tide in a pale rainbow of oil fed disillusion. It's dusk. The night's been revived by the shockwave of dizziness from its daily spin, breathing in and intoxicating itself on the amorous glee that folds about our chests. The second wind. The first sips of cold night air culling the exhaustion. Time to rise. And you step out of the flat, if only seemingly for a moment, and disappear with the meandering functionality of your feet, long painted stretches of limelight and red granite soaked in the stuff of delirium.
There's no ticker-tape or rose-petal, red carpet reception, not for you. Just the muggy gray tiling of cement layered on rebar, the cold path of solid cohesion, boring distraction, inane recompensation for those thoughtless words you've spent. Cheap at the time though they were, it's always a bit pricier on the other side of the ocean. That's why you said that silence was golden, a priceless phrase so to speak. The more you keep back, the further from identifying with others, the tighter your chest grows with the slow push of sullen reclusion. I think stars feel the same way. They flare nova into the dust, clearing systems of planets and suns, then suck themselves under
breathless
drowned by their own divinity for that single moment of infinite pulse.
Cheers.
tied to a night they never met
you know it's time
that we grow old and do some shit
i like it all that way
There's always a desperation, a challenge, a "god doesn't live here" moment. Pasting shapes to faces, superimposing some semblance of humanity onto a mirror, and silent, slim hook of a hip curving into palm as irony chuckles in that silver smirk. Yes, this is an obvious contradiction to yourself, but you have to laugh. Smile. Maybe even love if you knew how. How is an awful word. You feel bubbles under your skin that somehow echo the sound and nothing makes more sense. The decompression, the weightless rising of idea, threading nitrogen through veins and vessels, bloating and surging hitting your lungs.
Breathless.
And you're sucked between worlds, a human divot in the atlantic contriving the currents and stewing in the juices that slip back from their skin, eddying, hailing. The rocks circulate and swallow. They tip and wallow, break the caps and arc with the tide in a pale rainbow of oil fed disillusion. It's dusk. The night's been revived by the shockwave of dizziness from its daily spin, breathing in and intoxicating itself on the amorous glee that folds about our chests. The second wind. The first sips of cold night air culling the exhaustion. Time to rise. And you step out of the flat, if only seemingly for a moment, and disappear with the meandering functionality of your feet, long painted stretches of limelight and red granite soaked in the stuff of delirium.
There's no ticker-tape or rose-petal, red carpet reception, not for you. Just the muggy gray tiling of cement layered on rebar, the cold path of solid cohesion, boring distraction, inane recompensation for those thoughtless words you've spent. Cheap at the time though they were, it's always a bit pricier on the other side of the ocean. That's why you said that silence was golden, a priceless phrase so to speak. The more you keep back, the further from identifying with others, the tighter your chest grows with the slow push of sullen reclusion. I think stars feel the same way. They flare nova into the dust, clearing systems of planets and suns, then suck themselves under
breathless
drowned by their own divinity for that single moment of infinite pulse.
Cheers.
29 June 2005
Litoral Meaning of Adverbial Phrasing
When you were falling from my tree,
I was not scared.
I thought you'd
meet me back up there.
It never dawned on me
you were home free.
It never dawned on me, no.
The pallor might seem incidental, just a waning bit of sunlit green as the cab sweeps past. Incidental being the odd word amongst the varied and harried disarray of punitive fragments. We don't deal in this concrete infestation, invectification, no mob or mop, no syndicate or programming syndication. Ideas are a currency, a spun sugar web thoroughly manifesting itself as a plaster cast to mold to. There's that canvas flap that goes rigid in the wind, a snickering parasite in slate gray soup mix packet. The spare came off, the reality set in. A year wasn't much more than a winter dream brooding in the flame.
In such a way we form the soil, the highlight beams the sun seems to sag under our feet, crunching on the stilt-legs, cos heights are for fear, leave egos to their own.
Samuel is a good name, or so they may one day say, and Jack might be a better to that of Jennifer or jade or quartz. Not that the watch face is the final place the wretched seem to desire to etch. Defy time, or merely wave at it and shrug. A complimentary fashion to it I may admonish. All the while the girl next to you might be humming to the driver about the deer straight ahead in the road. But I'd all the same be more concerned of the sand in the glove box and her left earlobe being shorter than the right because what man drives himself mad about the details?
The price of all this vanity is getting way too high
The maintenance of my sanity is taking too much time
Simple feathers, falling feathers, 7000 reasons to dream.
Cheers, mates.
I was not scared.
I thought you'd
meet me back up there.
It never dawned on me
you were home free.
It never dawned on me, no.
The pallor might seem incidental, just a waning bit of sunlit green as the cab sweeps past. Incidental being the odd word amongst the varied and harried disarray of punitive fragments. We don't deal in this concrete infestation, invectification, no mob or mop, no syndicate or programming syndication. Ideas are a currency, a spun sugar web thoroughly manifesting itself as a plaster cast to mold to. There's that canvas flap that goes rigid in the wind, a snickering parasite in slate gray soup mix packet. The spare came off, the reality set in. A year wasn't much more than a winter dream brooding in the flame.
In such a way we form the soil, the highlight beams the sun seems to sag under our feet, crunching on the stilt-legs, cos heights are for fear, leave egos to their own.
Samuel is a good name, or so they may one day say, and Jack might be a better to that of Jennifer or jade or quartz. Not that the watch face is the final place the wretched seem to desire to etch. Defy time, or merely wave at it and shrug. A complimentary fashion to it I may admonish. All the while the girl next to you might be humming to the driver about the deer straight ahead in the road. But I'd all the same be more concerned of the sand in the glove box and her left earlobe being shorter than the right because what man drives himself mad about the details?
The price of all this vanity is getting way too high
The maintenance of my sanity is taking too much time
Simple feathers, falling feathers, 7000 reasons to dream.
Cheers, mates.
1 June 2005
Juliette on a Longwave Radio
give me the colours of a different light
give me the colours grey and blue
So you learn. You find that at 50 you're twice as randy as at 20 and there's no explanation that you can think of between the beginning episodes of alzheimer's that plague your swiss cheese brain, the folds stuck together, overstarched and ironed, locked down portholes. It's only fair to hate life at that point, so you join a 12 step program only to find that there's more than 37 steps up from the sidewalk [irony]. The door opens and you smell the alcoholics and realise this isn't the room for you, because no one ever thought that a desire to be alive could be an addiction, unhealthy in its insistence upon existing, in complete denial that addiction is a possibility.
and blah blah blah, yakkity schmakkity, swing the golf club, wave, smile, try not to trip off the stage.
She swirled two coppers around each other as if milling about in the corner of a square, around each other in a planetary scraping on the formica following the indentations with her eyes, the milk-laden, black-scarred flashes of intelligent emotion that she allowed flit for momentary distraction from the scrolling circle to the hovering colors that registered around her. People move in and out of us as this, shapely and dull. Rainstorms drown out roses with the crackle and trickle-down damp, sheeting away the vivid taste of poppies and crocuses.
I never said I was the perfect child, and if I had, I was grossly mistaken. I treat my life as if it were a set of errands, a list of tasks that attain something often unrelated to the final destination. I do as I go and I go as I please. Never claimed that I would complete even the smallest bit of what everyone asked me to, never claimed I would take the best or fastest route from a to b, z to l, London to Newark. That is the way to be lived and to live. You must breathe incidentally, fall purposely, act madly, and never be afraid to be inane or cheeky. It'’s costly to be regretful, making all those witnesses disappear, David Copperfield only works at prime rates. I may have said I loved or was loved, but that was my entire fault for being caught up in the language. I may have mentioned that I was happy or thrilled, but I might have felt that tomorrow was going to be my last incidental breath. I might have overlooked my chance to say screaming that I would be a jackass, roller-skates, shopping carts, and all, but I always figured I had the charm. I never said what it was going to be, but always was kind enough to do a play by play with afterthoughts. I never said that id never say, just how i was intending it to be coherent. A little faith would be nice.
give me the colours grey and blue
So you learn. You find that at 50 you're twice as randy as at 20 and there's no explanation that you can think of between the beginning episodes of alzheimer's that plague your swiss cheese brain, the folds stuck together, overstarched and ironed, locked down portholes. It's only fair to hate life at that point, so you join a 12 step program only to find that there's more than 37 steps up from the sidewalk [irony]. The door opens and you smell the alcoholics and realise this isn't the room for you, because no one ever thought that a desire to be alive could be an addiction, unhealthy in its insistence upon existing, in complete denial that addiction is a possibility.
and blah blah blah, yakkity schmakkity, swing the golf club, wave, smile, try not to trip off the stage.
She swirled two coppers around each other as if milling about in the corner of a square, around each other in a planetary scraping on the formica following the indentations with her eyes, the milk-laden, black-scarred flashes of intelligent emotion that she allowed flit for momentary distraction from the scrolling circle to the hovering colors that registered around her. People move in and out of us as this, shapely and dull. Rainstorms drown out roses with the crackle and trickle-down damp, sheeting away the vivid taste of poppies and crocuses.
I never said I was the perfect child, and if I had, I was grossly mistaken. I treat my life as if it were a set of errands, a list of tasks that attain something often unrelated to the final destination. I do as I go and I go as I please. Never claimed that I would complete even the smallest bit of what everyone asked me to, never claimed I would take the best or fastest route from a to b, z to l, London to Newark. That is the way to be lived and to live. You must breathe incidentally, fall purposely, act madly, and never be afraid to be inane or cheeky. It'’s costly to be regretful, making all those witnesses disappear, David Copperfield only works at prime rates. I may have said I loved or was loved, but that was my entire fault for being caught up in the language. I may have mentioned that I was happy or thrilled, but I might have felt that tomorrow was going to be my last incidental breath. I might have overlooked my chance to say screaming that I would be a jackass, roller-skates, shopping carts, and all, but I always figured I had the charm. I never said what it was going to be, but always was kind enough to do a play by play with afterthoughts. I never said that id never say, just how i was intending it to be coherent. A little faith would be nice.
18 May 2005
Mystery Currents Lost in the Squamous Ampullas
All the hearts that touch your cheek
How they jump they move they embarrass
They make no sense, no sense, no sense
You wake up on a Saturday that sure as hell feels like a Tuesday, every Tuesday, last Tuesday, this Tuesday. The day never changes. It still is Tuesday, and your fingers when they stand up in front of your face to wipe away the sleep webs that form from dead and dying dreams, look more spongeiform, more spindly and strained with age. They rake with this phenomena, creasing the brow and cheek, slicing into the last shred of dimple that dotted the wells below the eye. I think haggard is the word [concavity]. Ten books make up your entire consciousness, thankfully not one is that biblioformaic of olden day traditional storytelling, ten books that tell you what morality isn't in its existence, and strength brews acridly, sniping at the very convention of consciousness, its appaling taste and smell, the skin drenching cold from open window rushing up and back. Like a split lip spitting blood tacky to the tongue tip, it bounces like a trampoline, a water fed-inflated bulb of a swllen finger tip waiting to rupture cos as long as its open it stays.
Ten books, and a few words elaborate the extent of ennui [ennui] of the yawn. Curious fact. The universe is pi, that is π [pie]. Random, irrational, and most likely really big, really really really really big. Huge. Underlying that pi is purported to have a pattern, and it would seem so does the universe.
Think of it as a magic eightball. A big black piece of plastic that tells you the future, or something along that line. The eightball would seem completely random for the most part, but in fact it is completely ordered and merely built to appear random. The little triangles are only random in that their lighter densities are all comparable but not exact, they're more numerous in some situations and not in others. Mere probability that a prediction will come up.
That seems to be a bit reverse-engineered, backwards [yar] from π.
Bobbert is a seemingly nice fellow, like us in make up, at least in a comparable way. Below the atomic level the quorks are nearly impossible to describe and predict, etc. Step back, refocus and suddenly there's order to some extent, neutrons and protons in a formed nucleus, with electrons flying around in a way oddly like the ultimate question and its answer. As one pans back, molecules are formed, then organelles, cells, tissues, organs, organ systems, complex beings, families, neighborhoods, societies, worlds, and on and on. In fact, that is exactly what bobbert is made of, but to the nth degree, where as we are kinda microscopic to him, because Bobbert is really just the universe. He's π, he's a fucking magic eightball. From randomness everything forms a singularity that then expands as it acts into randomness. The dual nature of all that was.
Silly thought. Simple cannot describe the universe, tho the principle itself is at the tip of the iceberg. The trouble seems to lie in the fact that at such a level, the idea of simplicity becomes so complex, both to swallow and to explain, it becomes baffling, when in fact it should be the exact opposite. It should be a null spot, a sort of great big sigh [ah]. The kind of hum that I hum when I see that Θ is π. The word simple itself would seem to defeat the point of simplicity to the point that maybe, just maybe, we need a new word, something that reminds of the warm pi on the window sill cooling in the evening, the bobbling black 8 getting tipsy with flipping, the slow shuffling of Bobbert munching on crisps spilling the crumbs into fractals. Maybe its time for no words at all. [just *sigh*]
Cheers.
How they jump they move they embarrass
They make no sense, no sense, no sense
You wake up on a Saturday that sure as hell feels like a Tuesday, every Tuesday, last Tuesday, this Tuesday. The day never changes. It still is Tuesday, and your fingers when they stand up in front of your face to wipe away the sleep webs that form from dead and dying dreams, look more spongeiform, more spindly and strained with age. They rake with this phenomena, creasing the brow and cheek, slicing into the last shred of dimple that dotted the wells below the eye. I think haggard is the word [concavity]. Ten books make up your entire consciousness, thankfully not one is that biblioformaic of olden day traditional storytelling, ten books that tell you what morality isn't in its existence, and strength brews acridly, sniping at the very convention of consciousness, its appaling taste and smell, the skin drenching cold from open window rushing up and back. Like a split lip spitting blood tacky to the tongue tip, it bounces like a trampoline, a water fed-inflated bulb of a swllen finger tip waiting to rupture cos as long as its open it stays.
Ten books, and a few words elaborate the extent of ennui [ennui] of the yawn. Curious fact. The universe is pi, that is π [pie]. Random, irrational, and most likely really big, really really really really big. Huge. Underlying that pi is purported to have a pattern, and it would seem so does the universe.
Think of it as a magic eightball. A big black piece of plastic that tells you the future, or something along that line. The eightball would seem completely random for the most part, but in fact it is completely ordered and merely built to appear random. The little triangles are only random in that their lighter densities are all comparable but not exact, they're more numerous in some situations and not in others. Mere probability that a prediction will come up.
That seems to be a bit reverse-engineered, backwards [yar] from π.
Bobbert is a seemingly nice fellow, like us in make up, at least in a comparable way. Below the atomic level the quorks are nearly impossible to describe and predict, etc. Step back, refocus and suddenly there's order to some extent, neutrons and protons in a formed nucleus, with electrons flying around in a way oddly like the ultimate question and its answer. As one pans back, molecules are formed, then organelles, cells, tissues, organs, organ systems, complex beings, families, neighborhoods, societies, worlds, and on and on. In fact, that is exactly what bobbert is made of, but to the nth degree, where as we are kinda microscopic to him, because Bobbert is really just the universe. He's π, he's a fucking magic eightball. From randomness everything forms a singularity that then expands as it acts into randomness. The dual nature of all that was.
Silly thought. Simple cannot describe the universe, tho the principle itself is at the tip of the iceberg. The trouble seems to lie in the fact that at such a level, the idea of simplicity becomes so complex, both to swallow and to explain, it becomes baffling, when in fact it should be the exact opposite. It should be a null spot, a sort of great big sigh [ah]. The kind of hum that I hum when I see that Θ is π. The word simple itself would seem to defeat the point of simplicity to the point that maybe, just maybe, we need a new word, something that reminds of the warm pi on the window sill cooling in the evening, the bobbling black 8 getting tipsy with flipping, the slow shuffling of Bobbert munching on crisps spilling the crumbs into fractals. Maybe its time for no words at all. [just *sigh*]
Cheers.
9 May 2005
On the Rail, the Cardboard Houses Swagger
And I feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen
Sit and listen
Slippered angels go ghastly pale on the hallway walking paths, dragging gurneys beneath them in a solitary stride through flourescent tunneled lights. There may be a hand to hold them, a god to greet them in the morgue. But it would seem that once they made for the door they flared their horns and rocked off their sashes of grace for brimstone canes and crooked legs. I know i would rather walk hell before i see heaven, crack skulls and savor pain just to know the heavy weight of bliss. The gated crossroads of white-shoed, scrub-washed people seems bustled to breaking, all distended and immune to the plague of living running through the courses. White hoods, white paper feet, white walls, white hair. A shock of black running through the eyes of each one, the ears pricking on the sunken corners of their smiles hiding wolf teeth wrenching at the covers, coveting for the pastey usher that should wheel them out the rooms in the dark.
Honey gold lacquer fills up this pool, tinny in its dripping sound, lapping at the toes and running cool to the knee, bending, mending. Clarity comes in the white noise reflection, a pallor of yellow slapped across the wilting limbs. It drifts across vision in a throbbing plaque reading DON'T PANIC JUST YET, after all, ends are very much the beginnings as well. Tricks of the mind, a speed which none of us have traveled before is a speed at which we cannot perceive ageing. The moment we achieve light, the slender pace of infinite tandem trotting, we are as old as the universe, as young as the most primordial idea still being conceived, yet to be dreamed, yet to be dreamed of being dreamed.
Placement is everything, must be put in the exact spot through which it all travels, but that means moving from where everything else that does not exist travels. Catch-22, 23, 24.
Slipper shuffles make that sneaker squeak-scuff sound like whispers on a humming chimney, a bit like languid tidings of the leaving and gone, tossing care off to the homeward breezes and clasping onto the switches merely to say "sleep sweet". "Sleep sweet."
Cheers.
Sit and listen
Sit and listen
Slippered angels go ghastly pale on the hallway walking paths, dragging gurneys beneath them in a solitary stride through flourescent tunneled lights. There may be a hand to hold them, a god to greet them in the morgue. But it would seem that once they made for the door they flared their horns and rocked off their sashes of grace for brimstone canes and crooked legs. I know i would rather walk hell before i see heaven, crack skulls and savor pain just to know the heavy weight of bliss. The gated crossroads of white-shoed, scrub-washed people seems bustled to breaking, all distended and immune to the plague of living running through the courses. White hoods, white paper feet, white walls, white hair. A shock of black running through the eyes of each one, the ears pricking on the sunken corners of their smiles hiding wolf teeth wrenching at the covers, coveting for the pastey usher that should wheel them out the rooms in the dark.
Honey gold lacquer fills up this pool, tinny in its dripping sound, lapping at the toes and running cool to the knee, bending, mending. Clarity comes in the white noise reflection, a pallor of yellow slapped across the wilting limbs. It drifts across vision in a throbbing plaque reading DON'T PANIC JUST YET, after all, ends are very much the beginnings as well. Tricks of the mind, a speed which none of us have traveled before is a speed at which we cannot perceive ageing. The moment we achieve light, the slender pace of infinite tandem trotting, we are as old as the universe, as young as the most primordial idea still being conceived, yet to be dreamed, yet to be dreamed of being dreamed.
Placement is everything, must be put in the exact spot through which it all travels, but that means moving from where everything else that does not exist travels. Catch-22, 23, 24.
Slipper shuffles make that sneaker squeak-scuff sound like whispers on a humming chimney, a bit like languid tidings of the leaving and gone, tossing care off to the homeward breezes and clasping onto the switches merely to say "sleep sweet". "Sleep sweet."
Cheers.
4 May 2005
Oxtail Pollywogs Doodlin' on the Day
And did I hear you sing
That we exist without existing
Or did I hear you sing
That we'll land where we begin
When we were kids someone should have shaken us into a fit and screamed. I would've loved to have known that if I was going to go in search of a true education, I was going to have to give up the idea of being taught by real people with real laughter and real passion. I should've been told that it would have meant failing at all the things that everyone may find important or good for you. I should've surmised this all for myself, but I was always a gullible child looking for the good will. Yeah, I was 19 before they told me Will just happened to live 500 miles away and died 50 years before I was born... that helped. A lot.
Does anyone still have their copy of life's instruction manual, because mine happened to slap me last week and walk off down Crow Road. I just have a couple things to look up, such as, who the hell thought this was a brilliant friggin idea anyway? I'm lookin' in your direction, Zero Mostel. That's right, you fat, funny bastard. You wanted it, well here it is.
Contrary to old men in porn booths, there's a lot to be said about the 80 something crowd that's gathered in my head to exchange the last relics of mellowed flare and passion and gaze, crouching on the sofas, huddled over their knees in delight as expounding leads to extrapolating, to flying free. It's all chainlink quizzes guided round the soft handled curves.
Jade ichor is a tipsy sort of phrase
pair of them in facttt[two t's]
A sharp contrast to the didactic matter at hand and eye. Comprehension becoming a massive visage of hopelessness when memorisation is all that is needed to bubble-in a boble pie.
Sure it's still dripping out a bit rusty and rustic, overripe and well past sane. What can I say in a useless daytime bore? I have much more to do that has nothing to do with anything human kind values.
That we exist without existing
Or did I hear you sing
That we'll land where we begin
When we were kids someone should have shaken us into a fit and screamed. I would've loved to have known that if I was going to go in search of a true education, I was going to have to give up the idea of being taught by real people with real laughter and real passion. I should've been told that it would have meant failing at all the things that everyone may find important or good for you. I should've surmised this all for myself, but I was always a gullible child looking for the good will. Yeah, I was 19 before they told me Will just happened to live 500 miles away and died 50 years before I was born... that helped. A lot.
Does anyone still have their copy of life's instruction manual, because mine happened to slap me last week and walk off down Crow Road. I just have a couple things to look up, such as, who the hell thought this was a brilliant friggin idea anyway? I'm lookin' in your direction, Zero Mostel. That's right, you fat, funny bastard. You wanted it, well here it is.
Contrary to old men in porn booths, there's a lot to be said about the 80 something crowd that's gathered in my head to exchange the last relics of mellowed flare and passion and gaze, crouching on the sofas, huddled over their knees in delight as expounding leads to extrapolating, to flying free. It's all chainlink quizzes guided round the soft handled curves.
Jade ichor is a tipsy sort of phrase
pair of them in facttt[two t's]
A sharp contrast to the didactic matter at hand and eye. Comprehension becoming a massive visage of hopelessness when memorisation is all that is needed to bubble-in a boble pie.
Sure it's still dripping out a bit rusty and rustic, overripe and well past sane. What can I say in a useless daytime bore? I have much more to do that has nothing to do with anything human kind values.
26 April 2005
Bread Rising on the Doric Eyes
mother don't worry, she's got a garden we're planting together
mother remember the night that the dog had her pups in the pantry?
blood on the floor & the fleas on their paws
and you cried 'til the morning
She had on heels that clicked with the timing of tides on the slick surface temperate medium of salt seas craning endlessly back from black shores and black eyes and dark circling aches that only just resembled the tip of a yearn. Just a J_____-shaped hole in the universe sucking down the space between swiftly tilting planets 'til they're sweetly drifting backwards from the hopscotch arena. This life in a supermarket has made me all too valuewise with hot lunch programs for the mothers with rich husbands whose answering machines wrack there nerves. As I pass the bell peppers ringing in their ting-a-linging and gongs of seasoned seeds in womb, I have the neuvo-realisation that coffee is like caffeinated dilapidation.
Pastel in pasttense can't altogether devour the Baltimore rain squelching over bandwidths of chattering ticker-tap keyboards releasing the clattered cacophonia that wants to rush at the edge of the ocean with vengeance. A short sail up into the cracking whitehead wash staggers it all back like a folded blanket of ragtop, second rate camaros. Pops and gross blanks of personality let the spinning wheels spike up the gravel, a slattered spray of who's who raining on the first place triumphant's parade. He liked checkers, jumping the gates and lines and q's, p's, mostly just the z's. A primary candidate to play with primary colors.
She wore a slip of a sarong that gusted sheer in the quieter light, a flare of a muscle shining in tense pointed measure. An M_____-shaped hole in the universe swallowing out the river hum that tended to sac the rising terror that alighted on my heart with a clod and thump thump, like a carrion crow dropping back in a hop, rending the space she once occupied. She held the grief just back from her brow, pinned over the soft curl of her lobes. Like majong tiles I could never place the right people properly, too many languages misshaped on their minds, too many orders fuming, sucking in some temporal vacuum, of how here and there meet up when and then. A great story dropping out from her funny turned lips, sheeting on the driveway as the water crackles in the summer stones.
mother remember the night that the dog had her pups in the pantry?
blood on the floor & the fleas on their paws
and you cried 'til the morning
She had on heels that clicked with the timing of tides on the slick surface temperate medium of salt seas craning endlessly back from black shores and black eyes and dark circling aches that only just resembled the tip of a yearn. Just a J_____-shaped hole in the universe sucking down the space between swiftly tilting planets 'til they're sweetly drifting backwards from the hopscotch arena. This life in a supermarket has made me all too valuewise with hot lunch programs for the mothers with rich husbands whose answering machines wrack there nerves. As I pass the bell peppers ringing in their ting-a-linging and gongs of seasoned seeds in womb, I have the neuvo-realisation that coffee is like caffeinated dilapidation.
Pastel in pasttense can't altogether devour the Baltimore rain squelching over bandwidths of chattering ticker-tap keyboards releasing the clattered cacophonia that wants to rush at the edge of the ocean with vengeance. A short sail up into the cracking whitehead wash staggers it all back like a folded blanket of ragtop, second rate camaros. Pops and gross blanks of personality let the spinning wheels spike up the gravel, a slattered spray of who's who raining on the first place triumphant's parade. He liked checkers, jumping the gates and lines and q's, p's, mostly just the z's. A primary candidate to play with primary colors.
She wore a slip of a sarong that gusted sheer in the quieter light, a flare of a muscle shining in tense pointed measure. An M_____-shaped hole in the universe swallowing out the river hum that tended to sac the rising terror that alighted on my heart with a clod and thump thump, like a carrion crow dropping back in a hop, rending the space she once occupied. She held the grief just back from her brow, pinned over the soft curl of her lobes. Like majong tiles I could never place the right people properly, too many languages misshaped on their minds, too many orders fuming, sucking in some temporal vacuum, of how here and there meet up when and then. A great story dropping out from her funny turned lips, sheeting on the driveway as the water crackles in the summer stones.
24 April 2005
Cherubs Stealing Empiric Souls
she hides in the library reading henry miller books
'til they flash the lights it's time to go
when she was a little kid she said
"dad i don't know why i feel so penniless inside"
she's on the promenade
she's looking for a dress
she's locked outside a world
just a manchester girl
Seconds are tinny clacks in swing song tables as a steady breeze passes like a world-over sigh just shaking. She's shaking. Call me ecstatic, rolled-up, soullessly invaginated. I am untailored, undrawn, outward [inward climbed].
Thirty seconds she says. I hear the twelve steps clopping off the clog-heeled black rubber, just a chunk-ed reminder of three small things I tend to like to remember. To forget. To remember to forget. Chainsaws burning oil skin lamps, shearing down spinal ideas of what sex has said in the past. They don't remind her of the topical stretch of thighlike beach we all washed up on coughing out the salt-slick mucin lungs, breathing through our skin. Wretched, we left those trilobytes, how wretched she was for that. Those damn aquatic beetles.
I have some homemade memories, brewed for years in the silk-tripped ball of imagination, furrowing like seals on a span of organic carrot filth. I miss the soup, the summer spin tipsy had to it, like houses in twilight rushing in the jasmine and lilac filtered screens. Insects would carry me if I passed out in the grass, suck me dry if I forgot to breathe for more than 15 minutes.
I laughed for exactly 6 days, made love for 9, died and lived and hurried through the stage act drama. The fast pace was what broke us, our constant strain to beat the sun from setting, to brown our backs and blacken our feet, just shuffling off the shore and dancing in the riptide knives of chilled atlantic seastorms.
Seconds are canvases that I can't paint, but she had a way with shapes. Like her hips and crooked hands, the cleft at her lips and the slip on her back. All I knew were colors like blood, red dreams and black and white ideas, blue lawns creeping with the yellow-orange autumn leaves looked over by a green plaster cast of an eerie mindset. Quite a delightful greeting to the world of life as an artshow, no? Cheers.
'til they flash the lights it's time to go
when she was a little kid she said
"dad i don't know why i feel so penniless inside"
she's on the promenade
she's looking for a dress
she's locked outside a world
just a manchester girl
Seconds are tinny clacks in swing song tables as a steady breeze passes like a world-over sigh just shaking. She's shaking. Call me ecstatic, rolled-up, soullessly invaginated. I am untailored, undrawn, outward [inward climbed].
Thirty seconds she says. I hear the twelve steps clopping off the clog-heeled black rubber, just a chunk-ed reminder of three small things I tend to like to remember. To forget. To remember to forget. Chainsaws burning oil skin lamps, shearing down spinal ideas of what sex has said in the past. They don't remind her of the topical stretch of thighlike beach we all washed up on coughing out the salt-slick mucin lungs, breathing through our skin. Wretched, we left those trilobytes, how wretched she was for that. Those damn aquatic beetles.
I have some homemade memories, brewed for years in the silk-tripped ball of imagination, furrowing like seals on a span of organic carrot filth. I miss the soup, the summer spin tipsy had to it, like houses in twilight rushing in the jasmine and lilac filtered screens. Insects would carry me if I passed out in the grass, suck me dry if I forgot to breathe for more than 15 minutes.
I laughed for exactly 6 days, made love for 9, died and lived and hurried through the stage act drama. The fast pace was what broke us, our constant strain to beat the sun from setting, to brown our backs and blacken our feet, just shuffling off the shore and dancing in the riptide knives of chilled atlantic seastorms.
Seconds are canvases that I can't paint, but she had a way with shapes. Like her hips and crooked hands, the cleft at her lips and the slip on her back. All I knew were colors like blood, red dreams and black and white ideas, blue lawns creeping with the yellow-orange autumn leaves looked over by a green plaster cast of an eerie mindset. Quite a delightful greeting to the world of life as an artshow, no? Cheers.
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