An Errable Rotation of Crap Circles

"There's no poetry between us"
Said the paper to the pen
"And I get nothing for my trouble
But the ink beneath my skin"
If your clothes are getting weary
And your soul's gone out of style
Blame the miracle mile
And the bottom of the ladder

My Pomeranian is a fruit-loop, ten bowls and a spoon full of Splenda that the FDA never got around to approving. It's insidious in a whisper but laughable at night when the open mouths all chatter and clouds lift their heels and let the heat out the way. She wore a cornerstone around her waste and a keystone she never bothered to shave except on the weekends after sex and salt had made their way to the beach and dried up on the lichen and leaches, and that’s not all bad if it weren’t for the bus fare and the long drive back at 2 A.M. That's right, pause and rinse, spit a few kazoo castanets before you role down the window, otherwise the landlady might scream about the overdue novel or orgasm or exceptional circumstances of the life you left upstairs and two doors off to the left. Completely plausible though it may be, the orange wedges do not come buttered prior to the 22nd century, not before our crags and nose slopes taper off and the skull fragments of the frog you once held in the osh kosh pocket are scooped up and thought wrongly for the next pop album Wham decides to release. I only say wham because hatred is worth putting two in the hat and waltzing my fair lady in a derby gown and Worcestershire tainted cheddar, only because I am completely mad and the rest of the world has an anger management issue to resolve before little Timmy Connors is allowed to play tricycle with it again.
Clever. Not so much as Cleaver, June, or Ward, they were the same, no? Like mounds and almond joy switching dire for drag and a dope nose habit squirming tissues through the plexus caudal to the dream, they weren't so innocent or bequeathed of any special certainty leftover from the fear generated an era before Jackie Gleason managed to name the characters sent off to the moon 30 years on. 30 years from now. 30 years today. It's an open book jacket, the dust covered plastic bound in masking tape and a folly of a narrative that even Hemingway thought more of a joke than Gertrude Stein, a sallow cheeky fellow in rain gear and a quarter to call home, but no one told of the long distance charge associated with extraterrestrial Etcha-Sketches, tuna sammiches, peanut butter, or the 0[o]zone. That's why we as kids ate Elmer (the DRA was way too high, you see) and needed no enthusiastic mammaries to tell us that white mustaches were better than Dirty Sanchez in Cleveland where the steamers were rolling over Detroit.
Oh, she played on words, too, you know, a grand game called Su Doku [soodookoh] that the window lickers liked to chew on because the Quaker fellow's hat seemed a bit too brimmed for the brisk, baby. The rug-munchers [rats] in kindergarten wonder why their pallantine sinus aches from the ice cream, so they gave em all ferrets and told them that they'd cocoon and pupate and rebirth to puppies at Christmas, but only if you leave them in a sealed egg carton underground. Fuckers. The problem with lying and laying is the lack of stimulation for creativity, like a perfect team its been beating on itself since time immemoriam [hippie days, for the layme people], so much so that the horses caught wind and fought off Hitler single handed just to get a go at that leggy Eva Braun fellow. Parturition was the last straw for dad-dums, what with his post apocalyptic cubist phase, something about the paint fumes I'm sure. Had anyone been astute enough to throw salve on the bee-sting in-between her heroin tracks, they might've seen that tiniest of tattoos, the Mona Lisa of life's artful bookmarks, but sadly the dress was already around her waste and the fingers clenching elsewhere. And in all the mad madness bereaving, like Xavier, life is elsewhere. Life is elsewhere.

Deviant Circuitry in the Mammalian Machine

I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie
I have my freedom but I don’t have much time
Faith has been broken, tears must be cried
Let’s do some living after we die

She smelled of old tomes bound in finest leather, sweat from heat and passion strained, dew of the frosted mornings clinging dryly to slim-veined leaves like her own lithe limbs, a tender and lined, pale beauty that echoed the wolf's sun in soft radiance speaking in the umber-brown tones of silt and mud-earth. This drama wracked her marble tension in a veil of alabaster and silver feigned emotions, a concoction of struggle and reprieve set upon a stiff and vaulted mind looming in shadow and barely visible light, a haunting aging phantom worrying away at the statuesque ivory giving and giving of its idyllic frame. This is chafing, she would say, a gladly taking of the slim ideascape incorporated into the slants and curves of the light as it was bent into her skin and back out once more, a blue lamp of inhibition networking along the corded muscle, tone and taught, all caught up, in a blending of madness and seduction. On cannot cope with the abscension, the emptying of a soul, the silt and sand slowing quaking into the watery ellipsis boiling over with transduction and raining out the amalgamated bolt down a length of wire so thin as one of us. She was glass beads brimming from her tongue the jewels of life and laughter falling at a rhythm, a cadence and contractual hoom of her pulse dipping the frail chords in ecstasy only to shake it free in the tackling, tossing monomeric fumbling for words that consumes in the din of flooded love and consummation. This beauty corrupts us wholly, entreating the wandering of souls to blacken with yellow-sick sin while profanity is stark truth, a lovely bold reflection of vulgar row and conquering contagion in search, constantly warred and palely raging fingers deep through he skull. Suck in, drain in, expedite the delirium feeling only the rudimentary shear of a palsy shift in personality. She held tight this time in the gale force careen, the mauve-wrinkled twilight perfusing the last collapsed vessel as she hemorrhaged out her own Canterbury tales, blindly seeding the fallen mess of own pearls and parcels sloughing off the hips. Green glass shoals breaking the meagre number within the elder seas, casting what few tithings still flat off at the far end of sanity. Very well she may cross the line or swim to provide better ballast, a greater keel to the vicious, hurried wind she presses to others ears.

Terricloth Galleys in a California Den

Just before our love got lost you said
I am as constant as a northern star
And I said, constant in the darkness
Where'’s that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar

progeny A generation of martial children, raised on strings to marionette tunes, free to think and bleed and die, free to whisper and cry. No words too loud, no ear wrenching actions, but syncophantics and simon says are fine games we're told. How about we take offense, offense at helping hands and generosity, offense at ancestral wrong doing, these sins that spiral our histonic DNA. I'm offended that my actions are thought too nice, that my efforts must be cut back. Substandard is the mean, the most normalest feeling; how dare we raise the bar and fill others with guilt, how dare we do as we feel and effect change, but self-improvement, you see, requires one to feel inferior, its a state of masochism,doubt and hatred of the ego, self-masturbation.
digression A fluidity transcending bounds of thought, of cogitation and rationale. Scratching at the skin and flaking the words of poor desparity I have accumulated the sins in casing the people the surround. In penning the thought I am condemned, by myself and nay who might know what has become. Not all things may come to term, a chord may slip in variance, a lyric may vanish, but it all still goes on. The stain finds the clean, innocent bit to distend, corroding all shape over form, and I am the only breeding shadow the shades know by name. The areas set in, invading, invectifying our subtleties of humour, of defense, the sharp curve of tongue and hasping clack of teeth, the foetal idea of childhood lost, miscarried, or freemartin to its darker brother, violence.
What an abyss we fated feel, there but for our eyes we may constantly reel. Battered by indecision and carnal incision, we are pasted bits of everyone gleaning a small notion of I.
I shall practice as if I know what exactly is real and what precisely is mind's own. Just before our love goes...
in existing In ordinance, biphasic transgression that we are war, committment and competition, a blast of semi-transduced laughter, quivering. There's something I'd like to know, just before all this goes. We are infintesimal and partruited through this virgin microfoam,keep your eyes open wide for the first bit of fresh air, fell, sweet, and sublime. Sobriety is by far our worst of vices constantly worshipped for its clever attempt at wit. Belated as we are, so off by our own volition, what violet ambling lay there for us at the sortid juncture of our pleasantries. We are lips and hands fumbling in empty embrace, caustic to our own lamentable insecurities. But then you hold yourself and I press in, the reception is more encumbered, more than either full or past. Oh, there are blessings, each one a wound to us, a screw knitting our polarities tightly in a crush, so much more violent than brass and fists, beam and bone. We are lovely. Incendiary and translucent, bridging the worlds we fail to fully occupy. Part and part, we are hardly whole, hardly full, pangs and hunger in figurines, we are weary of the lost and losing, the holy omission of one another. There's love. There's always something akin to the spicules and folded hands, a brush of hair and tips, this service, this time. We disassemble our maturation, weigh our flailing thoughts against time just hoping for an onset, an exit. Exeunt. We should have gone as well, our skeletons tying the last knots of our focus and so we didactically chaste and throw the other off, winding our own way after our love is gone. Oh, there are blessings, and we have none. Only the other.
pale Pulled from noiseless earth, from wet womb combed over with shit and dead and dying. Pulled, thrust up to power and anger and vile. Level me to a point, a solid one-off statement that no novelist can cling to. Pray tell. Pay til. Til an end comes into sight.
Cheers.

Collapsible Placentae: A Story of Afterbirth

we climb
and we climb
to the light
to the light

sacer. Sacred, this discipline lining waste bins in kit of latex milled out. Rolled. Rolling. You roll down, oblong, tonic, abrasive shoes shifting in cylindric space pacing matrices like parking lots in the matinee of July's shortened light. We park in these eschelons, tight rope tied leaking serpentine-belt-built time from our corrosive touches. Finger paint. Finer paint faces on the hoods, shadows disemboweled tumbling from the bumper-tuck impacts with the sleeping headlight wind before our fat. There are looser grips on souls, on her shoulders where the purple stains dye black from the hellish train tracks she's bent backwards on. That's comma for you Karma, leaning sideways in the backseat, one cracked rearview eye poled for a better index. Ink sits marrowing, perfused by alveolar inadequacy at an interval from one instance to the hepatic fraction portaling green violence at the air gasps, thin warbled wreck of concavity, before tip follows hip in tracing the first design, mahogany landscapes dwindling near obscurity.
Clark Gablesque they say, painted in oily dimple stippling from badger hair sussing on burlap rasps. I don't blame you for the hat or hatred, the green spring here that plasters walls and wills as it burrows in with its toes. I've no patronage, no mental acuity that I can longer aquiesce for the franchising of Joy, while capitalists buy and trade the monetary interest in passe intelligentsia and flamboyant pink shirts. Chartreuse, no. I want art reviled by passion-thrown blues, a good rhythm... for we are blessed by this Promethian extension from dust and ashes that we burn in our cloistered homes. Don't come in on this grand mosaic treading where I've already gone.
There's a patriot in everyone of us crying over a country yet formed, formless or dreamt. Dream and mass murder, dream and weary pilgrims, wary dogs running on and angels crossing sides and setting borders for possibility to bruise itself on. Baked into stars or ethereal bodies or insert your own poetic images, cast and carved on, our totems, the blood and porcelain, the meaning we move to has forgotten. We passed out on the sand, they said. We passed on. We passed over on our way to creating the unimaginable. We were gone. Sounds like nothing but the plica shifting under our skin, the last pulse of the cave walloping our long-rested lungs deep to our gravest demeanor. Why would we ever stop. Ever strip. This earth wrapped in metallic halos that we long ago gave up on. There's still a pace to follow, that track after track fast-born clickity clickity clickity and cracking sails pulling us in. It don't like being pissed on. The aged face of withered corporate wisdom, entreating our last blitz, but she's already gotten well in behind the wheel and feeling the juice again. The song's on the road waiting for the train to pass and the lines to hiss: it's Joy's turn to drive, and all her musk airing into us feels the pummeling throb of that sweet driving rhythm. I hear her foot tap. Heel hit the floor. The seat tips back...
And we're gone.
Cheers.

Lens and Lemming, a Ticket and Poirot

I know we all, we all got our faults
We get locked in our vaults and we stay
But when you’re gone all the colors fade

A porrage breakfast on china-shop morning, the freezing fog gone tizzling on in the sealing throats of milky-faced smiles, beads on bending strings warping to the weight of a Monday afternoon chafing the horizon. It's a warm mealy-mouthed mush, much too much tangibility surrounding the pagan tongue, a bluish hue to the window pattern, a silk board woven over with dewdrop pearling and gray gnawing age. Let's partition the hortatory and blind the woman shivering on the black ice, a snake wiring her arteries, a venom parting her legs, shes uncontrolled and helpless, a kind of serial vindication from system and systematisation, she checks. First the sign, then the street, then the rabid froth she keels over in her stomach, the sign, the street, the blush on her cheeks. Red. Too red from the corner of her eye, it was a bad trip, a sweating, stained, and hollow seed worming around in the tympanic bulla just shaving its way to smothering her brain. All slack-jawed and comatose, stammering in the blistered-crystalline mire, swollen tiptoes sunk in the idea, a mobile movement, a statutory revolution, shame-faced and lovely, drunk and dressed with heel in the bed, file on every face, a lie in every wandering-sudden breath.
Karma's a bitch they say, a flaunting totem of a woman, amazonian maybe with a hint of alligator tears, flipping switches the other way, rumbling blind-eyed for the deedless. We're two-seated and hell-bound, a cab door locked from the inside, and her red eye sighs like an old leather lamb in a diary page. -Too red she says, but it's not its war: the light slid out on stippled rasp of former non-existence, neither light nor dark, from nothing and everything to the contrasted fields. It's a watery grave in the line in between, stuck and sucked in on the middle ground riding the hip of being, slick and thick with the glaborous pit giving in for a thrust. The lead lines every cell weighing in on the living expense, its a gravity untouched, an atrocity unknown, overlooking the background that your love played out on.

Glossal Indices of Poltergeists

It kills you to know
Yeah, there is too much love
Yeah, way too much love
The last thing we need is to miss
The last thing we need is this


And it occurs to me that lies are a strange duality. And how often do we mix the two breeds of lamb and locked lion, this blonde cruelty and brittle seraphim? A quotient forms in lightning blasts, that flaring feathered rasp shearing crassly wide on open skies, creeps slowly in its gap stretching to frame the hazardous circumstances in which we play. Up tempo from now on, cheeky and cheer, rabid and manic under the holocaust lamp falling flesh in the crying circles. Its a tension on balance grieving, sordid and taled, and gravity just hasn’t yet begun to take its own weight into consideration. We listen anyway in the breach of shadowed shoes calling out as rooks do to murders, plastered like Venus phantom-pantomiming what our dust hands can. And it occurs to me that something is never a sin, the cover art a cape, and gold a whiffle of tin. Oh, I wanna have a good time, just like everybody else; take a spin and strip the tarmac that’s been worn far too thick from our hang-nail threads. Maybe our blessing's been blind bit of luck on warmer days, but there’s cheaper souls and barer winds sucking down our windpipes, lighting sulfur on matchsticks and threading bones in graves. That bleeding monochrome tune.
Subtle commissures, subtle pretenses, subtle submissions rattle on in, a prattle word train kept in tow, weaving the ivory reeds, the web-form deceit, the casket and tomb of our own. Its a heady headset radio whine we worm in angelic circles on our skin, cribriform punctualities whistling the ghastly and ghostly through our forms. She spelled time without the 'm 'in an infindibulic, culled-out cuff, a tepid-wrapped hallucination that golden is the color of lacquered whims, the thick-stirred porridge of our dreamings' turbid washout, the scuffed and muffled waffling steel gone acrid and oxidized in the hoary western leather bed. And it occurs to me that lies are of a strange duality. No more biting than bitten we sate ourselves to chew the brass gilding and unscrew the lights, we sate ourselves for sundry earth, a stiff drink and scent of haste, manifold roar and red lights in the torrents spiring. An empty click between the plates

Pagan Tonsils and the Oedemic Proliferation

Nú vaknar þú
allt virðist vera breytt
ég gægist út
en er svo ekki neitt

It’s the smoking piece of plastic, aromatic and aerosol, slinking off from an easy-bake oven existence beneath some shaky wake of a lumen lined with fluorescent skin. All crawling in a drag, a giant leaving footfalls soiled with forever, there's a revolver hidden in a sink, spindle wailing of unfortunate circumstances, and she’s hidden in her den of umbrage and lace waistbands nodding off to the tune of vessels in a vibrato, a cocaine ska dive with dust lining the bin. Plain white faces are all we see, a tandem to the grey mouths we mush with the ivory keys. There's a haunting cane wicker-woven and striking, coiling red running marks all along her stolen spine, a vague sense of masochism shouting to the gods of inhibition, strutting poses of mail-born sketches left in a dew-pouch drinking off windshields, and all along the soot-work, bricks break in for an odd-angle-askew vision of the words stretched out on wires she limbs, a fantasia binding and breaking skin. Old tallow stalls in the rivers, curling and cooling outside the sluicing ribbons, a tapestry of what love should be all swimming of blue hips and midnight delving heavily on a pointilistic variant of cold light.
Let's not press the foiling wrap of conversation, the origami-crinkled fingers on the ledge of lip, this French bourgeoisie collage of black and blue and white mud gone all to realistically passe, boring, grating, sold. What one wonders of hell and the porcelain frames it serves from its crucible, we can hardly say, why devil or demon or paler human ever ceased to be such godless little creatures with syringe quills and cankered noses, wee waned shades of slightest fascination all dressed up in their corseted sex and sin. She rings herself dramatically with fancy satin and corduroy texture, pleasure sashed tactility, a vanity for the charms, with a stroke of hexic green taffeta like bundled hopes gone awfully sour.
We imagination, we forgiving sainted gulps of dysplasia, we bastard pedantic ways, we extraneous, we boorish, fallow few.
Cheers.

Pan Fried Egg-uardo, a Caucus

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.