Oh, where do we disappear?
Into the silence that surrounds us
And then drowns us in the end
Where they try to get you out to get you in
And all these people who impersonate our friends
Say, “Come again, come again, come again, come
again, come again…”
And all the oil rolling in our tumble-down-driven veins pools lactic little comatose currents, thriving sleigh-ridden dreams of eclectic foundry-fraught thoughts screaming echo-archaic into loose folding rhythms winding staircases down the aurora. These long risers roaring arctic light. Its an awfully big step to make for wounded pride blinding, an unreasonable reason for your latex-bound art menagerie. All the same, I'm still better than you. All the same.
Those ten years you spent building the himalayas to the heavens, the hours of babel roaring down the sides, and 15 generations passed on the 15 generations onwards, leaving no stone safely rocked in its belly. Just the same. An unearthly brood of brown ground massing, moaning, and the sea goes on swallowing the lowing song leaving sky with one white eye to mumble in fluorene stationery, smattered in its hydrogen ink, the lean long syllable of suns sinking, "I'm high."
But I suppose you're saner in the smell of novelty, or couldn't grasp the mottled cuff link of your hand set in a million years of calcified dispensations you clung to in the primordial infancy. All your what-ifs. It's hell on wheels. Hell on hearts, too.
But, oh, the magnanimity, the sweet depraved conjecture, the crumpled stockings of a painted louse stuck leeching on the woolly wee stump you call your life. or Manhood.
Funny that.
Because its unchanged, my changeling.
I was born for war. Born for bearing on and down the long drawn knives that never had my back, born for blood and baying out against the light all the doom-worshipped sodden sons feed into. None of it's the same this time. Where monkeys have no tails and ring canticle bells, since a thousand thousand stars rose in my chest shredding the breath in stammers and stops and sharp, coiled, cart-away rasps I don't know if it's just me. All the same I can't bother to see just what makes that ounce of flesh so transubstantiated, from goose down pillow threads to the lingering immortal ribbons tying tresses to rusted-out haloes. Some winking, some wondering, some hung tiltly in the twilit neon on loan to the loaners lending pawn.
Grow old then, soaked and sot in the tannin mess slinking out from doors blacked-out and murderous annoyance blaring chlactic-crank in chittering windows blingering in the summer heat. All shadows.
They know the noise of leafless wings minus the hum of carotid tinkering sitting in multiples at the bar mourning. Ringless rings forgetting the vein blowing vanity through their aching teeth, quiet chided children of conceit thinking lawless thoughts and pantomiming the moral play kissing rills in reflections of their grease lined tankards.
Sobbing at their quartered bones, mawing at their missing fingers that finely played as shadow puppets on the miniature stages in the soft places of our dreams.
30 January 2009
Waffle-Bound Greyhounds and the Hunt for Harmonised Aneuploidy [ala S2B]
There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
You comma, and I flux. Ten words and the wisdom once removed rings in enamel bells...
And I've lost what trains train thoughts on the lonely, existentiating, landless mass of metal. All tipsy spinning, topsy-turned in the quilting strut of strident sun, passing-push past the autumn grass across the laps leaned homewards. It's the barking-bite brumbling of exit-strategists that trundle gulp-thunk through incapacitant canals, an odd dreaming of dreamt dreams restirring the sense of soft patterns waking in guns. Come on over. Come stretch tongues.
Come lay by and whisper all the words in all the songs and all that your quaking soul ever sung. But pace yourself in this gloom, small rappings-tap-tap-sigh-snappings, portenting in fingertips the finite infiniteness that swam across your little, limbic lens. You go threading in feather beds twisting hands from cardboard landlords, posting bulletins in tin can lids undrank too often since your calendar forgot the months that March had made. Hard angles slip intuitively, all seeking in the already sought for, and, yet, you've found.
Everything.
The clack-chink-thonk echo drawn chain reminds you the ride must go on, no show stopping velvet fall to catch your cuff, drop your flowers. You can still give in. Feed the darker feeler, the three freckles pulling round the dial, counting the mole-hills you've come to climb, feed the ugly secret you've stashed stone deep in your chuffing ribs, a diaphragm's push from puncturing all the gleeful emphasism you've placed on the rattled staff pumps of your aching organ.
Have a little heart.
The goal is disturbance, unremitted feasibility, uncompromising deniability, with such given floors falling from clefting-open clouds, twisting Escher-itically emphatic; given dream and reason. Plan B. Also known as. Can cantons peal out of the basket, weave fish from desert stones, flap over flap cutaneous climbing, a slim song ravelling ravenously, clinking limbicly along her tepid tongue. Clack. A suck-thunk-hum [clack]. Click. Like ebony honey humbling mumbling soft babble babel language, reaching an amber hollow coitally coiling. Venetian in the cruciform crawling, sprawling in fountains falling spawling, a fatal carnal claw.
Oh, cat, feline in sundry-drawling respite, come pleasure and grating pure pouring prowling from crook and sweeping tails, slinking in sybillant curls of fawning teeth lipping tongue. Kill kitten. Kill. gracious moonlight.
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
You comma, and I flux. Ten words and the wisdom once removed rings in enamel bells...
And I've lost what trains train thoughts on the lonely, existentiating, landless mass of metal. All tipsy spinning, topsy-turned in the quilting strut of strident sun, passing-push past the autumn grass across the laps leaned homewards. It's the barking-bite brumbling of exit-strategists that trundle gulp-thunk through incapacitant canals, an odd dreaming of dreamt dreams restirring the sense of soft patterns waking in guns. Come on over. Come stretch tongues.
Come lay by and whisper all the words in all the songs and all that your quaking soul ever sung. But pace yourself in this gloom, small rappings-tap-tap-sigh-snappings, portenting in fingertips the finite infiniteness that swam across your little, limbic lens. You go threading in feather beds twisting hands from cardboard landlords, posting bulletins in tin can lids undrank too often since your calendar forgot the months that March had made. Hard angles slip intuitively, all seeking in the already sought for, and, yet, you've found.
Everything.
The clack-chink-thonk echo drawn chain reminds you the ride must go on, no show stopping velvet fall to catch your cuff, drop your flowers. You can still give in. Feed the darker feeler, the three freckles pulling round the dial, counting the mole-hills you've come to climb, feed the ugly secret you've stashed stone deep in your chuffing ribs, a diaphragm's push from puncturing all the gleeful emphasism you've placed on the rattled staff pumps of your aching organ.
Have a little heart.
The goal is disturbance, unremitted feasibility, uncompromising deniability, with such given floors falling from clefting-open clouds, twisting Escher-itically emphatic; given dream and reason. Plan B. Also known as. Can cantons peal out of the basket, weave fish from desert stones, flap over flap cutaneous climbing, a slim song ravelling ravenously, clinking limbicly along her tepid tongue. Clack. A suck-thunk-hum [clack]. Click. Like ebony honey humbling mumbling soft babble babel language, reaching an amber hollow coitally coiling. Venetian in the cruciform crawling, sprawling in fountains falling spawling, a fatal carnal claw.
Oh, cat, feline in sundry-drawling respite, come pleasure and grating pure pouring prowling from crook and sweeping tails, slinking in sybillant curls of fawning teeth lipping tongue. Kill kitten. Kill. gracious moonlight.
3 November 2008
An Overture In Posies and the Capable (p)Arts [or "Just Like That"]
This is the one I will try
to be lonely with
My heart is a bawdy hotel of stragglers, thin static characters holding up the walls, their tacky phrases hanging the paisley paper. These pigeon-dreamt apartments loll on the cigarette smoke, old clothes piled wine-stained carefully carpeted to match the threadbare hall. Every atria is in atrophy, sinking from the sway-bent, hell-sent, quiet, maniacal cast pounding in silence at the boards and beds too worn to dream on. All you want is somnolence, hazy red puckers and loose leather thighs, ten fingers taming shoulders in a vaudeville swoon skating south of the border and west of the sun. Here's a leather-strap suitcase bound and gagged, buried and burning from the mercury lithographs taken in better times stirring the roaches in bent gaslight.
This ventricle eviction notice, boards clapping in the rising rain, stands nails deep in the rust, no vacancy. Every cornered parlor singing in wan piano play, a carousel of glasses laying torrents over tables and sucking into chairs, only dusty March photo-frames gilt in the bleeding septum separating lives share the old home's grafting pace.
There's no management in all this, the lobby-gone bell lost in history never left charming suspension in all the wafting disaster painted down the cardboard patched panes. All these names dripping through the tiles, lost in the dead snow radio symptom you've learned to call love.
My heart is left as an afterthought. Three decades in the milling world ground down to a morning drip and the sicksweet succour you divine from elusive morality you're bullied into, and I've fallen through the slats and slept in the furnace, fired and branded, steeled and stolen, ticking away all the letters ever stored in a bottle, ever bottled in filaments of cartilage and bone.
They can have all the rent and room, the pulse and feeling of sunken-in snow laid heavy on water, all the partisanship and blameless apartheid they yoked me with. I can live in these falling pipes, these pitches wound in December, the air pockets retching out shudders like thunder in coked veins. I'm clean of this, all the apertures I can see through beetled eyes and slip another shade under the skin.
This heart is a motel slum.
A single-set quadratic roadside paradisio for the umber-spent underbelly aching of the soulful-sick gash no longer willing nor wonting for the leonine chords roaring rush between the beats.
to be lonely with
My heart is a bawdy hotel of stragglers, thin static characters holding up the walls, their tacky phrases hanging the paisley paper. These pigeon-dreamt apartments loll on the cigarette smoke, old clothes piled wine-stained carefully carpeted to match the threadbare hall. Every atria is in atrophy, sinking from the sway-bent, hell-sent, quiet, maniacal cast pounding in silence at the boards and beds too worn to dream on. All you want is somnolence, hazy red puckers and loose leather thighs, ten fingers taming shoulders in a vaudeville swoon skating south of the border and west of the sun. Here's a leather-strap suitcase bound and gagged, buried and burning from the mercury lithographs taken in better times stirring the roaches in bent gaslight.
This ventricle eviction notice, boards clapping in the rising rain, stands nails deep in the rust, no vacancy. Every cornered parlor singing in wan piano play, a carousel of glasses laying torrents over tables and sucking into chairs, only dusty March photo-frames gilt in the bleeding septum separating lives share the old home's grafting pace.
There's no management in all this, the lobby-gone bell lost in history never left charming suspension in all the wafting disaster painted down the cardboard patched panes. All these names dripping through the tiles, lost in the dead snow radio symptom you've learned to call love.
My heart is left as an afterthought. Three decades in the milling world ground down to a morning drip and the sicksweet succour you divine from elusive morality you're bullied into, and I've fallen through the slats and slept in the furnace, fired and branded, steeled and stolen, ticking away all the letters ever stored in a bottle, ever bottled in filaments of cartilage and bone.
They can have all the rent and room, the pulse and feeling of sunken-in snow laid heavy on water, all the partisanship and blameless apartheid they yoked me with. I can live in these falling pipes, these pitches wound in December, the air pockets retching out shudders like thunder in coked veins. I'm clean of this, all the apertures I can see through beetled eyes and slip another shade under the skin.
This heart is a motel slum.
A single-set quadratic roadside paradisio for the umber-spent underbelly aching of the soulful-sick gash no longer willing nor wonting for the leonine chords roaring rush between the beats.
12 October 2008
Rusted-Tin Roots and the Monmarte Cabecous
This cycle never ends
You gotta fall in order to mend
The wilting words worry away the rim of sleep, those tiny canthic syllables pacing along the margins electroplating the sticky wounds you left along my mind. I feel thrilled in thirty cigarettes, open my veins, and let the road pour in, just the hissing street lullaby along the octane jet stream feeding me lovely-lucid starlamp countrysides curving coldly in the preceding dark.
And its a deeply weighted peace sleeping in obsidian wings, a formless grace of darkness kept darker in the closed curtains of moonlight. Besides, what's a strand of cascading sparkles slipping slews over Ashton Lane, sleeping sweetly in the mired drink your souls display? These rain-soaked pitches growing over railways trundling through the pre-dawn artifice Eos laid bare, barely amber in the umber footlamps of Venus travelling spun? Barely aged in the agelessness of some ebony harmonic hum.
This god-particle particularly sinning, casting round about shadows in its treacle den, coughs simply for its vanity hiding sweetly under your skin. So force of forces you swing out for raving contentedness, dissatisfaction with desire that dissected your happiness, you swung down at your feet saying
"come claw this madness
come sickly drag me in"
your feather reattaching to robe-moral melee. And in this I wish you greatly to feel the free fall of two tandems to time encroaching, blissing at the brim, hoping to be convex, this dysthoughtful harrying pasture, the forgetting and the laughter lustreing within.
Can't you hear it in your sleep? The grey doom whisper on the cusp of dream etching out fantastic groggy chords, fluttering old black and white films just beneath the pale blue membranes. Maybe someday you'll get it, everything all the time and, like levity, weigh in on the night.
I am flush with this, brimmed in the salt air fogging off the firth, and the cloak of my youth is refined in the supple-strung harmonics jangling through the bones of the land. A cold lip twisting in a vicious elation borne out along the slimmer hands of a voice caked in deep brown earth. Just blistered eyes caught scheming for joy in the stone.
You gotta fall in order to mend
The wilting words worry away the rim of sleep, those tiny canthic syllables pacing along the margins electroplating the sticky wounds you left along my mind. I feel thrilled in thirty cigarettes, open my veins, and let the road pour in, just the hissing street lullaby along the octane jet stream feeding me lovely-lucid starlamp countrysides curving coldly in the preceding dark.
And its a deeply weighted peace sleeping in obsidian wings, a formless grace of darkness kept darker in the closed curtains of moonlight. Besides, what's a strand of cascading sparkles slipping slews over Ashton Lane, sleeping sweetly in the mired drink your souls display? These rain-soaked pitches growing over railways trundling through the pre-dawn artifice Eos laid bare, barely amber in the umber footlamps of Venus travelling spun? Barely aged in the agelessness of some ebony harmonic hum.
This god-particle particularly sinning, casting round about shadows in its treacle den, coughs simply for its vanity hiding sweetly under your skin. So force of forces you swing out for raving contentedness, dissatisfaction with desire that dissected your happiness, you swung down at your feet saying
"come claw this madness
come sickly drag me in"
your feather reattaching to robe-moral melee. And in this I wish you greatly to feel the free fall of two tandems to time encroaching, blissing at the brim, hoping to be convex, this dysthoughtful harrying pasture, the forgetting and the laughter lustreing within.
Can't you hear it in your sleep? The grey doom whisper on the cusp of dream etching out fantastic groggy chords, fluttering old black and white films just beneath the pale blue membranes. Maybe someday you'll get it, everything all the time and, like levity, weigh in on the night.
I am flush with this, brimmed in the salt air fogging off the firth, and the cloak of my youth is refined in the supple-strung harmonics jangling through the bones of the land. A cold lip twisting in a vicious elation borne out along the slimmer hands of a voice caked in deep brown earth. Just blistered eyes caught scheming for joy in the stone.
24 August 2008
Meridianial Kokoro and a Coarse Subjunctive-- Caftans Aside
Our homemade choirs, like forest fires,
Hiss 'neath golden rain
And slip the leash and the chain,
And slip the leash and the chain -
Cause some hearts are true
But some hearts aren't hardly true
But some hearts are true
Humanity is the cruellest hunch we wear, an insipid, wee inkling of a sweetness undefined, wedding artifice to ingratuity and a fumbling index finger resting on tongue for the fallen words we seed in others' flesh. And the cherry-red slint you whitishly profile carouses in parallel lines all the grave greed slushed in salival digs, stippled, awful sneers impinging the dells and dimpled cheeks.
Despite all the irony, the plaid-placid assiduousness creeping alongside, I've done my best as lithely in lip as thumb, though no golden aleph will herald me nor tongues loose from the subtle furrows along the slimming folds. You have vested interests in this magnanimity of success, a sweet succour worn of victims struck from cephalopoids, velvet-draped and valenced of indelible-ill ink.
Would that it were cursed instead of mittened in favour, a carbon-silk cold chemise tracing tinder on homely faces, these few silences and reapportioned visions of inecstatic polarity compressing politic in gems.
These things will and end badly for you, tied-up in gamble and towing vista-ponce-de-leons merely wanting of wonting, dreaming it impossible of the never-to-be-alone. So carefully crop your bigoted roots and dye the remainder bland, following the partitions and shaded sulci swirling anti-australialis in milky-spiralled bedevilment.
Carry me home should I alight from the wind, waterdrawn and Aran-clothed, so often besotted and wine-hung. Sing the clapboard houses huddled on the shingle, of the wee stones we toast to while rocking in our sleep. Lead me lamplit-gone-lanterns through the ivory-gloved invernacht, wanly washing, wildly starred with sewn mantras tatting the spoked background bleeding through this coiled corpse we've spun through.
Should you see as I do, would you really-truly, deeply-darkly, the unorthodox whorls of gasply-ghostly fading reticence in the gleaming obscurity, the diminutive murmurs of love and fleeting beauty scaling volumetric curves of lash and thigh. Those architectures of twilight tittling raised to laughable joy.
Come, candle and sash-blown taper, come karma and feral fit, and so we wean ourselves of everything in hopes that we might find it, the afterdark in the slant.
Hiss 'neath golden rain
And slip the leash and the chain,
And slip the leash and the chain -
Cause some hearts are true
But some hearts aren't hardly true
But some hearts are true
Humanity is the cruellest hunch we wear, an insipid, wee inkling of a sweetness undefined, wedding artifice to ingratuity and a fumbling index finger resting on tongue for the fallen words we seed in others' flesh. And the cherry-red slint you whitishly profile carouses in parallel lines all the grave greed slushed in salival digs, stippled, awful sneers impinging the dells and dimpled cheeks.
Despite all the irony, the plaid-placid assiduousness creeping alongside, I've done my best as lithely in lip as thumb, though no golden aleph will herald me nor tongues loose from the subtle furrows along the slimming folds. You have vested interests in this magnanimity of success, a sweet succour worn of victims struck from cephalopoids, velvet-draped and valenced of indelible-ill ink.
Would that it were cursed instead of mittened in favour, a carbon-silk cold chemise tracing tinder on homely faces, these few silences and reapportioned visions of inecstatic polarity compressing politic in gems.
These things will and end badly for you, tied-up in gamble and towing vista-ponce-de-leons merely wanting of wonting, dreaming it impossible of the never-to-be-alone. So carefully crop your bigoted roots and dye the remainder bland, following the partitions and shaded sulci swirling anti-australialis in milky-spiralled bedevilment.
Carry me home should I alight from the wind, waterdrawn and Aran-clothed, so often besotted and wine-hung. Sing the clapboard houses huddled on the shingle, of the wee stones we toast to while rocking in our sleep. Lead me lamplit-gone-lanterns through the ivory-gloved invernacht, wanly washing, wildly starred with sewn mantras tatting the spoked background bleeding through this coiled corpse we've spun through.
Should you see as I do, would you really-truly, deeply-darkly, the unorthodox whorls of gasply-ghostly fading reticence in the gleaming obscurity, the diminutive murmurs of love and fleeting beauty scaling volumetric curves of lash and thigh. Those architectures of twilight tittling raised to laughable joy.
Come, candle and sash-blown taper, come karma and feral fit, and so we wean ourselves of everything in hopes that we might find it, the afterdark in the slant.
8 August 2008
Monotreme Meta-Moles, an Elan L'Insensé
I loved like a fountain
and it left me with nothing
except memories of walking
through Washington Square
And I love some words because they sound of an incise, a grave split where the blood first refuses to pool. Slowly trickling the evening news sludges forward in repetition ad nausea, just another ten seconds of the same ten seconds of the consciousness and dire manic storm. Whereas in the forbidding light I ease the sacred joy of my womb, the fleece of the gradient day sucks and clucks and draws of the mireing imitation of life.
Heart beats pause in the puddle-jumping Coriolis. Two fingers and a deeply darkly bitter. All this staunch for an unfoetered stench that bleeds in depth of blue and yellow-black. Why am I confederate? Hunting tails that sly back in counter-intuition, sleigh-back beds dreaming of a form more noise than jaundice. The folding dawn draping in feline respite over a world much too small for its infinite disk.
If I had cab fare I'd carve out the insistence of this biology, ride the brakes until the lines squeal with sand and invertebrate skin. Maybe I'll passenger to a leitmotif in raven-and-auburn-bent bones or slim satellite fingers vegetating gothically for the shift. How spires the inspiration gasping minarettereal as lungfish corpsing along the midden drift, go awed and in-able to content, to satiate the satyrical hoof we beat. Each thrum a pulse push of acceleration, I wait for the cropped insurrection where the pavement nods in recognition of the street and the street bows to the land, and the sky blazes on as aeon-ic, a filament bound by thighs, settled between the conjointed etherea of templed masses. I go.
and it left me with nothing
except memories of walking
through Washington Square
And I love some words because they sound of an incise, a grave split where the blood first refuses to pool. Slowly trickling the evening news sludges forward in repetition ad nausea, just another ten seconds of the same ten seconds of the consciousness and dire manic storm. Whereas in the forbidding light I ease the sacred joy of my womb, the fleece of the gradient day sucks and clucks and draws of the mireing imitation of life.
Heart beats pause in the puddle-jumping Coriolis. Two fingers and a deeply darkly bitter. All this staunch for an unfoetered stench that bleeds in depth of blue and yellow-black. Why am I confederate? Hunting tails that sly back in counter-intuition, sleigh-back beds dreaming of a form more noise than jaundice. The folding dawn draping in feline respite over a world much too small for its infinite disk.
If I had cab fare I'd carve out the insistence of this biology, ride the brakes until the lines squeal with sand and invertebrate skin. Maybe I'll passenger to a leitmotif in raven-and-auburn-bent bones or slim satellite fingers vegetating gothically for the shift. How spires the inspiration gasping minarettereal as lungfish corpsing along the midden drift, go awed and in-able to content, to satiate the satyrical hoof we beat. Each thrum a pulse push of acceleration, I wait for the cropped insurrection where the pavement nods in recognition of the street and the street bows to the land, and the sky blazes on as aeon-ic, a filament bound by thighs, settled between the conjointed etherea of templed masses. I go.
4 August 2008
Monotreme Meta-Moles, a Bourgeois Sophism
Now I live in the shadows
where light is electric
and time is just a number
that rests on a wall
Nobody knows me
my friends and my family
are as far from this city
as Washington Square
We find our voices in the predawn. They blink in the crestfalls of migration, twin rasps to the raving madness. We scrape our knees against the worn world thread at a time, sliding awkwardly through the ages, ridding ourselves of the night's skin and truncated echoes.
So, turmoil, we turn dazed in dream, and recover our sundry silence and radial hue in cor and sultry limbs. This happenstance we mire. This sought sleep coital warmth conspired to pour in us.
We find our voices in the clasping havoc and disgrace, the bleeding ulcer thronging in caprice. And in the pale magenta your Antigone confides the labiled, blue desires running fabric in the blindly cast fold.
All this continuousness, this buoyant inertial being called cunt, would seem an indelible weight from shift to worried stem. Call this catatonia Sunday, call it antithesis or misfortune.
Call us twilight and abdication, the sickle and the suffering.
where light is electric
and time is just a number
that rests on a wall
Nobody knows me
my friends and my family
are as far from this city
as Washington Square
We find our voices in the predawn. They blink in the crestfalls of migration, twin rasps to the raving madness. We scrape our knees against the worn world thread at a time, sliding awkwardly through the ages, ridding ourselves of the night's skin and truncated echoes.
So, turmoil, we turn dazed in dream, and recover our sundry silence and radial hue in cor and sultry limbs. This happenstance we mire. This sought sleep coital warmth conspired to pour in us.
We find our voices in the clasping havoc and disgrace, the bleeding ulcer thronging in caprice. And in the pale magenta your Antigone confides the labiled, blue desires running fabric in the blindly cast fold.
All this continuousness, this buoyant inertial being called cunt, would seem an indelible weight from shift to worried stem. Call this catatonia Sunday, call it antithesis or misfortune.
Call us twilight and abdication, the sickle and the suffering.
8 June 2008
Cameo Velvet Lost on Stage and the Endless Other
I got a pair of wings for my birthday, baby
and I will fall down through the sun this evening
And in this halflight I wander, dirty little notes to women stacked thin in my trousers. Some dew-called-gong wailing vacantly of the what-ifs and ands of separate expenditures. Sometimes I find ungodly gods grazing at the pedestal, wearied of the born objects I have not belonged them.
We suck veins like thunderclap violence gaining winsome curves in thronged hip-length faces. Come cunts and mangle, utterly compact and untried as pleasant contentedness. So we queue. Frustrated in the unbecoming attics ventured through, crept like arboreal pangs of ileic roots.
Our ground.
And i'll sleep tonight in dreams. Dreams of memories sucked from sentimental sepia of what has and hasn't poured through the loom. I'll hurm and groan the life catching us up.
Canada sleeps in the hills tonight, a glow-violet softlight of fever-bliss, and soon I won't be able to carry you anymore, through the salt sea, in the deafening dark, late in the wan night when the strangeness hits us. Nothing much ever will. No fountains of pens and leaded papers strung ink-tied-tethered gone wrapping sing-song live here, but in that venetian silk-violet violence, that old dedicated winsome blow, there's dance and light and life and lavender-cold carols of the tundra-ic cotton calm. Come on down, love, come sink in and settle and suck in the mud, the great grey earth worn lively and lovely, sonnet swooned.
It's this mercury glass that spends us of common syllabic speech, roughing our edges to needle-point appendages, all fingers and toes tasting the umamic lips of others' skin. Such uncommon commodities, these souls, brown-lit sweet lights swinging slow-stamped in scuffling breezes, and all you do is say they sway
And we're all white against the gloaming, our own salt-fired-slips born like tapers through gathering storms whipping six eyelashes cyclonic.
Another pride of lost last wishes.
Another curve of subtle shade and laughable joyed love.
and I will fall down through the sun this evening
And in this halflight I wander, dirty little notes to women stacked thin in my trousers. Some dew-called-gong wailing vacantly of the what-ifs and ands of separate expenditures. Sometimes I find ungodly gods grazing at the pedestal, wearied of the born objects I have not belonged them.
We suck veins like thunderclap violence gaining winsome curves in thronged hip-length faces. Come cunts and mangle, utterly compact and untried as pleasant contentedness. So we queue. Frustrated in the unbecoming attics ventured through, crept like arboreal pangs of ileic roots.
Our ground.
And i'll sleep tonight in dreams. Dreams of memories sucked from sentimental sepia of what has and hasn't poured through the loom. I'll hurm and groan the life catching us up.
Canada sleeps in the hills tonight, a glow-violet softlight of fever-bliss, and soon I won't be able to carry you anymore, through the salt sea, in the deafening dark, late in the wan night when the strangeness hits us. Nothing much ever will. No fountains of pens and leaded papers strung ink-tied-tethered gone wrapping sing-song live here, but in that venetian silk-violet violence, that old dedicated winsome blow, there's dance and light and life and lavender-cold carols of the tundra-ic cotton calm. Come on down, love, come sink in and settle and suck in the mud, the great grey earth worn lively and lovely, sonnet swooned.
It's this mercury glass that spends us of common syllabic speech, roughing our edges to needle-point appendages, all fingers and toes tasting the umamic lips of others' skin. Such uncommon commodities, these souls, brown-lit sweet lights swinging slow-stamped in scuffling breezes, and all you do is say they sway
And we're all white against the gloaming, our own salt-fired-slips born like tapers through gathering storms whipping six eyelashes cyclonic.
Another pride of lost last wishes.
Another curve of subtle shade and laughable joyed love.
11 April 2008
Styptic Amiability and the Cloverless Duvee
Things are coming into focus
Things are coming into focus
I've got wind in my face
And it's getting me on
I've got wind in my face
And it's getting me on
On
She was white against the snow.
No one loves you, not now in the least. They'll love you when you're old and grey and gone, no longer gorgeous, but they'll love you.
They'll love you for all the things you never loved of yourself.
They'll love you for the poison you drank your children on, for all the sick sad words lost in dismay that bruise the backs of a mother up in arms. They'll love the liquor soaked tones wedging non-dulcimic to violence breathing shallow in the sway, obsequious little woes that they are.
But they'll love you. All gone gorgeous golden grey. Some joy.
Some.
It's funny whose voice esteems in such turns, some siren out of the see-saw, green-foam, linseed mattress abutments. Some vestige. I've worn the wool and tanned hides, felt the salt-sting of fettered gasps and foetered spleen brush this arush with dim survival.
Come claim me. I alike a prize and fit of mania. So folded, the suitcase relics crumple and stain in sepia with every smile worn deep in glacial skin, a splinter of semi-blend garb, too close-fitting, slung, too abjectly course.
No next bold move here, much like Pyrrhian bridges swaying beneath some scorching amber anti-weight. Such addenda to our carriage spoils the pace for wrestling, for ambling on in the tilt. They've said to cover me in ash and golden sunset, sorely autumn red.
Day three hundred sixty-one of an edifice redefined, a finely aged caste shedding through to thickset scabs, an argyle mosaic cusping herpetologically scale by waxen scale. I am thin, blue lines lying along the event horizon of the next marketing tide, the emporium of fad-ridden mouthfuls, wicking away the forget.
In Sao Paulo the blocks intersect faking semblance to the ordinal timeline of where and how far. With eggs Florentine, a grappa rolls softly in the churn, only drums tuning the abomasal. And when you're sick sick it bleeds like umber.
It's gone quiet in the routes with just glow-tense-terse conversation grappling hand over lip for a halide fix in spinning Martian light. So prescence bound the coffer of letters, a plaster cask for innocent features, stencilling mnemes that stick in my chest.
Here is your synagogue, bright gothic clique, and astral canton cajoling. Cold creations, these mitred fits. This momentary schism only deemed life. I'll pass.
Things are coming into focus
I've got wind in my face
And it's getting me on
I've got wind in my face
And it's getting me on
On
She was white against the snow.
No one loves you, not now in the least. They'll love you when you're old and grey and gone, no longer gorgeous, but they'll love you.
They'll love you for all the things you never loved of yourself.
They'll love you for the poison you drank your children on, for all the sick sad words lost in dismay that bruise the backs of a mother up in arms. They'll love the liquor soaked tones wedging non-dulcimic to violence breathing shallow in the sway, obsequious little woes that they are.
But they'll love you. All gone gorgeous golden grey. Some joy.
Some.
It's funny whose voice esteems in such turns, some siren out of the see-saw, green-foam, linseed mattress abutments. Some vestige. I've worn the wool and tanned hides, felt the salt-sting of fettered gasps and foetered spleen brush this arush with dim survival.
Come claim me. I alike a prize and fit of mania. So folded, the suitcase relics crumple and stain in sepia with every smile worn deep in glacial skin, a splinter of semi-blend garb, too close-fitting, slung, too abjectly course.
No next bold move here, much like Pyrrhian bridges swaying beneath some scorching amber anti-weight. Such addenda to our carriage spoils the pace for wrestling, for ambling on in the tilt. They've said to cover me in ash and golden sunset, sorely autumn red.
Day three hundred sixty-one of an edifice redefined, a finely aged caste shedding through to thickset scabs, an argyle mosaic cusping herpetologically scale by waxen scale. I am thin, blue lines lying along the event horizon of the next marketing tide, the emporium of fad-ridden mouthfuls, wicking away the forget.
In Sao Paulo the blocks intersect faking semblance to the ordinal timeline of where and how far. With eggs Florentine, a grappa rolls softly in the churn, only drums tuning the abomasal. And when you're sick sick it bleeds like umber.
It's gone quiet in the routes with just glow-tense-terse conversation grappling hand over lip for a halide fix in spinning Martian light. So prescence bound the coffer of letters, a plaster cask for innocent features, stencilling mnemes that stick in my chest.
Here is your synagogue, bright gothic clique, and astral canton cajoling. Cold creations, these mitred fits. This momentary schism only deemed life. I'll pass.
28 March 2008
"Pardon the Kettle of Fish" and Other Faery-Tale Spruces
I'm taking the knife to the books that I own and chopping and chopping and boiling soup from stone.
Things I have loved i'm allowed to keep.
I'll never know if I go to sleep.
We tear each other apart, blood in, blood out, we christ, crucify, sancte deo and still our sacs are no fuller. Cut deeper. I've swallowed a dragonfly in the headlight grind, shearing my words and wings in a callous growth dipping headlong sleep-wise in between the dappled drowning drops making rain.
Just keeping time.
These soviet stockades we're replacing in an archetype like single malt gin, soaked and slattered, I'm sot and sought after for nothing of kind. And intentions keep us harboured, no gauntlet to fall or guillotine to swing, and the scars keep pouring out, acclamations of magnanimity we bolster our coy corduroy elbows with. How hallowed. And you few are but many by broken math and mislaid promises, appropriating incentive in misguided fear. You've forgotten your nom de plums, left them hanging dryly couched and stuffed in fetters of cheek and tongue.
There was panic from the thunderous womb, an earthen portrait of cunt and cunnilingus foreshadowing the lean gleam of her former skin. Some capitol boiling over, a spoiled child, spoil of war, gifting, ingratiating, but alien to the allantoic mournful tune.
We are motherhood in an abject equation left after pale parades droned out the insanity of phantoms and limbs, life and sin. And we chafe each other raw in unreliable gestation, wrapping the altar in wool and winding cords to hang ourselves in, ignorant of the inertia we bring outward carried in vestiges of subtle sighs and held-over whims.
In three feet of shoulder I find sentimental aluminum dreams whispering in the gardens of stars and passed by litterings shy of the bin. In six feet of pavement I have a home and rustic folly trailing out from canteens of octanes and catalytic converter streams, a paradise of carbon monoxide heavenward carrying me, an infant soil-snatch-seed avec l'élan.
Things I have loved i'm allowed to keep.
I'll never know if I go to sleep.
We tear each other apart, blood in, blood out, we christ, crucify, sancte deo and still our sacs are no fuller. Cut deeper. I've swallowed a dragonfly in the headlight grind, shearing my words and wings in a callous growth dipping headlong sleep-wise in between the dappled drowning drops making rain.
Just keeping time.
These soviet stockades we're replacing in an archetype like single malt gin, soaked and slattered, I'm sot and sought after for nothing of kind. And intentions keep us harboured, no gauntlet to fall or guillotine to swing, and the scars keep pouring out, acclamations of magnanimity we bolster our coy corduroy elbows with. How hallowed. And you few are but many by broken math and mislaid promises, appropriating incentive in misguided fear. You've forgotten your nom de plums, left them hanging dryly couched and stuffed in fetters of cheek and tongue.
There was panic from the thunderous womb, an earthen portrait of cunt and cunnilingus foreshadowing the lean gleam of her former skin. Some capitol boiling over, a spoiled child, spoil of war, gifting, ingratiating, but alien to the allantoic mournful tune.
We are motherhood in an abject equation left after pale parades droned out the insanity of phantoms and limbs, life and sin. And we chafe each other raw in unreliable gestation, wrapping the altar in wool and winding cords to hang ourselves in, ignorant of the inertia we bring outward carried in vestiges of subtle sighs and held-over whims.
In three feet of shoulder I find sentimental aluminum dreams whispering in the gardens of stars and passed by litterings shy of the bin. In six feet of pavement I have a home and rustic folly trailing out from canteens of octanes and catalytic converter streams, a paradise of carbon monoxide heavenward carrying me, an infant soil-snatch-seed avec l'élan.
6 March 2008
Cheesecloth Wives and Cheesecloth Husbands with Cheesecloth Children That Dance for Dollars in Skin-Tight Carnival Clothes
Don't know the meaning of devotional
Pictured me hanging threadbare on the blacked out wall
Purposeful, in your weekly disguise
Surrendering to arms, fixing up those seeded eyes
Dress it up, down the alcohol
Feeling so much better
I was a partridge in my childhood, twenty seconds of blind mercy and a pillow paunch materialising. Some adipose. Some anti-pose to humanistic calling cards like Hallmark and the Great Scottish Bender, or so I fancy coining an in situ phrase. Consider this my in vitro lullaby. A fare-thee-well malintended and hollowchested, just the crunching-clatter-scuff of polyvinyl tin foil. Some cessation.
That's life. An apostrophe. An afterthought. The last word and laugh and sudden shrill wracking. It will go on.
Just like that. And again.
Sorrow forths forward on aluminum gaps and swings, seesaws snoring through the spruce blues of aquamarine life on land. {pointless} {touche} There's geese booming against the tight-skinned sky, besseled, a hazel iris stretching out in the umbra, each eat brilliance failing in capacity. But so you'll be getting it tomorrow, the point unlikely. We write too many checks on the empty pages; pages meant for blessings and wine. I feel like a stroke, heat-sealed and tongue-tied, a marble or two swollen in my womb. Just pills, and a stuttering companion tilting. Just tilting. Into phantoms and burning feathered pillows, an eider-down night; we are a canon. Give over your bible and tin-halide bells, and give in some halcyon, some codeine schwag, like Dogma was ever your name.
Nane here. These word idylls, objects unto themselves, they only vanish at the narrowest hum of a lip. Have we castrated ourselves, strung up on barbed-wire fences. This is my rushblood. A pounding quintessence ablating the courser torn memories, wrung astride. Loom me some opticality, a contextual hyperventilation of weave and pigmented astrocytes.
I like drowning in the aura of cataclysm. I like the part where the film ends.
Pictured me hanging threadbare on the blacked out wall
Purposeful, in your weekly disguise
Surrendering to arms, fixing up those seeded eyes
Dress it up, down the alcohol
Feeling so much better
I was a partridge in my childhood, twenty seconds of blind mercy and a pillow paunch materialising. Some adipose. Some anti-pose to humanistic calling cards like Hallmark and the Great Scottish Bender, or so I fancy coining an in situ phrase. Consider this my in vitro lullaby. A fare-thee-well malintended and hollowchested, just the crunching-clatter-scuff of polyvinyl tin foil. Some cessation.
That's life. An apostrophe. An afterthought. The last word and laugh and sudden shrill wracking. It will go on.
Just like that. And again.
Sorrow forths forward on aluminum gaps and swings, seesaws snoring through the spruce blues of aquamarine life on land. {pointless} {touche} There's geese booming against the tight-skinned sky, besseled, a hazel iris stretching out in the umbra, each eat brilliance failing in capacity. But so you'll be getting it tomorrow, the point unlikely. We write too many checks on the empty pages; pages meant for blessings and wine. I feel like a stroke, heat-sealed and tongue-tied, a marble or two swollen in my womb. Just pills, and a stuttering companion tilting. Just tilting. Into phantoms and burning feathered pillows, an eider-down night; we are a canon. Give over your bible and tin-halide bells, and give in some halcyon, some codeine schwag, like Dogma was ever your name.
Nane here. These word idylls, objects unto themselves, they only vanish at the narrowest hum of a lip. Have we castrated ourselves, strung up on barbed-wire fences. This is my rushblood. A pounding quintessence ablating the courser torn memories, wrung astride. Loom me some opticality, a contextual hyperventilation of weave and pigmented astrocytes.
I like drowning in the aura of cataclysm. I like the part where the film ends.
18 February 2008
Sporks, Knives, and a Wooly, Patent-Pending Homonym
And all that time, I felt just fine
I held so many people in my suitcase heart
That I had to let the whole thing go
It was taken by the wind and snow
And I still didn't know that I was waiting
For a girl on a slow pony home
Satisfaction is akin to something like silt shifting the ocean floor, a deep fissure guiding the grind in orbit of synecodochic space-walk. No candid general junction to the looped-braid prayer, the contestable plea boiling in salt-vinegar.
Some sepal pellet drolls in palpebral flutter-sash slams gong-rung mediocrity obliging. From all sides now, we aren't doomed but had discontent gorging on vine stem colostric jasmine and cancer. Some old fish with blood-ice fins surging tidal eddies around the horn-cane.
Children of the blue-black ink, hematitic divisions divising an abatement strung through needle-eye gromets hanging up phone lines, run ravenous seasons expending their thrift for a few short phrases of mock-poetitic expression. All lavender.
My name is a three-centimeter tumour syphoning off of my lateral cortices grading grey, topographical sand dunes for little more than cinder-brick drug stores and white-striped pavement. And I can see the tow-lines caught in the labile haemorrhage dredging out the cast-iron wreckage of isobaric lungs stippled violet-nitrogen and gaudy-gone-grail ichor. Blame me for the moonshine hail and tannin-stained teeth you dream for, the three black lies of my whiskied liver and the quarter of the fifth of gin you drank on the curtains like the cat used to.
Kiss me in codeine fever so I can taste your violent skin weeping off the years of sex and love and torment, you're so physically syncopated. So sick and stuck in with me like chain-bound manners to an English Tea, and I'm dry.
Some fish we are. Only swimming upwind. And they call me difficulty. A mass of projection from the ice and spleen; so, they set up bleachers to find the definition of an ironic gesture laid to rest. Three quarters of a billion of a million fortunate fortunes are reigned in at our beds, but still you shudder and shoulder the swollen-bead sweat as pain.
We'll split cartilage like wearing throats and suck-stick-thunk down all our air and esteem in one tetanic lifetime gulp, overdose on the coma-scent of florid pastels of rich sin in religion and righteousness and puncture.
As though our hands may heal. My head will linger shoulder-length from some fate.
I held so many people in my suitcase heart
That I had to let the whole thing go
It was taken by the wind and snow
And I still didn't know that I was waiting
For a girl on a slow pony home
Satisfaction is akin to something like silt shifting the ocean floor, a deep fissure guiding the grind in orbit of synecodochic space-walk. No candid general junction to the looped-braid prayer, the contestable plea boiling in salt-vinegar.
Some sepal pellet drolls in palpebral flutter-sash slams gong-rung mediocrity obliging. From all sides now, we aren't doomed but had discontent gorging on vine stem colostric jasmine and cancer. Some old fish with blood-ice fins surging tidal eddies around the horn-cane.
Children of the blue-black ink, hematitic divisions divising an abatement strung through needle-eye gromets hanging up phone lines, run ravenous seasons expending their thrift for a few short phrases of mock-poetitic expression. All lavender.
My name is a three-centimeter tumour syphoning off of my lateral cortices grading grey, topographical sand dunes for little more than cinder-brick drug stores and white-striped pavement. And I can see the tow-lines caught in the labile haemorrhage dredging out the cast-iron wreckage of isobaric lungs stippled violet-nitrogen and gaudy-gone-grail ichor. Blame me for the moonshine hail and tannin-stained teeth you dream for, the three black lies of my whiskied liver and the quarter of the fifth of gin you drank on the curtains like the cat used to.
Kiss me in codeine fever so I can taste your violent skin weeping off the years of sex and love and torment, you're so physically syncopated. So sick and stuck in with me like chain-bound manners to an English Tea, and I'm dry.
Some fish we are. Only swimming upwind. And they call me difficulty. A mass of projection from the ice and spleen; so, they set up bleachers to find the definition of an ironic gesture laid to rest. Three quarters of a billion of a million fortunate fortunes are reigned in at our beds, but still you shudder and shoulder the swollen-bead sweat as pain.
We'll split cartilage like wearing throats and suck-stick-thunk down all our air and esteem in one tetanic lifetime gulp, overdose on the coma-scent of florid pastels of rich sin in religion and righteousness and puncture.
As though our hands may heal. My head will linger shoulder-length from some fate.
29 December 2007
Cab-analities Suffering In and Organ-Grinder Schemes: Pimentos on Sweet Bread
So save these precious moments
For the child behind your eyes
To find the thing's we
Lost along the way...
Some comfort.
It's heart-ending, some time in the snow and veritable oscillations of the coal fire sending subtly-blue-fleece-burnt-flares. Carbon stars of oscultation.
It's heartrending this habeus corpus of laminated life beneath a plastic cap and green glass bottle, wrapped, one day degenerates for miles. There's a stone cold ozone caffeinated by intracellular micro-lies, small whispers tidaled into fools of coronary, episodic, poolside curio-shop. Come in.
Come closer. No seeking, no sin. We're manger-bound for sorrow, but, as all kind and feel, they transverify the Titian color to chords for sad-song, ambi-flex walkers hiding in the vermilion doors elsewhere in our mind. I don't like the taste of fluorescent. I don't like this jangle-band brown, this maritime gin still.
This argon djinni. A rapping stutter of stalled steps arch, eddying behind white gas-masked labels leaking out. A la scala aria librett-ised for deaf inconjugates. Leeching out.
Sleeping in.
I see coronas, halo-ic invertebrates, like joint mice jittering slowly from sleeve to red-lip ran fear. These tetanic angels like midnight horns wail-on to train yard rhythms, blues-y fashion throbs of oversexed adipose, overdense antipas-to.
The old, red-wine stains bleed an ascetic stigmata through cab doors riding sullen streets carrying indefinite articles jostled with sand-dunes and sand-dreams arranged zedibetically. Thus is advertisement as silk-sable-sunk pavement waves beneath the bail-out echoing in rollover dimerised binding, a lyrical-launched-language of pain and aggravated gravity.
Push. We'll out bamboo in cane-chewing chivalry, leveling the spastic, clock-coded limbs akimbo in hives and mud-jungle levity. Here cymbals abound; from ð to three sided, trapezoidal, god-head cattle we bathe in luminous tin-clash chasms all-ignoring of shangra-la, bearded yaks. They look much like "yokels" in an -ese yet-to-be.
So seen-countries choir twilight Roman-ants, small peddlars of ten-x confessions, infinite convictions. Much like saracens in musical tints, there's belief piggy-backing off their rent, parasitised on neoplastic styrofoam lining felt-drawn toilet humour and puritan ranch-style homes. Amen-ed.
N.B. N.S.F. J.W.C. Over. Punctuate.
Abbreviated destiny. Briefly.
For the child behind your eyes
To find the thing's we
Lost along the way...
Some comfort.
It's heart-ending, some time in the snow and veritable oscillations of the coal fire sending subtly-blue-fleece-burnt-flares. Carbon stars of oscultation.
It's heartrending this habeus corpus of laminated life beneath a plastic cap and green glass bottle, wrapped, one day degenerates for miles. There's a stone cold ozone caffeinated by intracellular micro-lies, small whispers tidaled into fools of coronary, episodic, poolside curio-shop. Come in.
Come closer. No seeking, no sin. We're manger-bound for sorrow, but, as all kind and feel, they transverify the Titian color to chords for sad-song, ambi-flex walkers hiding in the vermilion doors elsewhere in our mind. I don't like the taste of fluorescent. I don't like this jangle-band brown, this maritime gin still.
This argon djinni. A rapping stutter of stalled steps arch, eddying behind white gas-masked labels leaking out. A la scala aria librett-ised for deaf inconjugates. Leeching out.
Sleeping in.
I see coronas, halo-ic invertebrates, like joint mice jittering slowly from sleeve to red-lip ran fear. These tetanic angels like midnight horns wail-on to train yard rhythms, blues-y fashion throbs of oversexed adipose, overdense antipas-to.
The old, red-wine stains bleed an ascetic stigmata through cab doors riding sullen streets carrying indefinite articles jostled with sand-dunes and sand-dreams arranged zedibetically. Thus is advertisement as silk-sable-sunk pavement waves beneath the bail-out echoing in rollover dimerised binding, a lyrical-launched-language of pain and aggravated gravity.
Push. We'll out bamboo in cane-chewing chivalry, leveling the spastic, clock-coded limbs akimbo in hives and mud-jungle levity. Here cymbals abound; from ð to three sided, trapezoidal, god-head cattle we bathe in luminous tin-clash chasms all-ignoring of shangra-la, bearded yaks. They look much like "yokels" in an -ese yet-to-be.
So seen-countries choir twilight Roman-ants, small peddlars of ten-x confessions, infinite convictions. Much like saracens in musical tints, there's belief piggy-backing off their rent, parasitised on neoplastic styrofoam lining felt-drawn toilet humour and puritan ranch-style homes. Amen-ed.
N.B. N.S.F. J.W.C. Over. Punctuate.
Abbreviated destiny. Briefly.
19 December 2007
Laboratory Pyridines and Dysenteric Hippopotami
I saw Abbie Hoffman’s ghost in the distance,
We got Saul Williams keeping up the resistance.
And punk rock and blues music keep dying,
We keep buying
I am a pleurisy of noise, a loathsome crackle of fits and starts berating chondral grinding, shifting like painted grass in the red tide eddies.
Canadians may seem confused in their frigid decibels ringing cantons with finger peals, but what cannot be compressed into a mitred function of the heart is not worth the indignation of static variance, inaccessible assurity.
Lifelong safety is a hypocampal contagion driving the flex from our limb as we're pressed across the crux; for, wheresoever the golden diary lies the loss is no more than a catered fish-tea out of scale.
I won't panic. Cannot dismiss. Will retain to discover. And in this somesuch nonsense the plasma feeling will careen, and I'll seal the fission, fuel the schism of my tongue before the mull cracks away.
So all along the dragon spine, the tide might sieve some strife from cold, organic, pyrectic calf. The crunch of brittle sandalwood and sage...
Your children are enrolled in polyadenylation, a cortico-triumph of anti-humanism breathing out in the lead-knife compassion, a traditional enumeration of enucleated, biblic hell. Why so inoriginal, why such conflagrational pews reserved? Like some bulbously elite, thumb-narial dysintelligensia por bourgeois edification we swim, a grey harried vote for the sun from some lunar spirochetic derision.
Fin.
We got Saul Williams keeping up the resistance.
And punk rock and blues music keep dying,
We keep buying
I am a pleurisy of noise, a loathsome crackle of fits and starts berating chondral grinding, shifting like painted grass in the red tide eddies.
Canadians may seem confused in their frigid decibels ringing cantons with finger peals, but what cannot be compressed into a mitred function of the heart is not worth the indignation of static variance, inaccessible assurity.
Lifelong safety is a hypocampal contagion driving the flex from our limb as we're pressed across the crux; for, wheresoever the golden diary lies the loss is no more than a catered fish-tea out of scale.
I won't panic. Cannot dismiss. Will retain to discover. And in this somesuch nonsense the plasma feeling will careen, and I'll seal the fission, fuel the schism of my tongue before the mull cracks away.
So all along the dragon spine, the tide might sieve some strife from cold, organic, pyrectic calf. The crunch of brittle sandalwood and sage...
Your children are enrolled in polyadenylation, a cortico-triumph of anti-humanism breathing out in the lead-knife compassion, a traditional enumeration of enucleated, biblic hell. Why so inoriginal, why such conflagrational pews reserved? Like some bulbously elite, thumb-narial dysintelligensia por bourgeois edification we swim, a grey harried vote for the sun from some lunar spirochetic derision.
Fin.
16 December 2007
Delight ad Eccentricimum and a Sepia Disorientation
Your hands are warm and my body is wide
To hold all the promise of blue-velvet dark and stars
All it takes is a little faith and a lot of heart
Sweetheart
Canned ham is an effigy of oneself spun a golden in delirial syrup grown frozen with dyscontent and the great green flow of barbie-patrol. Three tins of petrol tagged inflammable by the burning, the passion-made reminder of cortisone bleeds slipping off the printable margin. And I am just getting warm. No ire. No undiluted, caged frenzy for this corrupting kin; for we are two of a hoof born horned and lyred, haloed and pitch. So, let us eat paste in the wan fluorescent odor of Sundays and Winedays
and the flatter Pitadays, no yogurt.
This mesa-nic kitsch clique, oh plateau, so Colleen-ic with the collander head-bent-wear, streaming applesauce closed captions to the millions of fingerless, chided children go cloaking in fancy dress and apéritif-tied gowns grown over with ivy and pride.
What skill, what goring delight hissing through the vitreous humour they show, grandly sewn wit quilted in their monosyllabic skin. We are something like oedema ignoring the kindly ones in their rage, clammy and corpulent, distended with non-agony as raiment.
ascension is a condition of non-regret, an incapable escape from the turbid lumber, the quake and shock of violence. This is a subtle length, this apprised cut, a standard weight of fleshy excision, a vague vacuole of spiral design leading up, deeply-darkly in. You are catastrophe, cataclysm, disaster, a hooded breach of simplicity, craving for a half-hearted whim, an infinite desire, to feel, to fill, to come.
Pavement is the motion of anthropic erogeneity.
To hold all the promise of blue-velvet dark and stars
All it takes is a little faith and a lot of heart
Sweetheart
Canned ham is an effigy of oneself spun a golden in delirial syrup grown frozen with dyscontent and the great green flow of barbie-patrol. Three tins of petrol tagged inflammable by the burning, the passion-made reminder of cortisone bleeds slipping off the printable margin. And I am just getting warm. No ire. No undiluted, caged frenzy for this corrupting kin; for we are two of a hoof born horned and lyred, haloed and pitch. So, let us eat paste in the wan fluorescent odor of Sundays and Winedays
and the flatter Pitadays, no yogurt.
This mesa-nic kitsch clique, oh plateau, so Colleen-ic with the collander head-bent-wear, streaming applesauce closed captions to the millions of fingerless, chided children go cloaking in fancy dress and apéritif-tied gowns grown over with ivy and pride.
What skill, what goring delight hissing through the vitreous humour they show, grandly sewn wit quilted in their monosyllabic skin. We are something like oedema ignoring the kindly ones in their rage, clammy and corpulent, distended with non-agony as raiment.
ascension is a condition of non-regret, an incapable escape from the turbid lumber, the quake and shock of violence. This is a subtle length, this apprised cut, a standard weight of fleshy excision, a vague vacuole of spiral design leading up, deeply-darkly in. You are catastrophe, cataclysm, disaster, a hooded breach of simplicity, craving for a half-hearted whim, an infinite desire, to feel, to fill, to come.
Pavement is the motion of anthropic erogeneity.
4 November 2007
Sown Vanity and Archipelagosian Valises (or Fame)
You paint yourself white
And fill in the noise
But they'll be something missing
They filled all their graves, built marble arcs skyward-breathing but still hidden from the world pinned in leather prisons, bound in paper chains. We're paring skin with simply-sable shades of idiocracy, shaving our pride along the long blade of debility. In-ability, wantonness.
These crafts are leitmotifs fragrant to the pulse-wound Willis. Two cats chatting of fugues in orange and grey, calico movements colouring portraits in oil and tuna and synecdoche.
You have tempest. Four courses of wind-worn, corporate paradigm rubbing tin foil to tin-pan flint, becoming flash in its raucous foreplay, tympanic in its groaning gestation.
Slim collusions of thought rotting into migratory television, a nature channel broadcast of brimming dys-originality, culminates in a ".org" confession of hypostatic force, gleaming concavity of mores, a waking personality dynamic in non-abundance.
They're too often too ready to laugh at a string but for all the unfortunate mysticism of vagueness and depravity, such odd jewelry of mechanism and Gogol-ular, parasitic capitulation. If you take all the venting, the auditory dumbling, what void there would be in context of the finite, unconscious ebb into dream. Something like cyrrilic Atlantics gorging on entire continents, shaving shorelines to sickle blades we break ourselves upon. Commit this to memory, ad momentum, the deep decline of corduroy rasping grey in elephant-sloughing skin, a tremble or tumour in the unconscionable eye as we fail to focus on the trundling underground sublime.
Somber, perhaps sanctified in a subtle aquamarine, paleolithography in a candid-born blood.
A capable, culpable cunt is so kitsch, a carnal median of sliding traffic where collision sounds so ugly and tired.
Red canonic words exchanged in heated glass eruptions like obsidian chips driving home along headlight glazed thighs. Some rotten world with chrome trim and patent-leather sin, here where peace is a fraction derived from gear-ratios, a calibration of just how well we are suspended before our heads hit the pavement.
She's leaving a contrail of language, an appalling pall that tucks into everyone's sleeve, and for such gossamer gowns dripping ichor sand, there's an incomparable beading. Like tile sheets, we're dendritic, climbing up oars, washing away in the sun, convivial conjunctiva of corporeal colossi comparatively complacent in their placemat-caddish lives.
There are six corollary rules to these axioms: by fist and skin, by tooth, by wind, by scales and chimes, by death, by this.
We are forced to make signs of our existence, nothing hidden in or about. Cavity open to the inconsolable, a finished gash, a fatal wound, a frown of your inconviction to love, lie, and liberate the vessel of its storm. Salt, serous, and sly a fold of jealous carnivore speaking entirely without tongue flit against teeth, an infatuous ribbon of dilettante dilemma, a conservative bliss, all the while courting peril, convulsing, vilifying. What murder is this, this hunger, this dear derogatory flight, this confused arbitration of limbs, this dendritic corruption as we dig into skin? How is your fear weighed and meted, does it bleed the same musk, mask the same sins in sex and grieving? We've elided this fissure, this grave fault, for another; you've shuddered and strained and blackened your eyes, sampling the light, chasing patterns in the surf.
A caffeine haemorrhage just leaking letters into contrails of language, clove-spit smoke trafficking horizontal dreams across a glass television screen. They stream achingly soft doors to morals invading, infiltrating, the woodenhouse grains of personal ideals, the barley-store beliefs that cook down your christianology searing in myths with misconstrued sciencology.
More than just physicality, we are forced to become and, in doing so, to fear the impossibility of self-same difference between numbers and letters, satellites and sun. No place to fall asleep, no place to arrive at inconclusivity.
You and I collide in cold-harbored somnia, isolation a dream of blue-black photographs taken in caffeine cities and swan dive public houses where brass taps and close tops tint the sky a liquid hue. Caffeine dreams, they say, caffeine hallucinations, caffeine doodles, and caffeine screams.
Three corners connecting one billion microcosmic tadems, a continual spinning of elemental axioms, S-shaped electron extrapolations grossing the jittery, side-long, rejuvenation of state of mind. Overbreed me, unbound parameters and stick them with syncopic chasms between-- the fine synaptic line stitched and sutured, sucked and sank. This is our misery cry for simple rights and unsubtle multiplication, idiomatic complexity just buried in misderivational thinking. I want sandcastles. But I'll leave you to build your fur-tapered towers, your empirical system of thigh and heat.
What municipality do you do good common to, while we whiten some lyrical grey verse, a minute ethic in the moral carol goading on, droning in. Weaving papier mache horses from dead ballast and coopers' scraps, whittling rungs into the flesh of each others' backs, we'll climb-- an ascension of decay and cluttered magnanimity, an arc de trauma erected to your fold and its fleece you entice behind.
We are all carriers of this thing, the disease we ellip-seize by the olives and wrack with our negligence, farrowing blackly blank offspring into a cult. Into the cleft.
Caffeine fever, caffeine seizure slackening the limply tongue fissure-deep in tangled subvernum sopping the wale, rifling the cord, our hands quenched for thirst of garrulous comedy, some feet fall aside the paradisio. Hell is other people, life purgation. Express the curvature of silt and sin and revolution in terms of linearity, in terms of convection, in caffeine vocabulary for caffeine people living with the roar of a thousand landslid cities, of a million caffeine dins, caffeine drums. Rising up. Up.
And fill in the noise
But they'll be something missing
They filled all their graves, built marble arcs skyward-breathing but still hidden from the world pinned in leather prisons, bound in paper chains. We're paring skin with simply-sable shades of idiocracy, shaving our pride along the long blade of debility. In-ability, wantonness.
These crafts are leitmotifs fragrant to the pulse-wound Willis. Two cats chatting of fugues in orange and grey, calico movements colouring portraits in oil and tuna and synecdoche.
You have tempest. Four courses of wind-worn, corporate paradigm rubbing tin foil to tin-pan flint, becoming flash in its raucous foreplay, tympanic in its groaning gestation.
Slim collusions of thought rotting into migratory television, a nature channel broadcast of brimming dys-originality, culminates in a ".org" confession of hypostatic force, gleaming concavity of mores, a waking personality dynamic in non-abundance.
They're too often too ready to laugh at a string but for all the unfortunate mysticism of vagueness and depravity, such odd jewelry of mechanism and Gogol-ular, parasitic capitulation. If you take all the venting, the auditory dumbling, what void there would be in context of the finite, unconscious ebb into dream. Something like cyrrilic Atlantics gorging on entire continents, shaving shorelines to sickle blades we break ourselves upon. Commit this to memory, ad momentum, the deep decline of corduroy rasping grey in elephant-sloughing skin, a tremble or tumour in the unconscionable eye as we fail to focus on the trundling underground sublime.
Somber, perhaps sanctified in a subtle aquamarine, paleolithography in a candid-born blood.
A capable, culpable cunt is so kitsch, a carnal median of sliding traffic where collision sounds so ugly and tired.
Red canonic words exchanged in heated glass eruptions like obsidian chips driving home along headlight glazed thighs. Some rotten world with chrome trim and patent-leather sin, here where peace is a fraction derived from gear-ratios, a calibration of just how well we are suspended before our heads hit the pavement.
She's leaving a contrail of language, an appalling pall that tucks into everyone's sleeve, and for such gossamer gowns dripping ichor sand, there's an incomparable beading. Like tile sheets, we're dendritic, climbing up oars, washing away in the sun, convivial conjunctiva of corporeal colossi comparatively complacent in their placemat-caddish lives.
There are six corollary rules to these axioms: by fist and skin, by tooth, by wind, by scales and chimes, by death, by this.
We are forced to make signs of our existence, nothing hidden in or about. Cavity open to the inconsolable, a finished gash, a fatal wound, a frown of your inconviction to love, lie, and liberate the vessel of its storm. Salt, serous, and sly a fold of jealous carnivore speaking entirely without tongue flit against teeth, an infatuous ribbon of dilettante dilemma, a conservative bliss, all the while courting peril, convulsing, vilifying. What murder is this, this hunger, this dear derogatory flight, this confused arbitration of limbs, this dendritic corruption as we dig into skin? How is your fear weighed and meted, does it bleed the same musk, mask the same sins in sex and grieving? We've elided this fissure, this grave fault, for another; you've shuddered and strained and blackened your eyes, sampling the light, chasing patterns in the surf.
A caffeine haemorrhage just leaking letters into contrails of language, clove-spit smoke trafficking horizontal dreams across a glass television screen. They stream achingly soft doors to morals invading, infiltrating, the woodenhouse grains of personal ideals, the barley-store beliefs that cook down your christianology searing in myths with misconstrued sciencology.
More than just physicality, we are forced to become and, in doing so, to fear the impossibility of self-same difference between numbers and letters, satellites and sun. No place to fall asleep, no place to arrive at inconclusivity.
You and I collide in cold-harbored somnia, isolation a dream of blue-black photographs taken in caffeine cities and swan dive public houses where brass taps and close tops tint the sky a liquid hue. Caffeine dreams, they say, caffeine hallucinations, caffeine doodles, and caffeine screams.
Three corners connecting one billion microcosmic tadems, a continual spinning of elemental axioms, S-shaped electron extrapolations grossing the jittery, side-long, rejuvenation of state of mind. Overbreed me, unbound parameters and stick them with syncopic chasms between-- the fine synaptic line stitched and sutured, sucked and sank. This is our misery cry for simple rights and unsubtle multiplication, idiomatic complexity just buried in misderivational thinking. I want sandcastles. But I'll leave you to build your fur-tapered towers, your empirical system of thigh and heat.
What municipality do you do good common to, while we whiten some lyrical grey verse, a minute ethic in the moral carol goading on, droning in. Weaving papier mache horses from dead ballast and coopers' scraps, whittling rungs into the flesh of each others' backs, we'll climb-- an ascension of decay and cluttered magnanimity, an arc de trauma erected to your fold and its fleece you entice behind.
We are all carriers of this thing, the disease we ellip-seize by the olives and wrack with our negligence, farrowing blackly blank offspring into a cult. Into the cleft.
Caffeine fever, caffeine seizure slackening the limply tongue fissure-deep in tangled subvernum sopping the wale, rifling the cord, our hands quenched for thirst of garrulous comedy, some feet fall aside the paradisio. Hell is other people, life purgation. Express the curvature of silt and sin and revolution in terms of linearity, in terms of convection, in caffeine vocabulary for caffeine people living with the roar of a thousand landslid cities, of a million caffeine dins, caffeine drums. Rising up. Up.
9 October 2007
Sunday Pasties and a Chronicle of AntiTerra
Something tastes different, maybe it's my tongue.
Something tastes different, suddenly I'm not so young.
I dream of cavendish and lavender swimming softly in Rubicon hope, a blackwatch rain bouncing off black slate stone at Haddow's square store upon the square street. Tintintin, a gaggle of bronze abhorrations sung in microscopic peals; so let us speak of crassly blazed and bloated blue Hogmanay, of richly brown Walpurgis Nacht, of a deeply inked and indigo sate. But I can never ripple the way you ring with laughter because my chords are not tuned to your key of Echo. I cannot turn my words as you roll your littoral wine humming in a low tumbling rose, reeling in your cheeky, bi-valved blush, rounding over your lips in a silky crimson crush. So left to suck and stall, I can only toss the earth-sodden tonic burning back, twisting in revel and twining in skin, the scarlet-amber threads, the peach-blue veins of your dusky summer drawl.
Having fallen back on this earth, its true, as they say, thoughts interrupting other th-- its only bright round sliver-sunk jesus cannibalising cherry-blossom cunts, waver-wafting in an enzyme-turbid plea. Cocoa-Rococo, Henry the E-I-G-H-tH infested ba-roke-wood sins mauving sutures. And once we're spun in gossamer feathers, tacked and turned, spun and strung, we'll once have been carrion-crow cameras photographing green.
Something tastes different, suddenly I'm not so young.
I dream of cavendish and lavender swimming softly in Rubicon hope, a blackwatch rain bouncing off black slate stone at Haddow's square store upon the square street. Tintintin, a gaggle of bronze abhorrations sung in microscopic peals; so let us speak of crassly blazed and bloated blue Hogmanay, of richly brown Walpurgis Nacht, of a deeply inked and indigo sate. But I can never ripple the way you ring with laughter because my chords are not tuned to your key of Echo. I cannot turn my words as you roll your littoral wine humming in a low tumbling rose, reeling in your cheeky, bi-valved blush, rounding over your lips in a silky crimson crush. So left to suck and stall, I can only toss the earth-sodden tonic burning back, twisting in revel and twining in skin, the scarlet-amber threads, the peach-blue veins of your dusky summer drawl.
Having fallen back on this earth, its true, as they say, thoughts interrupting other th-- its only bright round sliver-sunk jesus cannibalising cherry-blossom cunts, waver-wafting in an enzyme-turbid plea. Cocoa-Rococo, Henry the E-I-G-H-tH infested ba-roke-wood sins mauving sutures. And once we're spun in gossamer feathers, tacked and turned, spun and strung, we'll once have been carrion-crow cameras photographing green.
15 July 2007
A Dame and Erlichia-matosis
Here I see a shadow
It's a flicker 'round your mouth
Are you laughing at me or with me?
Every doppelganger knows when its too warm. The blister paint stick peel of a twin pan-fried egguardo coming climactic at critical temperature. With a slowly psyche split gone two-shoed strings; we'll see if mobius is certain
if not true.
If you can keep up, if you can keep up if you can keep up if you can keep up I'll see you on the other side in the house we threw
across the river, across the twilight city, across the land
that is
buffalo horns and woman's breasts rising
muddy.
And I'll sidle up to you all cheeks and skin, cheeks and skin, and you'll vascillate with something
quixotic, danger overcame. There'll be an "oh my my" and an "my oh my."
And I'll eat my tail
Edith Piaf
and a light so young...
It's a flicker 'round your mouth
Are you laughing at me or with me?
Every doppelganger knows when its too warm. The blister paint stick peel of a twin pan-fried egguardo coming climactic at critical temperature. With a slowly psyche split gone two-shoed strings; we'll see if mobius is certain
if not true.
If you can keep up, if you can keep up if you can keep up if you can keep up I'll see you on the other side in the house we threw
across the river, across the twilight city, across the land
that is
buffalo horns and woman's breasts rising
muddy.
And I'll sidle up to you all cheeks and skin, cheeks and skin, and you'll vascillate with something
quixotic, danger overcame. There'll be an "oh my my" and an "my oh my."
And I'll eat my tail
eat my tail
so the music can play on; just meEdith Piaf
and a light so young...
16 June 2007
Carpathian Hamurabis: An Treatise of Brown Portent
Here I see a shadow
It's a flicker 'round your mouth
Are you laughing at me or with me?
Underwhelmed and unkempt like chafing against a texturised fashion we watch the utrecht lights ballast and blast against the starry inside of cheap window frames. Canada is a dream now, much like Guam or the Peloponnese, and with that we waver slowly, spit-turned. Another icthyo-ic, landless archipelago. A grease-paint Aleutian chain. Maybe this is cancer, crab-claw-crackling of limb in the water-stained heat. Like I'd eat these sapped-up, commercial vanities loose in the sagging economic drain pipe. Some stem, some pistils firing leaving smoke signals of death to blot outside the sun, plain clothes hung on an Egyptian cotton telegraph line.
Picture this. Halfway between here and five minutes from now I will be nothing more than an ant farming foreign revolutions singing nothing-songs in a nothing-hum bleeding out of nothing-vessels unborn, liberated in no-land of a nothing-sun. I have no photographs from this borken camera. No film negatives fit my funny little lens of humour and manage to see all the color bits outside the UV, the cinder smells rising up in phosphorescence, cracking splash-white Samothrace. These are precious threads growing through the vanilla schwag, just an arch of meerschaum blistering into the stone claw of deep, blue night. And when she drizzles ichor, you may believe in the dirt castles wallowing around your feet, one thousand thousand generations ludely playing with our meek shadows as figures ghosting down meadow leas passing secrets, passing regrets. Cave into this. Never cease to wonder in the hopeless, loveloss life that ever marvel is a sin and each sin a holy joy; candid as we've been there's yet to be seen the crying thunder growling at the rubble of our own fetid, fallen Troy.
It's a flicker 'round your mouth
Are you laughing at me or with me?
Underwhelmed and unkempt like chafing against a texturised fashion we watch the utrecht lights ballast and blast against the starry inside of cheap window frames. Canada is a dream now, much like Guam or the Peloponnese, and with that we waver slowly, spit-turned. Another icthyo-ic, landless archipelago. A grease-paint Aleutian chain. Maybe this is cancer, crab-claw-crackling of limb in the water-stained heat. Like I'd eat these sapped-up, commercial vanities loose in the sagging economic drain pipe. Some stem, some pistils firing leaving smoke signals of death to blot outside the sun, plain clothes hung on an Egyptian cotton telegraph line.
Picture this. Halfway between here and five minutes from now I will be nothing more than an ant farming foreign revolutions singing nothing-songs in a nothing-hum bleeding out of nothing-vessels unborn, liberated in no-land of a nothing-sun. I have no photographs from this borken camera. No film negatives fit my funny little lens of humour and manage to see all the color bits outside the UV, the cinder smells rising up in phosphorescence, cracking splash-white Samothrace. These are precious threads growing through the vanilla schwag, just an arch of meerschaum blistering into the stone claw of deep, blue night. And when she drizzles ichor, you may believe in the dirt castles wallowing around your feet, one thousand thousand generations ludely playing with our meek shadows as figures ghosting down meadow leas passing secrets, passing regrets. Cave into this. Never cease to wonder in the hopeless, loveloss life that ever marvel is a sin and each sin a holy joy; candid as we've been there's yet to be seen the crying thunder growling at the rubble of our own fetid, fallen Troy.
7 June 2007
Pantomimical Bids for Cross-coptic Septicaemia
... and who
ever said that life is suffering
i think they had their finger on the pulse of joy
Save for a canvas and billow-blown flares, the steering appears easier without air. Without water or sand, without weight or person or pearls of wisdom. Claims of silentry in the lost lingual scratchings that tumble and terminate in our off bantor or sly, red-wine-stained brass, our struts and affront and collapsed silver in congress claim us. We are thieves, thanatopsical deliquents mad with sex and sin and gathered in at the pleats. Forsook. Forsaken. Utterly lost for the words and ways to make the idea of love believable and impossible. Profundic. Prolific.
Spaces. Spans. The without all the more apparent, the lack concerned and adherent, all bottle-empty, lolling lack of amphoric syllables to couple mine. Simple. Without you here there is less to say. Commas take up the cause and push into an ellipsis saving space on the uselessly said words, the social-strata tap dance. The numbing gratification has postponed from the lidocail foot-to-foot foray, pretending our suffering from happiness is somehow less futile than the futility we feel from each other. Impractical patience it seems, impractical dreams of grey noons in the heathered green rains, hats at jaunty angles, slick-slate woven streets crystalline under the hogmanay lights. Impotence in white snow and broken spun bens, and all the ancient musings positing new lives sans lies with finer cold curls of wool and cotton jumper threads. For ten minutes more I'd run my finger through the condensation bleeding through the glass from black draft to amber-wine table, wandering thumbward in the dimly-snug-sung tallowed lamplight.
The blaring magenta-green gashed through with violet still dances across the northern black ice of some same cold corridor in my veins. Sewn into my sleep is a reverie of your skin-clad, portrail beak, all your gone, dizzy spun sanity that shamed those hallowed haloed-haired belles, clanging timorously to our peals. Simpering little knots that they are, little hindu sorel bits that flow jasmine and orange.
Home. Handsome-faced women oozing lilac poems splayed on corduroy rugs. Given a few things. We are home. Together.
ever said that life is suffering
i think they had their finger on the pulse of joy
Save for a canvas and billow-blown flares, the steering appears easier without air. Without water or sand, without weight or person or pearls of wisdom. Claims of silentry in the lost lingual scratchings that tumble and terminate in our off bantor or sly, red-wine-stained brass, our struts and affront and collapsed silver in congress claim us. We are thieves, thanatopsical deliquents mad with sex and sin and gathered in at the pleats. Forsook. Forsaken. Utterly lost for the words and ways to make the idea of love believable and impossible. Profundic. Prolific.
Spaces. Spans. The without all the more apparent, the lack concerned and adherent, all bottle-empty, lolling lack of amphoric syllables to couple mine. Simple. Without you here there is less to say. Commas take up the cause and push into an ellipsis saving space on the uselessly said words, the social-strata tap dance. The numbing gratification has postponed from the lidocail foot-to-foot foray, pretending our suffering from happiness is somehow less futile than the futility we feel from each other. Impractical patience it seems, impractical dreams of grey noons in the heathered green rains, hats at jaunty angles, slick-slate woven streets crystalline under the hogmanay lights. Impotence in white snow and broken spun bens, and all the ancient musings positing new lives sans lies with finer cold curls of wool and cotton jumper threads. For ten minutes more I'd run my finger through the condensation bleeding through the glass from black draft to amber-wine table, wandering thumbward in the dimly-snug-sung tallowed lamplight.
The blaring magenta-green gashed through with violet still dances across the northern black ice of some same cold corridor in my veins. Sewn into my sleep is a reverie of your skin-clad, portrail beak, all your gone, dizzy spun sanity that shamed those hallowed haloed-haired belles, clanging timorously to our peals. Simpering little knots that they are, little hindu sorel bits that flow jasmine and orange.
Home. Handsome-faced women oozing lilac poems splayed on corduroy rugs. Given a few things. We are home. Together.
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