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

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

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

Ortagonal Dimentia and the Beanroot of Paused Elaborations

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

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

Propafol Iridesence and the Tripping Twilight Noctilucence

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

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

North Umpton and the Tiddlywinks Duodenal

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

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

AKim-bo Axolotls and Ursal Ornaments to the Usual Misunderstandings

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.