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.

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.

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

eat my tail

so the music can play on; just me
Edith Piaf
and a light so young...

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.

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.

Amential Coiffeuses and Quaker Resolutionism

She said I think I'll go to Boston...
I think I'll start a new life,
I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name

A captive audience for a dementia, a turbid, occasional, cystual, flux that she dramatises in powder and wigs with flaring porcine hips calling achtung struggle a dance for megalomaniacs. I'll keep turning cow hides and spinning vinyl plates on etui-esque, plastic-cast confidences, keep spinning the windmill rolling curls robbing the geisha of their flaxen hair.
And they'll wear Noh masks for each other, a convalescent few, with no fine senses, no five fences bordering on the futility of mercantile gladness. There is sex in everything, even in the phantom limbs, the locks and chains, bound twigs and coiled, worn-woven veins, there is sex. We'll browse for lust and lacrimal evenings built on thrust and subtle words the turn the girl to subtle murmurs that rumble the column-stilt altar of some bleeding jehovah and the guru-sodden M raked between the fur. This is how we raise tributary malls, rase Elgin Marbles,

                 and seal our own tombs.
So,
           gone girls will tabulate our stones         divining
the sole meaning
                        the soul meaning

of Thom McAnn

misery of adobe baked in

espadrilles    

Shoe shopping on day-centric beams of vastly cast grey-blue fluorescent light, a dismal buzz reminding the ennui to enn and ui in ultraviolet pulse, sublime rhythm of nausea. If it weren't for these shoes, one could not travel, no Glasgow or bust, but I can still sidle up to some thread or gloss ribbon tied-tight. Three suit cases. Five pounds-sterling. Sixteen generations. No shoes. No shirt.
No hope or greed.
Will travel.

                                      I

will travel

Say something commonplace, something highly jaded and gold-set like Assyrian yaksha-godhead-guarded dime conscience-ness. You'll only plaster the scraped knee and leave off the bruises because you know I know you know me as well. Just the same. All the same. Cold stone headaches. Concrete grass roots.

     You.

She'll give you stock options for cunt, a paved payday to Canada-land and some down-home, country social-something. And while you're weaving baskets and stretching out seal skins, you can file that away. Somewhere under "M".
Something like misgivings.

And lest we forget, something like                     dispatriotism.
Unhomesick
   ness.
                                                        Say one ticket.

Four or so stubs. One canceled vacation.
A death of the fundamental type. Three reasons. Two tones and an infinite number
of you.
Objectionable you.

The Non-Union Pundit and Excoriated Self-Denials

And on Sunday mornings you will still be thinking
Of how the things didn't stay.

And we sweat. We scream our earthen names into cotton prisons and waste ourselves in fretful nightmares, wallowing and swallowing each successive success or failure. We get clean again in our bestial matters, non-inventing the non-invention but corkscrew-coining of clever terms; a non-advancement of human unintention, a dissolution made ghastly with our clever apparatus, liquid fat flicking at a wick. Not so hard to imagine that soap is made with lie and fucking made of hate. Birds are birds, dogs are dogs, cats are gods, men are clay, plaster, and plastered. I suppose that's what shaping is: this thin, taut feeling of the distance carved between the people we've always known.
Oh, and the sleeves feel more grim, more snide and sneer in the teeth they cuff, inhabiting the honorable whim of arm and arm in extolling slid-aside-grace. Like lockjaw, we're alone in our clenched forfeit, that soundless-sapping-suck of distended droll. And I am sorry, but not for this, this wee tear you shed for all things sung and suggested, long and longed for, this tiny shadow of a bridge we traced and chased our lives in exchange for. With the little capillaries wasting away, culling off species, capering the caperless, the tophat trend bearers; with all this we shuffle our die and cast our deck and weigh our adorned, weightless babies, our blessed dreams and scorned hope; with all this we come away as alien.
You phone home if you like. Ring again back into that void. Don't be surprised. Don't ever be surprised by this obvious obsequiousness. I am not surprised by this cup in the sink.

The Cat Found His Blanket and Other False Pretenses

I am going to push them way
Fall into the leaves of the winter trees
Drowning, slowly, lonely, my city of rain

It's something like 5ht, a little bigger and bad-ass sideways from a christmas-light in situ situation. You can't just tuck-in, curl-in, sink down with these fabrics and trim-slim Vatican II release form, not with the by-laws and by the ways, the tax bracket stairwell stairways. And with a spine of stars we can clash and offend, grab our jar of earth and never touch ground again. Just spiralling. Screwing. Ever so seemingly non-chalant
a braying (brahe-ing from catechism)
What's your candor like in these age-wrung ounces of boredom, that joyous tittling evaporating into square homonyms, shaping humunculae, becoming hominids? I won't be in that brown paper box, the pine resin dripping plainly into my legs and caught limbs caculating, cackling. Can't trap me, tricksy little spider, I've my own webs to weave, other lives to paralyse and dessicate, turn them bones to brittle little spells in own wicked ways much worse. Much worse. Catalytic legs churning down the noise and coupling the joists, a thronging nation of indivisible, cascading noise, red-flare toes to jagged-edge knees, this is how gods dance in the grim. We've no need for hats and hairs, no need for teeth to hum the drone and rasp licks rumbling from our bellies, now do we lovely?
That is, if you're listening...
My my my, if you're listening, I could thread a yarn from here til the beginning of time, spinning it off the loom to each cave and eddy of the chapel of stone letting it drench in the ageless sun of no-time. I'll know better than to bead it with tiger teeth or spin feathers between the strands of glass. I'll write my story in the wee fires lit in the night, all the beaming, boasting, fading voices cackling to the streaming thrumb.
Truth has been traded in for a temporarily convenient infallibility.
60 impossibilities all mired in the spicket twist forgetting the unfortunate of probable nature surrounding the sucking sound wheeling down the waterworks through the sink. Profundus, stepping tip-toe-paw-askew and circling only three times for an electrolytic chromium hue to appear. Simple images carry on in candor and shuffle the long-arced dreaming dance, shuttering and blurring in a swoon wrapping just tight enough to ache for the moonlight.
And now we know juxtapose, patience in turn for patent-pending immortality, a fear for afraid, a need for a strain? And now we know iuxtapose, a dream for.

Ancor-What and the Graphical Representation of Rhetorical Sentences

Everybody's trying to be the best
What about the girl with loneliness
I like your sundress

With one eye, that’s how you see them, as they fade in and out of the swarm-red light, fazing themselves into the bits of stranded thick filaments woven around our reality visions, our caudal incisions, our sanctimonious sanctuaries deep covered in much and piss and shite. Canvas traps these are. You see the bus-light reflections against the burnt out lividity of the haze and city streets swamped with rain-night lonely wandered dim-lights pulsing softly to a death-tick. If you continue to read, you get lost in the pages, lost in the story, unaware of the pieces of your own story, the one that nearly everyone in this dark stew becomes obsessed with. They call it living, living with a purpose, a fetish or passion, but it's all just an obsession of the worldly kind, a religious, sorrowful struggle for amiable convenience. they all get caged by their stories, their troubles and dramas and victory wails, they all get caged by their feelings that feel for no one but their tiny ids tempted by the egos, their actions too weak and hopeless to avail them of the guilt-dawn splitting them into all the morning fractals of midnight chevrons. All there sick-sad lettered days fuel them into some form of pangs and bangs and kicks and rage, they form and form and firm and headlong spindle-wire walk the tapestries they spun circling them, noosing them, nursing them. That’s how you see them, with one eye. with two they can walk between your sight, hide in the pockets of neural suppression from left to right, those overlapping plates of animal regression, avoidance of everything a species fears. We're holding our breath in ornithological loops and knapsacks, the percussion thronging, beating the gentle life out of our footed traffic and senicious thought ploddings choreographed to a heightened bodhisattva-straddling safety pin. Wedged.
I submerge myself in the beats, in the charged Czech and Japanese, not for their drug and sex culture, their obvious pins that wake so many juvenile minds, but I like the taste of the words. The flavor of the words as they come onto my tongue and out again because its one thing to regurgitate memories, the black poenic syllables crunching out noise and breaking up the long winded intervals of paragraphic, hypertrophic musings, that’s one thing unto itself. But these. These are neither slow nor swift strange careenings of genuine thought and amenical letters swatting at each other in a buzz of quick conjugal creation broken back into pieces from holy cities of infinitely long words that would never make sense on an ear. It’s a gargantuan strobe. a flash that incenses on forever and never, only a flash to those who see it, a pyre or brief insurrection of rebel fear and portraited, beaming, soulful crashing, thunderous thunder and lighted lightning, quixotic, keyhotic-- melodic-- burrburraburrburraburrburra.
If I could afford a piece of paper for every blinding thought (have at thee) that slippedsorted into the foaling crest of constant tectal innervation, I wouldn’t need to be in this ministry of medicine or pecuniary plotline that seems so maundanely twisted. If I could afford two bourbon bottles and a weekend in hospital, I think I might actually have a fair weekend at rest. I'm more and more like the coaxing ocean, seeing me seeing me and knowing the devil can only tempt himself for the upperhand because revolution is the oldest cannibal-- self-eating and greeting and making of the hatred and love and spied secrets of the allnone and everything of the self but not. There's no ambition, just the dark destructive light of creation ceaselessly slumping toward the tinder and home.

A Chef's Antigonal Parade

Two tattoos of skin
One of ice one of tin
For the days have gone by

The song in the bile says I'm sorry sorry sorry like a backbone rhythm could ever shake it free. So patience plays this game with us as confused unconscious kids will do, leaning backward in the moonlit shade just trying to wait. Leaving these crumpled bones for carpeting, we're not so meant to weave the dextrous sort of papier mache dreams. What is this wanting? What is it that we haven't yet named? Pretense. A postural reflex to the dynamic foam of scrolling context.
Why have everything? With all secrets owning and paranoia drowning out the resolution, what has everything to do with us? If I was a Hannibal with the trampling hooves, mountains would weep at their own trembling. Yes, there's bad timing, but we look off between the words helping ourselves to their cankerous fray, yearning to defy and define convention from the arbitrary so some miraculous fate may give out that love is...
Love is. Love is. Have the everything without and pour yourself and your kind beating out the cascade, the orchestral and further that blinding bank of ecstatic everything into that resounding am following the I.
It's an impossibility, that cooling incompleteness, the white scar folded over the earth. An astoundment. Just here an H-shaped hole slithering in the obstetric void of everyall sucking in from possible abscess across a neverend to more alleverything, but it's sharp and forked, unkind in how it lapses us in our shrouds. How improbable that each of we are conjoined and disincontinuous to each of the other and them. Pagus. Sorted on a length of belief extended parsecs and Mosely-Einstein leaps deep into a temporal conjunct, how inseparable are we. Marvelous, that love is and hate is and I am and you are. And this... well, this is everything. Just here. Just now. Marvelous.

Paradiso und the Hassenpfeffer Altimeter

when will the flame break
and spare the good people it takes

Today was not a bad day, nor was it unkind or heated or many things. Many things have gone unsaid through many years, but to them whom I owe, I pay them rightly, pay them righteously. And this is not meant to be in a godlike manner, not with stiff tempest or shattering hail-like tears. What use is such effect. No, it is meant that they are to be given the grace and slow wax of true cordiality, the subtle warmth and tease. It's a cocaine abstraction, a summer phantom twilighting in the headlight wash. Such passivity is our winter, our barren gravitas blown through the green terraces.
And so they'll all build veiled little kingdoms on the petty, proper, pauper graves and they'll come forgotten to me asking for a simple hapless ray. Because I am. We all are in an eventuality, but then again there are only enough hope strings hung from the corpse that is the land. We cook our sacrifices in wars and holy, shambolic, godhead-bloodshed, like so many relieved columns pushing forward our eyes to the fronting gape of bluest lacquer, blackest ribboned, deeper vermillion gorged over each sky.
I am a plant, such silver branches are life I give to go as deep in earth as high above framing the world, this greater outer pin that I is. I am but a plant, a complex vessel full of frail tribulations, conjuring magic so scientific. I am but a plant, a tremble, treble leaf so green with vigorous pride of youth, but failing to find the converse mention of daring simplicity breathing in my stoma. I am open. I am open.

Why Be Ahead When Ought Is Further South of the Sun

some things tie your life together
slender threads and things to treasure
days like that should last and last and last

The problem with aging, and being conscious of said aging, is the constant reminder and remembrance of major shifts in life that we all idly passed failing to realise just what it was we were buying in for at the time. Our very own psyches are nothing more than thinning spheres of vantages, losing detail with every spin while the winds speak their friction and coarse language of cold and loneliness and fear. All we have in the end, the small specks we define as personality, are just Monday's leftovers. This pantheon of ours is merely cast on a die, an evil wicked turn and our little lives may seem ever more poignant or featureless depending on the perspicacity of our own Van der Waals and eyes. May seem a little more horrible, a little less brilliant, a little more contagious, a little less sane. Oh, we are thriving, spinning on an edge of glass ceilings and wageless sins, how we do thrive and lie and dive and live. Odd they don’t sound the same, those, thrive being the very essence of living we think so clearly on in old morning showers of soap and lather tints. Just goes to show the lack of continuity between everything and the everything it represents, that which is and isn't being the same and not, the constant contradiction that always nudges that ol’ piece of grey matter lurching forward with every quantified leap we mark as achievement. I have achieved. Nothing great nor remarkable, even markable or marketable would be lovely, I assure you. But I have achieved, and always forget the fall of the step that left we on the sinister bank of such rubiconesque delineations, such masqueraded victories said of we. Last I checked, no one thought of me as one of them, us, or otherwise adverse fittings or stays keeping all this shite in check. My personal hell is my Holyland. Society, the vile tutor of all the chummy swimming rays. Society, the fearful republic that never thought me able to handle truth. Just the same I've long since thought truth was no different from rest of the grey din. But this is the tumbling friction, the momentary contact and exhale we lift each other from... lift like a fretful moment retracting saintly and slyly shrugging the whimper for a black and embered hmm. Lift, lift, lift, lift, lift. Even the improbable, nay, the impossible is possible, inevitable when the universe stands infinite in its infinity. How fortunate I don't care about being liked, not when falling means death and death means inevitable and inevitable means spinning and spinning means fury and losing and fading and paling and dreaming and sharing and serenading and breaking and loving and puncture and friction and heat and joy. That breathless, soft girl. Joy.

Canoodle-a-Doodle... Ooo

We can struggle in the web
We can struggle
With white spider stars coming down
And night blowing black from the ground

            the carrion-crow-feed never need to speak
about the unfortunate invisibility they find in the deep
        womb of afterbirth.
                         oddly coital
        coital coiled mortals of a granary mill
                    grinding the spiritus for manna
                            men need
                      needless.
Head-heavy moles burrowing through the aparteide
           numbly clumsying the ether subsorrow
                 a pastey-
             portioned single-serving
        of unconscious sandwich spread
                                                                           Poor Samo.
                                                                            Por Samo.
and E, E, J, C, K.  The powdered faces wasting
    grace
                        living on a dying breed,
                                    living nonetheless,
        these flawlessly bruised holes in the latex of
universe
Here's a head hung low by the potstill streetlamp
                          a pigeon fork
          resting baled to the brow.
                                                                   And all the greedy
whisky drinkers and their tinned whisky dinners
                sinning on in black-marred knuckles
            and coring bones with cheap excision tools
                                                                    sing
more daring Rimbaud revisions than a satanist would
ever
            choose
                  to.
                             Religiosity and relegated managerial
              affairs of those two feeble shanties paper
          all the crinkling walls in the customs' gaping bureau.

Pat the bunny.  and think Pascal and Bastille,
        think turtle and turrepine, but always.
Pat the bunny.

The Little Knew Too Man, Or A Tetrahedral Guru Hutch

All the stories in stones
And in beakers and bones
All the salt in the sea

It’s lonely out there: 16 satellites homing in on the cold dark outer rim; an edge of oblivion that becomes populated each focus of the camera; an outside ear listening to the tittering of some terminal star. You’re just the juice from someones’ apple, a slick-wet subliminality draining backend forwards, not even a tear-jerk response, but a salival rush attempt to stamp out any recognition, any connection between their dialed up self-volume and your edgy whisper shaking the chains. It’s all in the image of higher consciousness, the place we call emotive, that never once could be thought animal. Here's your fear. Simple and low brow you gag on some spoonful of what ifs, gob a gasp and settle back thinking there's nothing outside your belief that could ever be more real than your rolls of money, your thick thread count sheets of portfolios. I know you have a secret, a pile of asps nipping at the inside cuff, that all that’s you you tie up in them, their shadows and words and pantomime hands acting as much or more than you’ve known yourself to dance. So this is sociopathic, I suppose, but maybe I’m just a different egg of another clutch, maybe I’m caught up in the solar Ephesus, winking lash of Luciferan expression, the possibility of dreaming freedom in a form of fledgling divinity.
But with shirt sleeves buckled and tied, I cant per se argue against your social clan, your obvious god-like wisdom read out from black books and dusty volumes still scratching at the surface of my lens. You get in the way of me, with your love and loyalty, your idiotic prophecy, your human rationale washing out instinct of what you know is.
I’ve a split cranium from sun poisoned streets, baked pavement leading along the errants and viceroys, and this blue blown summer gas is more depleting while the young live for melanomatic activity. So, rub your eyes and adjust the subtle hazel to brown so that maybe without squinting I can see around your void bodies ambling crudely through my thoughts.

Invalid Arguments of Gonadal f(x)

You're like a messiah, pal
Little kingdoms in your chest
I told you we'd make it, on for another
I told you we'd make it, on for all night (Put on all our best)

I strain against you, this perfect violet weight, all gone in pallor, caught up in the orange-dew-dropped lamps curving for a black-tar tongue of pooling litter, and such rush begets another whim: to run flat out across the bland-square hedges and fallow, reedy lands, each mire a miracle of aggravation, a causeway to uncoupling this swollen link and lymph, an easing of the passing time to heady rain cloud language of unbearable levity. Joy in itself is a joke, though death is a heartier guffaw, a faux end and drop leaving sigils to tell the bedtime tales and tie our dreams on end to end to end. What a ladder we'll all build. What an uncanny harmonic device like the throat-thoughtfully blown blues in the deep green ring of the night, the lulling horn-howled and heavy-souled blanket. Pagan aren't you? Heating the soft earth between your creased and folded fingers, healing whatever part it is that sobs against the browning fields of crowned wheat, and all-outward wave the broad flaxen heads ululatus ulu ulu undu ululating shifting stalks in slow-sad chatter sounding out to the wind the rusty nature of their destinies. Ulu ulu undulations, cathartic fences catching the final beat. The vacant thrombosis gorging a thin blue-black bead of soil, still meaning to lift off the sullen strand of wordless conversation, just vilifying itself, growing aged and sick with the yellow-green hue frozen in tufts of gingerly falling leaves waiting for the curse of convection to let them soar, sucking them down with turbulent ends. So this is the christian fruit you brought, the godly good-natured, death-bound and despaired from conception, all its ears brimming and picked upon, singing with tasseled pollen ripped into currents you would like to carry off by hand. Some voice we've left to, an oratory silence and finger tracing word, sketching our biographies from crumbled temples and impish derision. Such is tradition, this purple-pale midnight Europa.

Palpebral Artichokes Lunching on Sporks

Im coming up only
to hold you under
Im coming up only
to show you wrong

So this is my solitude, the prison i built myself into, more than four walls, unlocked doors. Oddly. Oddly. There is no safety, no comfort. This is necessity, a control of environment, a chosen environment. All organisms need specificities to grow and branch and continue on. This lack of sunlight, protecting my eyes, the lack of human sound other than my own, no ego pressing in on the seed of mine. This prison is the only formula for reasoned and rational freedom within a stoicism such as society. This poingantly obvious reversal of definition where a tin shed may be a haven, a cell an oasis, so that perhaps i am so mentally obscure as to think that all i need is this continuous exposure to my own thought bubbling out in a rivule, ticking in the covert guise of fizz from the juice in the glass. At anyrate this is the campus that would seem to hold posture for all the works that are an individual, all the frantic and frivolous energy amassed in schizophrenic fashion, the juxtaposed victorian castles playing shadows on the postmodernistic waves of titanium sheeting. Everything here, and here is not limited to any coordinate i mean, as here seems flexible as thought makes time, at any rate, here, everything is, was, will be by all contemporary theory, a function of, mean or median reflection of, all the manic chatter and conscripting forces that compose the mind's eye. This is why travel seems so extraneous and frustrating, trying to invent the initiative and conception of movement far and across, when all the while the only thing moving, if indeed thing be the proper term, is, in fact, our perception from one mode of collation to another. Of course all modes are interrelated because the machinery is identical, so it is entirely possible that there can only be a finite number of these modes, these altered pretences that shift around us. Then we have an accountance for all things, if they are things, being identical. You only differ by one lens. One lens making you a passive solution to whatever ails me. How cancerous are i, myself, and me?

Boreality, Though Unconscionable, Is Neither Arcturan Nor Archetypical

run like a race for family
when you hear like you're alone
the rusty gears of morning
and faceless, busy phones
we gladly run in circles
but the shape we meant to make is gone

Restless. Restless and all I've got to show of it are some broken flowers and a few tracks which seem to be lost in translation like so many foreign novellas thrown into english sofas, rumpled underneath the tossing night's duvees. Such a pretty settee. A casual glance and I may notice the frightful little pub out of doors, or I might not with all the rearrangement of familiar skin over the other side of the bed. I can't be sure, be told, sadly just what to make of all this jumbled existential muck. Restless. And now I check myself of that nervous twitch I'm fairly settled on gambling with each time I use the old words, the almost unfamiliar ones, that merely sing to be sung of the overly familiar things. I think the suitcase is far more appropo. It's short, sweet, compact, a better relation than family or friend, fucking. It's even bent out of windows and into the slim vase of a plane with little remorse as to just how well it may not fit, how well the room is lit for better reading of the hotel room service hours. Clearly these baggages carried on are half out of the bag and wandering, always slinking, always squidging around corners and past doors, wondering. How appropo for an anamorphic leather trawler, a collagenic entity mired in scripture, either way aiming for an animous position to me, to an "us". So, I like suitcases. They may even suit me, you could say. But don't be so jangled, don't hound at me for my own very much ill, in wit or mentality, disposition, because I have nane, not to this road anyway, or those mountains over on the skyline, or those phantom green-washed curtains lipping with a purplessence and mauve regard towards me. The only possible persuasive blame I may hoist in some awful freudian way, well that, that I cannot seem to vocalise. After all, restless isn't a thing of the language so much as the bones and their showing or moaning together so very bod-il-y. Much more heavily in creek beds, much more goaded in ash-lined gravestems, they moan, old and brittle and griping, oh... how they moan. This love or that. But they're bones. White and conjured into a skeletal corporation unknowing of just what the anima may go about creating in Ethiopian horn play. There burns.
i think you spilled wine
on my shoe
in a rosalie pattern
in an awkward leather hue
And he's not dolomite, but neither is her Kate Spade lacking a Sam. Ornation, ornamental, ornithology. Run out of verbs to string along and what's left may be more mystical than sensible when spoken on a mobile just as the microwaves beat in syncopation with each word in the lended, crooked phrase. Of course to sit on it would tell me how hemmorhoids might feel if the monemes could possibly mar an anus and outright swell with a lurid taste of pustuality. Because i am curiousity in a carnal niche untying my own seams and landing outside some taken hands, barred from signing the same peace I would feel in the awkward slope of here.

Contra Chorial-Atlanticism, Cases of Twinning

you look like a perfect fit
for a girl in need of a tourniquet

One more time for all time. Sine and cosynchronous players on porcelain 32's fraying away a pair of slippers and roman numerals trying to make sense of long division, and its a strung out cascade as we dream and sleep and dream further in, a deepening slumber bereft of gravity. There's always a mean low waterway tiding in at our pulse's lapse and brevity's graciousness, juxtapositioning of porous lasciviousness over the mouth and breadth of ever-waxing moonlit skin, the ugly breaking branch of ripple-worrying wave and interdigitation of flitting cell and cellulose wandering these reedy warm entropies. And I've piles and miles of excitation brimming beneath mortar and skin, a chain reaction postulating out the bliss. So what is lovely in me, what of all gods' facets have bound me in any beauty or rattled radiance that even the sun may wane. There is far haste in my own contrivacy, far weakness in tongue and stylus edge that I would be undone at the pull, the succubus libation, a soft touch. We all contain pastoral faces, vast tracts of long-welled time we grope for, press into with vehemence while the old creases burn back at the dark and what is grappling on these facial plains that long pose against us in the pooling mires mirrors tend to be. We've shred these fetters that harass our corporeality, wearing the birdstock paths into our micron films all collagen projected, worrying more time into a hush-filled rage, wreaking a deontological scythe at the bits of life we may have thought held by infinitude.
All our gasoline coils in the tinfoil strings, a colonnade for the more poignant, misanthropic tendencies harbored no further than the arcuate nails ringing into glass plastered panes. It's this sexuality that reigns us, pulls hard into and out of and juxta-posed upon that maybe once we might fall right into the the jigsaw set places our bodies gave us to be in. Past the neon lights we are human, inane, boring, contraceptive and colossal, we are pigmented with xenotransplantations of our forefathers and weighed down by the ponderous hymns of our mothers prayers, but can't we be ourselves in this? Can't we be counterintuitive and interesting for more than a moment when our lies cease look like the long lines of kanji riddled down the next 48 hours running past my projector light. I still have a fiver in my coat, a name on my mind, a beer lingering in the back of my throat, and three hours of tilting jaunt to couple to the infinite rolling of thought that careens in a railway fashion from idea to action to consequence, but there's no cab that can carry all the heady foam dreams I've lofty-bent tumbled into wondering 'what if' resolutely dispensing the last fear. That tiny little nag of a thought cinder and smoke seem to huff and cough out in lacrimal wheezing. The price of our individual freedom, the price of decent sleep, is a surrender. Back to one again.
Wake Les Moonves. I have a few things to shove in his various orifices.

I Paraphrase Only in Elucidation

We all do what we can
So we can do just one more thing
We can all be free
Maybe not in words
Maybe not with a look
But with your mind

There is a portion that yearns to unlearn, ravel away as the other builds up with the bricks and dirt of this firmament, wants to crash over the wailing veils that stream over the blacker waters and harder clay. When I'm drunk I look a little like Bukowski, red wine stained teeth and an out of vintage bottling shirt hugging tightly to my corpuscles. And I am disengaged and disingenuous, made failure and fallible by the sting in the look of griping grief shredding through the ears thrumming on the last verberation of a subtle oh. Maybe not in words, maybe not in television, the grey waves crackling on the blue fuzzed carpet where the cat slinks in a tawny vibration of light landing sideways so that we can do just one more thing. Old times on the nine listening to wood planks rippling from stem to stern and rolling, just going our way. It's all in our palindromes we recite on our bedsides, shuffling our thoughts in the small, old drawers we once kept all the children's dreams in, and those were the keys, the turning hasps like shutters squealing in the golden dawn-break storm of light-- that's how we all came out. Five kisses and a dollar bill go fluttering out the window like the stripes waving in the camisole, busy hands worrying stones away trying to comfort the burned-in nature of minds missing ideals. I've had time to weigh the judgments, to weigh the lightness of this thing called love and find it all folly, all folly. Entirely folly. I know that despite the contrast, despite being the dark other I am still governed by the child of light, this gestating firmament that burs the horizontal. I walk the stairs and try to remember the logic, tried to dispense with the polarity, but it is flux. I am completely adjective to it all. Pine and peal, there is no more to matter other than the pattern of indicative, the positive fragment of unhealth and sovereign reign I represent in foetal passing. Perhaps it’s inescapable that no one will see the footfalls or smoke-driven cascade of underestimates I've been privy to. Even now, I know the thoughts escape me, the myriad of knowing this. Knowing you. Not on paper. Not on any template, and I am grieved that I have lost it in two seconds time. I ask to some god that that Borges's own work asked, that but I had a year to form the coherent, the justification...
Not of myself this once. But of you all. I knew it then. That eternity in time while the clove was waiting to burn at my hair, that passable existenz I confused for a reality before the shot and lead and primer explosion that has carved my soul into cohesion beyond any portent you'd been wonting.
Forgiveness is more than futile, but you would never have known.

An Errable Rotation of Crap Circles

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

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