I am an embryo I am a layer buried in the snow.
Gasoline gushes over my face.
Because I was in school when this chapter happened
I will be buried in a reflective catacomb from which each strand of this
story shreds away and bounces from its impact hurtling back from its own
image.
Snow drifts covered everything within the rolling
confines of our schoolyard, and this merry-go-ring frozen
image of faultless castles and pure white drifts
of illusory perfection helps me to gaze lucidly into the pristine flask
that shines back through the gore and carnage that smears the short childrens
hallway through which I walk forth and again back to to pick up the chronology
of these events.
I left early, therefore I have a perfect image
retained from hovering forth in a capsule of fragmentary time over the
course of phantasms and spasms wrought from a drowning and burning death.
I was shot by the poolside, and I beg you not
to lie if once you have heard my forsight and rationale you would
not also choose to leave early and drop off the doorstep of a massacre.
I was the last to leave the school because I
was hiding and because I had already heard the ghastly sibilation of gasoline
melting through the empty winter swimming pools catch of drifted snow,
I knew that regardless of my choice I could still be forced to enter this
final domain.
Could I be shot and thrown in lingering pain
into this same communal tortuous pit to soak up my alotted share of neural
incineration?, although I had just opted to refuse it however relentless
was the alternative that I incurred.
I was just lucky to momentarily evade a final
annulment of sadism, because both of the two bullets that pentrated and
shattered my left shoulder blade and the right side of my upper rib cage
felt like the deliverance of two kisses from my mothers snow white face
looming large over the snow and covering one at a time my left and then
right eyelids as a lay down to sleep.
I watched a sleeping dogs-eye view of chaos and
my brain still hurt and my teeth ground and I felt the ashes of tiny school
children fill my nostrils and pack my sinuses and my temples ached.
I had tried to run and yes, it was the young
deed of a will to self preservation that allowed me to choose to be shot
rather be flung into a sinking gasoline mush pumped from simple petrol
carriers over the faces of my screaming young companions who thrashed
but achieved not.
I knew that at any moment there would an apocryphal
cataclysm of fire and a harsh crushing burst that would thrust me into
my own snowy pit apart from the others as their limbs and rent bellies
rained down overhead me as I continued to hear their screams again and
again and again.
Exactly how all of this mess would ignite I did
not know. I had feared that even the first shot that coursed through me
would miss and somehow of itself lay this melee awry.
Sometimes my mind scans back in a childish dream-time
stupor and creates variations and suddenly terminates the end of the story;
or throws a rash of meandering confusion over the direction of events,
and the images and characters scramble and the
conclusion rides in rapidly as I am left to linger in a dizzyingly numb
after-impression seared upon my retinae.
Sometimes I play with the components as a child
plays with plastic toy soldiers, and everyone in this story jumps into
this ravaged war-time school genocide . . . this morning as I sought to
graft the rays of gray february light upon the reflections threading me
back to the beginning of this tale, I also saw the conclusion where the
soldiers simply stood by the mushy depth of churning murky snow floes lost
in a golden yellowy mass, and threw their grenades upward waiting to be
engulfed in the ensuing slaughter . . .
Pomegranate
Garrishly outlined blackened eyes watching me
from mausoleum walls, speckled petal stains of crimson juice . . . , Tears
lolling lushly from the charred carbon cataclysm of incinerated stacks
of bone. A rent veil of distilled vaporous crimson juice trickling into
smudged petals of stains . . .
You just don't understand, do you, that I was
lost listless lackadaisically scratching a millenial etched furrow through
tugging muck nodding with a nudging gesture of my head to the bow, standing
above the prow ploughing in this skiff,
. . . playing violin in the Devils' own violin
concerto, sawing tender lilting melodies upon the moaning residues of staved
voices cascading an oars lopping chop of hard ghostly waves against the
stacked skulls of either shore,
. . . never able to clamber up the toe hold sockets
of empty jagged jawlines and eye holes with the rest of the dead.
The Words . . . a sigh in the sea I feel crazy,
as if my lungs had something to puke,
. . . the trashy geysers sprouting in my mind
that I just can't admit to - I feel like a rat that can hardly hang on
oh so close in our pack of rats,
. . . the green froth of waves the torn rope
we scurry to get our teeth into.
A new crest of disorder - night shall fall will
there ever be peace . . .
It is neither pleasant or unpleasant, it is just
an endurance and this is the only if only reason to ingest drugs.
The Words whatever they may be in their fragments
are the object . . .
Millenial thinking is transference pyschology:
wouldn't you prefer to daydream before the guillotine blade whacks your
head off?
Entombed in salt, the dry wavey fetid husky membrane
of a shriveled bat blanched in camphor and sucked through wild crisp and
shiney tears of shellac crunching under the severe inhalation of menthol
and damar singed in the hard crustasceous exterior of peyote buttons .
. .
Life remains a strange and lurid prismatic cartridge
in its full measure of aquatic debris, chimes and wonderful bustling bushels
of spawn and dry sterile solitude slants down in many carbonesque slated
graphite laden tworls of etched blackened rays catching my face in benign
isolation.
An inaudible solemn marching of slow insect clacking
accompanies me, that clusters and collects in small broken clouds at about
a depth of several inches admidst the floor. Cockroaches who are all heavily
weighted with ecclessiastical or monarchial titles, bishops and kings,
dolefully as secluded as I am.
And as I sit several deep grooved channels of
blackened streaming chunky gore, like a soured and slightly overcooked
soup of pigs blood congealed and thickened in silent time but still turgidly
dripping weightedly like a mantled clocked pendulous decline streams from
this vast graven wound of my heart, deep . . . , like a dilapidated rain
rail crumbling at its entrance to my chest in
several hanging rungs or engorged troughs weeping
like a memorial, an empire of tired banishment, a reign, sovergnally enchained
with cold bars of hallucinated tears, a deep misty and slightly obscured
solitude, bloodily running in three tracks from my heart.
A sharp scaled lens of fire calcified paradigms,
a charcoal sprayed shadow of an engraven eye luster full of an arcane spiders
intricate aerasol bombardment : Lucifer is a dead wisp of smoke curled
into coprolite footstone shoring the infernal tiers of highway overpasses.
Long before a shuddering quiver exhaled upon
an embryonic perambulatory parade cloaked in ecclesiates charades . . .
the sputter of red juices tired romance of Roman
bloodsport and sun peaked hallucinations of Blue-Capped Baltic seas . .
.
They are pollen head Arch-Fascists with Bees
mandibles bespeaking poetry cloaked and shrouded in time tarnished mantles,
cloaks of Psyche dredged from a bloody tissue laden sea, statuary fragments
of gore, the psychic fragmentary faces as familiar as footsteps in a nightnare:
but psyche is a bleeding Dream and its contusions are fragments that trickle
through an incredible birthing pond of blood that is rent through a dilemma
of flights of storeys of stairwells and cellars and dank open sunshine
dripping through the dilapadated home of stars and wind: Their faces rise
from the tossed fabric of sleep, deep trenched capsules of coffin land
plots immersed in catatonic divination. Wisps of combed lantern rays bobbing
above scorched charnel thistle.
The subcutaneous whisper of a wasps drone rises
to the searing lash of molten glass and a scream echoes out past its demise
to wither aeons of chalky desert dust . . . a tender weightless birthing
medium through which they emerge . . .
. . . masturbatory of fetuses in sludge Rot .
. .
you're given what you know . . .
every day I feel like the night killed me and
dredged me out of my sleep.
Like battalions of loose teeth left over after
a holocaust my labels are Nightfold flicker on Dreams . .
Ontological Scatological
Exorcism signpost fission. Trekking through a
blurred shudder of penumbraic
of chromatic fractal rays milking latex white.
A fine filament quakes and a small quiver with soft penetration in a brief
lapse of rupturing waves spills across the black glass table the gentle
mantle of Starfish limbs muting the
heavy glare fumbling a chime of fractured lights.
Think a kneaded object with spokes jammed, losing its face oh crumble crisp
tarnished algae pounded by
waves of sweat streaming ooze light fractals.
Cubric husks fingers lost slithered numb from the secretory tattered kiss
of swallowed stumps shorn from gouged mount a pit. Fingers comb in breaking
black dank caress grated
and peeled back from the tips at every stroke
see remains your eyes . . . your
eyes . . . bound in wet night mucal glimmer a
shimmer shade at fade a tired
glance detects flashes and their peripheral
shift over several squared degrees. Your eyes lock to a passing optic
fiels softening gray.
Exorcism and tusks pulled teeth nose snot and
bleating . . .
Radio raking its damaged guts through the open
starlit corolla a cornucopia
of static silence eclipsing light. Speed shouts
of radii plumbing light . . .
Oh devil gear beetles bracing a sphere of rotating
angles voice after voice
beaming lost scales of extraterrestrial songs
through maddening churning basilica flights a dim dissapearance of mercurial
flash cascades in a downward flush of mauve curtain clasping to the emerging
chaos of black
swallowing the revels of lightening draining
from the glistened dark of collapsing light. A lapse in which a small reflexed
tremor lulls a brief quiet
in the stillness of terror.
Cloud clutter breaks and ushers in massive gestures
balanced in the grace of annihilation colors of which fibilate into a rainbow
emulsion of the Cosmos Vomiting , a dim illusion of consciouness awakes
in an Eye of light in the slime.
Fusion hammers out smacking flashes, their clatter
intersects at a polarized thrust of black color and gyrates into a spiral
cellar depth blown asunder,
their tracks straining below disproportionate
blocks propelled on angular force
of rotation.
The eye that glops out through slime wipes a
bleeding black window of narrow
disentegrating vision. All heavenly bodies stream
through the rotation of interpenetrating axes, an infinite darkening of
color after the inversion at the point of intersection . . . soft penetration
of screening rays, a gently humorous
quietism in the revolt of horror . . . a time
ripple from which the simulates of the rhythm of larger rupturing waves
seems to tear down the black ooze bile
smeared across the Belly Sun.
Derangalia
Lulling swarm hone . . . white nuance limbs in
trails . Placket jag scale weave of plaques, teeming live cilia thrust,
drying into excruded crust and a jacket plank of tankish placoid ridged
scabs . City of scabs honed worm receded into pocket sores.
Sand waves and sand caverns, sand wisps and sand
tiles, sand sprays and dry sand catapults, sand eyes and sand shadows from
heaven, sand obliteration and sand burial, sand grave and sand terrain,
sand torrent and sand whirlwind, sand grate and sand tooth, sand wasps
and sand grass, dry deranged lisps of smattered dragging files of sinking
receding waves and whispers torment of realms shuddering atomizing.
Exohuskcartilages creepy snout roots in empty
dream: Projection surrounds you Mr. Skull . 2001: Creepy Posits, musky
tusk of Nights Lusts Flapping, Creepy comes on with a hood cankered snout,
a costume cloak over a stairwell of ten levels, a Lower Nadir sunspot sears
its' path upon a retinal leap, larval tubes of polyester gleam, the pious
pontificates. Synesthesia, . . . rebirth of particles . . .
Jesus I wash you of my sins with Creepy play
tub grubbing, scummy bathwater sins in a charred granulated coat of carbondated
ferrous cinders . A perfectly pious clearlight charred as an incinerated
core . . . a spirit photograph . . . .
Safety Distance playing in the Desert Storm and
stress of whacked cartilage exostructures: moan in a sandy whirl corpses
whittled on windy filing streams of rapid fine teeth.
Sand teeth sand bone sand threads sand sores
sand dry bleeding sand.
Sand of gorged locusts of sand of wedges of scuttling
fragments of flesh.
Fleeing from pillars of dry sandy disentegration
. Verily unto thee spittle caresses and worms cavort and cankers spoil
upon the hard cartilage of withered wasps seeped in tubs of prickly brine
and lids clasp and sigh upon those Dream bartered nights of childhood,
feet softly melding upon the quiet sandy paths.
Outside my house in chains strapped and inpenetrable:
I remember my house bleeding when I was young.
Epiphany of snowy dreamy sighs.
Epiphany of christmas hares in the wealth of
crosses crosses, the wealth of ecstatic white fur and grease drippings,
eating . . .
slurp, . . . slurp block slurp block blockage
mangled sausage tongues block slurps in every tongue, fecal thoughts drip
off the edge of the page . . .
Systematology points inclusion crosses pointy
poignant crosses hurked across fucking jerks crushing fat baby births.
Mind billows time in turds shit thought, turds
slime into sand composite, residues and rolls into sticky fecal apostlements.
Hair
Heit thisthing was dying deft bereft and I wish
that I could describe the small balls of accumulative activity that collected
in twirls upon every shelf over which his palms and yellow nails dragged
in words other than neurotic, but the attentive loving devotion to post-existive
grease clusters that he compiled with a deep microcosmic gaze of molecular
dissection cultivated his attention exclusively and every nuance of human
excretia became singularly amassed according to the maintenance of obsession.
Imagine the obligation that arises from every
detail that is deposted after copulation when the nose is as attuned as
a hounds and searches for riches and frustrated begins bifurcating into
secondary traces in an attempt to further origins of the objects and products
of distracted lust.
Here then is an isolated and religious man who
would devote a weeks seeking and detection to uncovering only the fine
filigree remanants of hairs of a breadth that were undeniably certain to
have fallen only from his loves anal region.
Such a mad beauty of insight could describe beatifically
those most tremorously fine shades of distinction that calculated the determination
of a hair originating from the declining curve into a
slight and full crease adjacent to the mons pubis
in contrast to the falling well of bristling bouquet that springs forth
its' own lush bush as it drops away from her anus and swells into a valley
through a division of thickening broadening lips, hillside knolls that
smell wildly.
I am not judging, because I have learned so much
and by watching have learned to construct the most utter respect for this
process. I am at a loss to describe this as anything other than love.
Here in a foundation is laid and there after
a universe of growth is free to roam as its' devotion guides and education
is in turn the fertile tool that pries an endless vernacular of taste and
writes in its' look and search a long long corridor of tomes naming each
of its' praises and exultations.
The books themselves are obsessions and the accumulative
mass of weight through which we must traverse in order to understand their
depth is perhaps what is most rigorously worthy of our respect.
Here an entire new forest begins, a depth of
density and overflowing overgrowth that is self maintaining, out of a deep
welling force of intuition that is pointless to uncover or question.
I watch his hands as they compile, through the
use of the appropriate agent. A pair of tweezers constructs a mountain
and how these mountains are fastened to their foundations is irrelevant
because I have attempted to establish a rationale and with every new instance
of their rising I have discovered an indeterminate occaison summoning a
play of godly spirits.
As I have suggested none of this is simple and
it cannot be unraveled, but I have tracked through the lions path of earwax
and found the discombobulated remnants of an entire ring of ankle hairs
taxidermically embedded in a brownish residue and devoted in its' redolent
and brazen statement to exclaiming a new and uncovered site of reference
which when I quietly hold and expand on a breath and a thought I follow
out to images which arouse me as I visualize them arousing him . . .
quietly, unexpectedly as with the silently folded
leaves of a plant turning into new shapes and sizes.
In my mania I too find myself aping his postures
and thoughts, and to convince you of the passion and devotion I would like
to persuade you as to this being the sole mystery that evokes religion
in the quiets and quietudes that pool like shadows around us.
I am so certain that in this is the entire mystery
of life. This search and the conformity that it demands of its' true believers.
But I am not here to turn this into a cult or
dispense jack-boots and call out a cadence: I am declaring my utter and
unwavering love for this passion. The observation of which encloses its'
own river and streams and your soul you will find is sitting by its' shore
. . . except that it forks either way about you, and behind you, and soon
tendrils sprout from both your asshole and genitals and you will observe
that it grows even quieter than it was before this . . .
The passion is vibrating in the core of one of
these hairs and your feet are conveniently at the ridge from which the
center may be entered. To see this is religious and to feel even quieter
and stiller is godly but you back down and watch the movements of her enterprises
. . . and then sometimes your attention is broken as other voices enter
the room.
Again the most rudimentary magic must be called
on and again you are at a plough feeling fortunate enough not to be walking
beside the oxen.
And if you are smart enough you will know that
the beginning does not have to be reconstructed, just quietly observed
in its' passing . . .
Oh god, don't you see I love him because he falls
in love again and again. And you pretend to be smart enough to be aware
enough to recite a role call of the location of each and every one of your
own hairs. I say you are stupid because you cannot even pretend successfully
to submit yourself to a test where the godly one strokes itself and tells
you that the scores will be given before the test is administered . . .
?
Over all I love the safety of indetermancy. I
could tell you about the piles of scalp flakes.
Perhaps the thorough consideration of methods
of affixing and securing can be ascribed to the pragmatic realm, because
I am not completely sure that the choice is commeasurate with the content.
But that too perhaps is entirely subjective. What matters in fact is the
replicating construction of monuments that are in fact defiant to death.
And this is not a fault because I fault you to
find error in the atifacts that descend from a mortal author toiling to
achieve access to the realm that winds in the pit of his eyes.
And if there is fault to be found let me show
you the irrelevance of your criticism, siting foremost a singular attention
to his drug addiction . . .
I find that within the realms he has shown me
there are numerous layers that cascade wholy upon the axis of his perception
. . . I find not a evasive movement in these projections, rather I enter
as into a documentary in which I find that I am taking my seat late, but
as in all true persuasions of love I am soon convinced that the movie was
begun at an ideal time allowing me to enter in to the rift of a spreading
rhythm destined to carry me most efficiently to the highest climaxes and
saving me in the drop from the highest peaks . . . his drug addiction is
in fact aligned to the most basic components of sounds that emerge from
the emmission of data that is self-inclusive and to that extent daunting
and unparallelled in its' complacency and organic generation of camouflage.
Most of all there is an acidic taste that precipitates
his arrival, and so at moments such as these I am safely held in the boughs
of his bureau, and an arrangement of mirrors affords me an insight to further
acts of duty and participation, for having grown accustomed to my journalism
he now finds that his work is ramified by anticipation in the material
world, that sheer repitition somehow insures a higher degree of success,
that tailoring a school for a single disciple creates an unfaltering pursuance
of expertise and refinement.
And so it is that I am merely a student. And
by becoming completely a student I find that everything is explained for
me, explained by the actions that encompass each day. If you look closely
at this picture you will see that there are never any words. And when I
turn away from this arrangement cold shudders seep quickly up from my finger
tips, which are cold even at this moment, and I soon desire nothing other
than an end and escapement. And as soon as I have a new listener I hope
that this time at this point that this time for a little longer a little
more of the text will relive a longer duration of continuity until you
grow tired and shut off the light, or like me you decide to put on a condom.
The escapement however has other tours and they
are long and quickly achieved and even here I will say nothing bad about
them. In fact they are too friendly and their friendship breeds utter malignant
boredom. Do you see now why I am always setting bonfires around my head?
And I hear you muttering that this utterly fucking
stupid, but why don't you go fuck yourself with a pop bottle?
Fortunately the teacher realizes that I have
a penchant for getting drunk and while I was off raving he had already
begun something new. God just sitting here I feel stupid because I'm going
to imagine that I missed the most important part of the test.
How can you help me?
I want out.
Go fuck yourself.
The bastard never forgets, and between you and
me these are his only moments of humor.
I need to go poop, but he's laughing and the
phone is ringing.
I am miserable.
Personally my attention wavers, and I noticed
all of you getting sleepy too.
I'll get back to it tomorrow . . .
Dimlight
silt and virtual radiation. Abstraction of salts lifted and corridored
into subliminates. Internalized into a quick vaccuum jump up
into a half-tone before ingested into white and dispersing into mind screen
dramas. Any Play is tactile limbs thrust into erect structures diagramatically
unfolding the
delineated conflicts of finite melting capsules
trailing through that thought medium into which they are cast.
I am suggesting that we are getting beyond these
sorry chants . . . I call them characters for they have chtonic shapes
. . . and previously we have known that they weep and call numbingly and
their moans
have set into play many atrocities . . . the
echoes of their forms still mold the vacant contours of our idle
stranded media residues and vomit back many stray
trickles of foam and at first appear shipwrecked
upon our shipwrecked mental shore, although soon
we are settled and despair of departing our affinity
to random comforts knowing their receding waning
sound to resemble that of their approach after an
impossible abscence. Listen, . . . a long shuddering
backward cawing, a roar and a choke falling,
departing . . .
Another soft wind swept splash, a deteriorating
atmosphere of mottled hues lashed together in the air,
a rust wrought concave rot bearing a tangled
weight of spaces smudged together. A pooling spray of acetone droplets
drains through this vague assemblage hardly reflected through refractions
of deluging
clouding mists, a soft wash field with undertones
of dripping contrasts melding or vapor whorled abruptly.
Your eyes are not yours and to not even have
seen the disappearance of prescence is to have been already immersed and
enfolded by force of wild airborne minerals and drooling deposits, a grimey
crepusculance pitting the floating mollusc mylar
dragging over your face. Wind wash and spit blowing over your eyes.
The ladder in the whirlwind of circles-multiple
consciousness: the disc of light: a memory calls it the reflection of a
crucifix and disappears rapidly in the glint of a scimitars illumination:
a gods finger closes your eyes. The Sour Ghosts of Christianity sibilate
a wet tired song praising the eclipse of reality: do you accept the brunt
of stilting the radius?: Remaining abrupt at one locus absorbing inward
the pain of black fluxing moons. So utterly crude in a crowd of horns:
so utterly nude in a cloud of thorns: so utterly assunder abreast a nest
of a nettle crowns crest: a glitter wickedly fraught upon a glamour pile
fragment assemblage studded with brine in a nether-never lands reflection
in from a pendulant lashes crash of crystalline nodules sublty prickling
brightly; Tears of bones; eyes yield slid gangland style. Avalanche of
bouncing ghosts and plastic skulls off the Dream-Core. Walk out through
the cold shudder of bogs. Blue cotton billows wind from knotted burls and
clutch at the root of your each step as I traverse a thought that places
plank after plank first one way then another upon the chill of night.
In a deception
of phosphorescent natantia the cloaks council of tartar binge hoard a school
of brains that were, I remember, large clumsy insects in class.
All the spelling bee melodies and truncated will
o' the wisp words may vanish, all the dark humors may seep backward and
clot knots of outboarding vapors.
I look at pools of kelp-like simplicity and coffled
fish. Their hoards swim cogged games rattling up steps over blind end nets.
Vapor dispersion and locution switches to voyagers filing in sea green
cusps of eelgrass and snap against seahorses and fantastic furnaces.
Mandibles crushing rotted rustling under my scalp
and lisping suctions hovering small silent puttering patterns of prawn
fins fanning bract ventricles of juice pressure.
Rainbow contour, penis gutted.
Shiney slick fish parasol.
Deck groping sea squilla, quills burrowing nabbing
teeth trimming drooping foreskin flange.
Chronic spills tabloid sticky pages.
Filet knife puncture under prepuce stream yowling
insanity story.
Here a dream there a bundle of newsprint.
Greasey print types crinkles and wraps guts of
another story page.
Crazy intestinal yarn chronicle, bucket word
of type.
Penis fill gut worm rubber, heavy dripping ring
flubs ooze secretion
jellies.
Drip with words and strange tortures.
Condom mouth gull with over sensory tales.
Squawk mutilate reiteration numbing story lies.
Now I know it's all docks fish and come lying
on my eyes. Fisheye jelly patterns and hazey jigsaw puzzles.
Deckscope briney eyed cerulean hue, spines and
scales, thalo green, soggy soak seeks up periscope bulging. Strangeman
Jack ' O ' Lanterns
Penis Fury.
He grunts and plunges into your cunt with panoramic
ease - a chastely religious white purity rises and his member is bound
in the clutches of the porcelain sea and its' deep pools of setting spackling
putty.
Nickle-plated sordidity, flowers laced with metal
residue, carmel trickle that tastes like lemon-crotch potty pools.
Lime tendrils of hair snaps couching pampered
powder love poem petals of rusty nusturtium spanking flushing over-ripe
cheeks, a pile of cool flesh pool hung from the mount of a padded hip bone.
Imagistic reels of ultra-real color erections
mount the tufts of whipped cream, furry pussy marmalade tushes slapped
riotously.
Little jism rivulets popping little trickled
secretions around a gripping deep clasp of a wide tooling phallic curve.
Hallucinate little giggle laughs in bubbles pop barking Cartoons and see
big face smile whisper, " Your balls slap my ass like Lily-Petals, the
purple charm of pollen flakes aching the crease."
So now we approach the age where we ask "does
anything matter?": a bridge and a cove where the impassable lives. We are
all so concerned.
Virtually everything in memory will be forgotten.
The tip of the nib titillates forward and forward, apocrypha teeth of newsprint
bulletins and a chorus of extra dribblings of loose murky lolligags and
human wastrels yawing for a beak of minced worms.
Fatty lamb-shank come blood and vaginal mint
and acids.
Dick cropped follicle viral spores adjunct to
mucal nose in the clavical sea and licheness whorled knoll of tissue conundrum.
Sea-dew of lore, pebbles of noise stacked filters
and then lights soft as star tears twinkling across the ocean.
Prick bound in the cloth of its' carrying case.
A nudge of overlays plying a shackling pressure.
I think of ruddy carrot nibs in a stew that stains
the walls of its' flask, a gas burst from a bubble and hiss of pissing
trickling over browned chunks of knots before the pure rice pudding rings
wave over the pulse of veins.
The smell of licking wormy clay fresh from the
cloven earth rises pushed upward from fast sharp pussy farts a dew that
tangs the crimp of every hair in my nostrils.
Ahoy ahead of a tweady mattress clasped around
a rhumba and undulating into the seams and grains of sheltering dark limbs
of beams enclosing the tossing cabin.
Fields of grey violet dusk and sweeping sleeping
rattlers corn, night dreams and stars silty beds of slate, and prisms of
longitutde arose. Wet memories joining a damp earthworm trail.
Hairless sweating beads of rabbits ecstatic perspiration:
love is possible in a war-planes' cries.
Apocrypha, arched to ache for birth, plethora
of nerves and transcendence, the aching is a beautiful parapult because
it is unplanned, it is so completely, and it suggests eveything to us all
in every language.
My dreams sing endless nightly prayers to the
ass-chanel of the goddess Androgyny. Life is this rocking-chair Seahorse
on the wind, sails swept like wings through Dove-come. Madeira stained
my waking dreams and I laid like that for days and by god I was born again
although the placenta fell out of my own asshole.
You are as sweet as Virgin-Come my darling .
. .