I stumbled out of crusty sheets
bleary eyed and yearning to excrete
the nightly amalgamation of lustrous
waste marshaled in my nethers, and
finding myself in a blinding, xerox
blaring bathroom of infinite potential
for diminution into insane forms of astral
projections I was only outwardly
alarmed to note my guardian angel
masturbating into a damp linen jar
of barley, oats, and the cloven hooves of
unwitting critters, at a fastidious rate
that ceased to be miasmically offal at a
minute’s passing but lingered in our
collective eye as a plaintive pilgrim bent
crookedly and lugubriously loving over
a massing of branches in the form of
a traveler’s burden cross, with florid
cheeks and heated eyes
he met my gaze as a friend of old, quick
to ruminate on the festivities of yesteryear
with a coy, childish grin wrinkling goat’s
pupils while he rummaged pale, entangled
tumescent fingers through gnat-inveigled bristles
and pleasured each entombed, lustful yearning
underscored by incipiently orgasmic bleatings
and the rabid drippings of feral pleasure
bypassing Dostoevsky’s morality, shirking
Hawthorne’s anti-romantic naturalism, and eschewing
the entire concept of completely forgoing, as rejection
fuels principles founded in faith alone, and thus
beliefs bred of stark idiocy, the satyr moaned
shapely notes that megalomaniacally twittered around
his fecal crown and pregnant with spring’s first
light, unleashed a torrent of virility
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
The rhapsody of the melodious, paralyzingly lonely dingle-berry beetle
The crunching correlative efforts of the twin
sales reps descends upon my cranium with the force
of a horny harpy busting out sickeningly personal
poems scribed in the dim buzz of sepia culture and
spewed in the nearness of an audience equally appalled
and inspired, trying to take success as it comes but the
breadth of their muse’s ability to conspire lexical wonder
is completely dependent on time spend worshipping
and avoiding consonant delving into shoddy apartment
complexes filled to the door with parasitic babysitters
quitting meth and owning a dignified sense of self-deprecation
mixed with manic depression in a cocktail of 21st
century human conditioning, satan broods on the porch of a
dingy pier 1 imports and sulks while waiting for
his mom to finish shopping and combust the caravan to return
home, an ambiance of combined lashing and loving, where
the emotion’s turns and capriciousness are dictated by
rage filled sojourns into blind frustration and the venting
of tense muscles upon a child as the steam from a mishandled
coffee machine brews in silence until hissing acrimoniously
at its delayed release, the feeling of being a derivative of
cliches bent upon spinning out of control when the mass
opinion is that to truly gain control one must lose all, simultaneously
discrediting investors of chaos with critiques of anathema and
accursed silence borne between the shoulders of a thinning hair
maiden whose weeping trickles down her husband’s chest and plods
against toes unwilling to accept the blunt blood sacrifice of all
mothers, she catalogues spitting and her idealistic sense of
marriage in a journal stained with nail shards, crumpled eyelash
cinders and the beauteous liquid of lustful desire splayed on the
dog-eared corners of each page, hallucinations of a blustering
Tom Hanks urinating in our front yard calls for shotgun shell
depletion and a night-time sprint onto hardwood clanging
and intentions to implode a soul by sheer willpower, we
return to bed with sweating heads and shaking pupils rotten
to the apple’s core of demented conversation, I shake you violently
when you return to your book on freakonomics and
slap your cheeks with my words that mean nothing to all but
something to one, and the moon adds its input with a chilling
glare to marinate the presence of white-noise slouching from
under the bed and holding fireside chats in our hearts, where emotion
is seen but never heard, you reply with a cavity of caveats and no form of
expression but staring directly between my eyebrows with
a murderous gaze of non-action, virulently peaceful you
clench down with tea-stained teeth on a soul so enthralled
in thrashing that it ignores your pulse and overexerts, and even
upon looking down at your collapsed form with
eyes swimming disabled and a physique of
body over mental mutiny, I can’t help but feel that
familiar discharge of negativity that leaps
from my chest to each nerve, like a disease of the mind
I look down for a minute’s passing
and know that the cure has perished
sales reps descends upon my cranium with the force
of a horny harpy busting out sickeningly personal
poems scribed in the dim buzz of sepia culture and
spewed in the nearness of an audience equally appalled
and inspired, trying to take success as it comes but the
breadth of their muse’s ability to conspire lexical wonder
is completely dependent on time spend worshipping
and avoiding consonant delving into shoddy apartment
complexes filled to the door with parasitic babysitters
quitting meth and owning a dignified sense of self-deprecation
mixed with manic depression in a cocktail of 21st
century human conditioning, satan broods on the porch of a
dingy pier 1 imports and sulks while waiting for
his mom to finish shopping and combust the caravan to return
home, an ambiance of combined lashing and loving, where
the emotion’s turns and capriciousness are dictated by
rage filled sojourns into blind frustration and the venting
of tense muscles upon a child as the steam from a mishandled
coffee machine brews in silence until hissing acrimoniously
at its delayed release, the feeling of being a derivative of
cliches bent upon spinning out of control when the mass
opinion is that to truly gain control one must lose all, simultaneously
discrediting investors of chaos with critiques of anathema and
accursed silence borne between the shoulders of a thinning hair
maiden whose weeping trickles down her husband’s chest and plods
against toes unwilling to accept the blunt blood sacrifice of all
mothers, she catalogues spitting and her idealistic sense of
marriage in a journal stained with nail shards, crumpled eyelash
cinders and the beauteous liquid of lustful desire splayed on the
dog-eared corners of each page, hallucinations of a blustering
Tom Hanks urinating in our front yard calls for shotgun shell
depletion and a night-time sprint onto hardwood clanging
and intentions to implode a soul by sheer willpower, we
return to bed with sweating heads and shaking pupils rotten
to the apple’s core of demented conversation, I shake you violently
when you return to your book on freakonomics and
slap your cheeks with my words that mean nothing to all but
something to one, and the moon adds its input with a chilling
glare to marinate the presence of white-noise slouching from
under the bed and holding fireside chats in our hearts, where emotion
is seen but never heard, you reply with a cavity of caveats and no form of
expression but staring directly between my eyebrows with
a murderous gaze of non-action, virulently peaceful you
clench down with tea-stained teeth on a soul so enthralled
in thrashing that it ignores your pulse and overexerts, and even
upon looking down at your collapsed form with
eyes swimming disabled and a physique of
body over mental mutiny, I can’t help but feel that
familiar discharge of negativity that leaps
from my chest to each nerve, like a disease of the mind
I look down for a minute’s passing
and know that the cure has perished
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Ozarka
We are all the sacrificial lambs of a value system that offers preferential treatment based on arbitrary concerns. Snapshots of individual crimes splay out across our collective unconscious with authority figures pining for both the dividends born of our efforts and exponentially potent methods of expelling the will to struggle. On the last train ride to KC, bourbon streaks whittle bamboo chutes into absolute potentialities that vivisect our brains into minimalist paintings to be sold at pro-capitalist exhibitions.
Thom Yorke’s blissful reverie inducts statements of lotus flowers in NHS regalia plummeting under the stage in simulacrum polaroids of the ascent along the stairway to heaven. Greatness exudes from the very pores of Alexandrite worshippers as they shed the previous necessity of summer-time attrition and fully pledge to begin the journey across vistas of prepositional positioning and verbal dereliction.
“I raised a fist to amulets and overjoyed expositions on the concrete nature of humility,” says the cherubim with a crooked eye and a taste for wines fermented between the nether regions of Grecian frescoes. I want to follow death and all his friends into fields of homicidal wisps charging a buck fifty for a stint of arsenic to the carotid.
Suspiciously peering from the codex of film-tapes kept in sanctimoniously arranged catalogues, I foot the bill of arrogance by experiencing ego-death above hoards of movie-goers yearning for a twist of metaphysical pedigree and a puree of spiritual reactions at the result of a singed face barking orders from the direct midpoint of the black void.
Knowing what is wrong steps in the false direction of claiming to know that which is correct for the phylum cordata to impose upon itself. How can I express what’s sucked out from my being with the force of an overzealous frat-man-boy exhuming his dinner in a grotesque amalgamation of toxins and sweetened flavoring through the by-ways of collegiate plumbing?
Rosiness etches indelibly on the cheeks of surly youths playing grab-ass while dangling from hormonal hooks of chemical dependence. Sacrificial statements blunder from unwise lips as troops translate footsteps from the brim of a doll’s house and shatter glassware over Ibsen’s bloated skull.
Krogstad and Torvald shimmy assiduously post-listening to Like A Rolling Stone and wondering the meaning of its ins and outs, nearly short-circuiting from the effort. This is all really pointless.
Thom Yorke’s blissful reverie inducts statements of lotus flowers in NHS regalia plummeting under the stage in simulacrum polaroids of the ascent along the stairway to heaven. Greatness exudes from the very pores of Alexandrite worshippers as they shed the previous necessity of summer-time attrition and fully pledge to begin the journey across vistas of prepositional positioning and verbal dereliction.
“I raised a fist to amulets and overjoyed expositions on the concrete nature of humility,” says the cherubim with a crooked eye and a taste for wines fermented between the nether regions of Grecian frescoes. I want to follow death and all his friends into fields of homicidal wisps charging a buck fifty for a stint of arsenic to the carotid.
Suspiciously peering from the codex of film-tapes kept in sanctimoniously arranged catalogues, I foot the bill of arrogance by experiencing ego-death above hoards of movie-goers yearning for a twist of metaphysical pedigree and a puree of spiritual reactions at the result of a singed face barking orders from the direct midpoint of the black void.
Knowing what is wrong steps in the false direction of claiming to know that which is correct for the phylum cordata to impose upon itself. How can I express what’s sucked out from my being with the force of an overzealous frat-man-boy exhuming his dinner in a grotesque amalgamation of toxins and sweetened flavoring through the by-ways of collegiate plumbing?
Rosiness etches indelibly on the cheeks of surly youths playing grab-ass while dangling from hormonal hooks of chemical dependence. Sacrificial statements blunder from unwise lips as troops translate footsteps from the brim of a doll’s house and shatter glassware over Ibsen’s bloated skull.
Krogstad and Torvald shimmy assiduously post-listening to Like A Rolling Stone and wondering the meaning of its ins and outs, nearly short-circuiting from the effort. This is all really pointless.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Rhyme admonishment
As Sokoloff sleepily requests wine-soaked reminiscences from the aperture of valentine freedom, I beg bags of delectable nuggets fashioned in the shape of the lord to be handed down from the peaks of time-lapse crumbling mountain tops. A songstress crooning endlessly weeps for the loss of cords and chords, ceremoniously placing a crown of crystal, chimeric thorns atop her axis of “ay, there’s the rub.”
I twist off the cap of ironic statements in the snack food aisle of CVS and mumble odes to herbal joys under my breath as the workers gather around in parallel circuits to determine if I present a consumer threat or if I’m just another loon that forgot the way to Walmart and stumbled in for a sack of expired thin-mints gratis.
Decembrist’s chill ascends back into the heavenly maxim of pro patria booty-slap, I’m left with the dust of a January hail and the hope of a March basking in unrequited glistening. Saliva-caked wrapping entombs my mental membrane in a casket of ash-brushed blunts and puffs of ether lazily descending onto a sheet-rock frame of personality dysfunction.
Bilal’s sojourn into psychosis serves as a reversely polarized moral and aesop fable, inducing curious minds to venture into the unknown in pursuit of spontaneity, clinging to the notion of self before all and bared enamel chipped away by minute long sessions of intense power-tool insertion into open segments of my oval remnants.
The shadow of my soul weighs 22 grams and darts its head from side to side in a mimicked pantomime of my anxiety attacks and a sharp impression of my inclination to aggrandize my expressions in my megalomaniacal desire to impart my largely falsified sense of depression, appearing as though I have a massive sanctum of depth in my chest when in all actuality I’m nearly stuffed abreast with scores on tests and the opposite of timorous views on death.
Handling a mismatched grouping of coupons while idly flicking through channel after channel of repeat re-runs of The West Wing, I begin to cast my lips to the heavens and sing the song that ends the world, like a fascist allegory to Christ’s trudge onto his promontory. While my eyes bleed into a tin full of half-churned buttermilk I take a swig from a series of yogurt cups swished with the Listerine gargling of soccer-moms passersby.
I haunt the waiting room with the tenacity of Jack Black’s struggling pinky ring and sneakily dart into the antechamber of the dental hygienist’s ulterior desires, chucking a stone at his previously dented skull and snatching his gilded bags of salivated excess phlegm to digest at my behest.
The only time I’ll accept requests or acknowledge inept intents by those who linger near the corners of my increasingly dusty eyes is if at that moment in time I can surmise why I rose from a womb, ascended to my knees, blinked the prophet’s truth and chained my spinal cord to a key-ring of publishing dreams while none of it seems to vindicate my spring onto neatly arched feet.
I twist off the cap of ironic statements in the snack food aisle of CVS and mumble odes to herbal joys under my breath as the workers gather around in parallel circuits to determine if I present a consumer threat or if I’m just another loon that forgot the way to Walmart and stumbled in for a sack of expired thin-mints gratis.
Decembrist’s chill ascends back into the heavenly maxim of pro patria booty-slap, I’m left with the dust of a January hail and the hope of a March basking in unrequited glistening. Saliva-caked wrapping entombs my mental membrane in a casket of ash-brushed blunts and puffs of ether lazily descending onto a sheet-rock frame of personality dysfunction.
Bilal’s sojourn into psychosis serves as a reversely polarized moral and aesop fable, inducing curious minds to venture into the unknown in pursuit of spontaneity, clinging to the notion of self before all and bared enamel chipped away by minute long sessions of intense power-tool insertion into open segments of my oval remnants.
The shadow of my soul weighs 22 grams and darts its head from side to side in a mimicked pantomime of my anxiety attacks and a sharp impression of my inclination to aggrandize my expressions in my megalomaniacal desire to impart my largely falsified sense of depression, appearing as though I have a massive sanctum of depth in my chest when in all actuality I’m nearly stuffed abreast with scores on tests and the opposite of timorous views on death.
Handling a mismatched grouping of coupons while idly flicking through channel after channel of repeat re-runs of The West Wing, I begin to cast my lips to the heavens and sing the song that ends the world, like a fascist allegory to Christ’s trudge onto his promontory. While my eyes bleed into a tin full of half-churned buttermilk I take a swig from a series of yogurt cups swished with the Listerine gargling of soccer-moms passersby.
I haunt the waiting room with the tenacity of Jack Black’s struggling pinky ring and sneakily dart into the antechamber of the dental hygienist’s ulterior desires, chucking a stone at his previously dented skull and snatching his gilded bags of salivated excess phlegm to digest at my behest.
The only time I’ll accept requests or acknowledge inept intents by those who linger near the corners of my increasingly dusty eyes is if at that moment in time I can surmise why I rose from a womb, ascended to my knees, blinked the prophet’s truth and chained my spinal cord to a key-ring of publishing dreams while none of it seems to vindicate my spring onto neatly arched feet.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Jack nug
The Nuts magazine roosts in my cabinet chambers like a boisterous hen kept silent by shame. Looking up from my office I point my head in the direction of that reviled altar’s contents and belch madly into the crease of my arm, nearly begging for absolution from a savior I’ve taken years of soulful mediation with my inner-demons to vanquish. Ensconced tri-petal roses with bloated stems twist and jerk through the air to flutter endlessly at my eye-level, admonished from judgement by a twitch of my left eye perceived as a youthful wink. And the sun’s gone dim from lack of use.
I shuttle a smudged screen between the palms of my hands and susurrate trifle, celtic whistling tunes with a twee smirk trickling from under a fountainhead of perpetually fraudulent frowns. The mountaintop gives me a look of bliss before it passes into eternal rest and shirks dividends of ore into my savings account; god bless. Twinkling before the crystallization of my automobile's exoskeleton I hold the hose of hopeful condensation as the scepter of a babbling king with addled brains and a heart for entreaties of necessitated bloodshed. There can be nothing but the fiefdom bond of elders to youth and the madness that dilates pupils in the night as I cower in the cobweb corner with pulsation in hand and florid cheeks of nauseatingly potent enigma.
Here’s to wishing the allegories of truth within musky volumes of entombed tragedy will make themselves clear as a chintz mattress for the deceased. A singularity of paroxysms gesticulating from the innate insanity flooding the oak skulls of tearful puppets shrieking. Let’s stop drop and roll into blistering fields and acres of burr-stained grass to gain freckles for the ends of our aging noses and to (by chance) make amends to that Molochian inching towards sanctity that we’ve been ignoring for eons of teenage years.
Visions of Nixonite anathemas spew from my pineal gland as the reaches of night swath over my bed and cradle my stunted sense of development with a tattered breast. Phenomenon-somnolence jabs at the back of my skull with an iron-knuckle, beheading my ego as a spoon incises scoops of vanilla phantasmagoria. Lingering ochre bursts of sulfurous mutiny are dashed on the plateau of destiny maiming security. We lounge together on the grape-leaf couch in a black lotus stupor and call out for servitude, only to receive recessive replies from motes of rebellious dust.
Sun grows dim as this very earth speculates its existence in a grouping of clusters and cosmic consonances. I sit up in an amalgamation of laundered sheets avoiding sleep and pondering the futility of apathy and the usefulness of generality, too vacuous to reach satisfaction but too narrow in my efforts to achieve finality.
It’s like an adage to tearful androids bellowing metaphysical poetry into stark expanses of cordless myopia, “The sky was blue,” they shriek in perfectly pitched tonalities, “The daybreak of aphasia and anhedonia draws a blurred version of a dualistic existence,” they dial into morse-codexes containing subterranean messages clicked across wire-transfers directly into the pseudo-biological chemical transiences that compose their craniums.
We lose what it means to be children in adulthood, and we lose what it means to be humans as we shed flesh for slick chromium and drain blood funneling into sickeningly large, looming factories that excrete rivers of oil to be lapped up by homicidal workmen.
Country folk dawdle with useless spectacles dripping from their noses like forgotten sticks of butter on scorching pavement. Hipsters spread their lips in screams of consummation, desiring vittles and prattling nonsense to pool at their feet to advance the effort of slip-n-sliding into Nirvana. Woozy, I wonder if they’ll ascribe significance to the fact that every minute or so I squirm with uncontrollable pelvic thrusting and genital genuflection.
What’s bad if nothing can be good and axioms are abandoned like torn-up contraceptives? I am number 420, ribcage filling up with a delicately brewed mixture of vapor and wary air, pummeling my hippocampus with memories that either never occurred or only fashioned themselves in materialistic dreamscapes.
I shuttle a smudged screen between the palms of my hands and susurrate trifle, celtic whistling tunes with a twee smirk trickling from under a fountainhead of perpetually fraudulent frowns. The mountaintop gives me a look of bliss before it passes into eternal rest and shirks dividends of ore into my savings account; god bless. Twinkling before the crystallization of my automobile's exoskeleton I hold the hose of hopeful condensation as the scepter of a babbling king with addled brains and a heart for entreaties of necessitated bloodshed. There can be nothing but the fiefdom bond of elders to youth and the madness that dilates pupils in the night as I cower in the cobweb corner with pulsation in hand and florid cheeks of nauseatingly potent enigma.
Here’s to wishing the allegories of truth within musky volumes of entombed tragedy will make themselves clear as a chintz mattress for the deceased. A singularity of paroxysms gesticulating from the innate insanity flooding the oak skulls of tearful puppets shrieking. Let’s stop drop and roll into blistering fields and acres of burr-stained grass to gain freckles for the ends of our aging noses and to (by chance) make amends to that Molochian inching towards sanctity that we’ve been ignoring for eons of teenage years.
Visions of Nixonite anathemas spew from my pineal gland as the reaches of night swath over my bed and cradle my stunted sense of development with a tattered breast. Phenomenon-somnolence jabs at the back of my skull with an iron-knuckle, beheading my ego as a spoon incises scoops of vanilla phantasmagoria. Lingering ochre bursts of sulfurous mutiny are dashed on the plateau of destiny maiming security. We lounge together on the grape-leaf couch in a black lotus stupor and call out for servitude, only to receive recessive replies from motes of rebellious dust.
Sun grows dim as this very earth speculates its existence in a grouping of clusters and cosmic consonances. I sit up in an amalgamation of laundered sheets avoiding sleep and pondering the futility of apathy and the usefulness of generality, too vacuous to reach satisfaction but too narrow in my efforts to achieve finality.
It’s like an adage to tearful androids bellowing metaphysical poetry into stark expanses of cordless myopia, “The sky was blue,” they shriek in perfectly pitched tonalities, “The daybreak of aphasia and anhedonia draws a blurred version of a dualistic existence,” they dial into morse-codexes containing subterranean messages clicked across wire-transfers directly into the pseudo-biological chemical transiences that compose their craniums.
We lose what it means to be children in adulthood, and we lose what it means to be humans as we shed flesh for slick chromium and drain blood funneling into sickeningly large, looming factories that excrete rivers of oil to be lapped up by homicidal workmen.
Country folk dawdle with useless spectacles dripping from their noses like forgotten sticks of butter on scorching pavement. Hipsters spread their lips in screams of consummation, desiring vittles and prattling nonsense to pool at their feet to advance the effort of slip-n-sliding into Nirvana. Woozy, I wonder if they’ll ascribe significance to the fact that every minute or so I squirm with uncontrollable pelvic thrusting and genital genuflection.
What’s bad if nothing can be good and axioms are abandoned like torn-up contraceptives? I am number 420, ribcage filling up with a delicately brewed mixture of vapor and wary air, pummeling my hippocampus with memories that either never occurred or only fashioned themselves in materialistic dreamscapes.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Mediocrity at a fee (meaning you pay me and I verbally excrete)
They say justice is blind but we find
Justice resides in humans with eyes
and humans who deign rights by the spreading of thighs
And administer lies at the whim of sodium oxide
bled into the hair of african americans whose only dream
is to turn straight from crinkly and get that anglo sheen
Broken down by years of being told what beautiful means
I’d take natural brown curls over a 21st century mammy
grinning under skin with self-loathing within
and chins smacked down by blue-eyed sin
misconceptions bred of which side of the street
and which end of the creek you find yourself seeking
Blinking from under ratty hoods and infant tees
as we squeeze the last bits of soul from each pore
of the street and crawl into man-made caverns of black weed
delve into the intimacy of what’s in me and how I can increase
my pleasure from you, who could I do to put a stopper in the cavity
of my brain, how can I abstain from judging those around me, expound
heat, surround these endless trails of indebted veins as they struggle
to wince themselves free of encumbering arteries, and I’m sorry ms. jackson
I didn’t mean to take a blunt shovel to the back of your son’s head
didn’t mean to make him dead, but necessity pushed me in the hunt for bread
cheddar, and the meaning of why we push for strife as death’s midwifes, little
acolyte hoods cover hair shocked white by what we see on a daily basis
Mom and dad labelled me racist, but really I’m just a misguided escapist
See the vape hits? Bong celery, crunch through without a worry of calories
Of what builds up as psychotic pseudotherapy, and grains of green
blind my mind and external eyes with the force of a drug-tainted shine
that reminds those who partake that under each diamond chunk is a snake
Not waiting to strike, waiting to see, how you’ll react to the realization that life
is an inverted tree, retroactive roots radiate into my mentality and fray my
physicality, society’s banality and tendency to be mapped by statisticians
is just another premonition that no matter how hard we beg for admonition
and reprieve from recidivism, there’ll always be a grimy hand shelling
slanderous pamphlets on prophetic nonsense, but nonsense is sense
as per Dostoevsky, I’ve hit the allusion limit so let’s see
Ignorance is bliss, and bliss is constant
and the only thing left in society’s depth
are ads for cleft palettes and a mountain of v-necks
Justice resides in humans with eyes
and humans who deign rights by the spreading of thighs
And administer lies at the whim of sodium oxide
bled into the hair of african americans whose only dream
is to turn straight from crinkly and get that anglo sheen
Broken down by years of being told what beautiful means
I’d take natural brown curls over a 21st century mammy
grinning under skin with self-loathing within
and chins smacked down by blue-eyed sin
misconceptions bred of which side of the street
and which end of the creek you find yourself seeking
Blinking from under ratty hoods and infant tees
as we squeeze the last bits of soul from each pore
of the street and crawl into man-made caverns of black weed
delve into the intimacy of what’s in me and how I can increase
my pleasure from you, who could I do to put a stopper in the cavity
of my brain, how can I abstain from judging those around me, expound
heat, surround these endless trails of indebted veins as they struggle
to wince themselves free of encumbering arteries, and I’m sorry ms. jackson
I didn’t mean to take a blunt shovel to the back of your son’s head
didn’t mean to make him dead, but necessity pushed me in the hunt for bread
cheddar, and the meaning of why we push for strife as death’s midwifes, little
acolyte hoods cover hair shocked white by what we see on a daily basis
Mom and dad labelled me racist, but really I’m just a misguided escapist
See the vape hits? Bong celery, crunch through without a worry of calories
Of what builds up as psychotic pseudotherapy, and grains of green
blind my mind and external eyes with the force of a drug-tainted shine
that reminds those who partake that under each diamond chunk is a snake
Not waiting to strike, waiting to see, how you’ll react to the realization that life
is an inverted tree, retroactive roots radiate into my mentality and fray my
physicality, society’s banality and tendency to be mapped by statisticians
is just another premonition that no matter how hard we beg for admonition
and reprieve from recidivism, there’ll always be a grimy hand shelling
slanderous pamphlets on prophetic nonsense, but nonsense is sense
as per Dostoevsky, I’ve hit the allusion limit so let’s see
Ignorance is bliss, and bliss is constant
and the only thing left in society’s depth
are ads for cleft palettes and a mountain of v-necks
Sunday, February 6, 2011
sectah zee
Where we cascade across consonant piano notes drifting
sleepily towards some sense of center and mingled self
and nimbus puffs of soothing balm flow onto once tear-filled
eyes like norse lotion, and beds sprout wings to soar
across eagled-mountain tops that carry us to a distant
plain of drift-wood tumbleweed scholarship, and the perpetual
thumbing of the notes hints at a delicate secret being plodded
forth by crow-foot eyed elders chuckling with mirth above hallowed
grounds with our spirits clinging to their backs and ensconced
in their bushy beards, accordion breaths subtly kissing our brows
with wound-up tunes of zimmer bliss, falling into the arms
of our mother with miles of weaving hair that trickles into the
river of rebirth, splash above for wont of air with blinking eyes
new visions of a rejuvenated earth, and bison bellow
calls across the rosy horizon to the spirits embedded in the ground
by centurion worshippers, I saw those men and wept in joy
and my heart weeps now too in Sector Z, with an endless flow
of coffee bleeding into my brain and allowing me to expound
the theory of molding into a dream of the ocean of time following
a quick ego-death, and a conversation of particulars among two
that share certain passions, starting to shutter eyelids into
an endless sleep of life
sleepily towards some sense of center and mingled self
and nimbus puffs of soothing balm flow onto once tear-filled
eyes like norse lotion, and beds sprout wings to soar
across eagled-mountain tops that carry us to a distant
plain of drift-wood tumbleweed scholarship, and the perpetual
thumbing of the notes hints at a delicate secret being plodded
forth by crow-foot eyed elders chuckling with mirth above hallowed
grounds with our spirits clinging to their backs and ensconced
in their bushy beards, accordion breaths subtly kissing our brows
with wound-up tunes of zimmer bliss, falling into the arms
of our mother with miles of weaving hair that trickles into the
river of rebirth, splash above for wont of air with blinking eyes
new visions of a rejuvenated earth, and bison bellow
calls across the rosy horizon to the spirits embedded in the ground
by centurion worshippers, I saw those men and wept in joy
and my heart weeps now too in Sector Z, with an endless flow
of coffee bleeding into my brain and allowing me to expound
the theory of molding into a dream of the ocean of time following
a quick ego-death, and a conversation of particulars among two
that share certain passions, starting to shutter eyelids into
an endless sleep of life
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Checkerboard chastity
Magenta shards of daylight squeak by the partition
in my window and silently crawl towards the pores
of my face and enter without a trace of inhibition, closing
the door behind them and dwelling in my cheeks, brewing
a miniscule fervid passion for all things vitamin-C and streaks of
yellow blowing through lashes and tweaks of polaroid film
denoting shaded black tights and wrinkly eyes laughing between
serene moments of infinite, child-like bliss, crinkled smiles
curvy and near-bellowing with the hoots of a game played
between friends of lovers and loving platoons of crooked fingers
placing cloth on top of winking bangs and blessing Moloch
with the curling lips pecked at rosy cheeks and giggling madly
for the procession of possessive benefactors whose
feet dangle near the parading infants and discuss work
and toil, unknowingly stepping near the bliss they hoped
to regain with spritz and gobs of lotion nearly burned into
crackling flesh, we chuckle as their varicose pains simmer
on grills of denouement, and we bask in felicity under the
separation of youth and adult, bathing in pools of sweetened
wine and mulled dreams that haven’t yet bordered on the caustic
and still remind us of chasing balls onto asphalt and scraping
knees in a fall, with physical pain but the joy of a memory
I see her tangled hair again and again when I wake from the musky
sun and breathe in air that tickles my lungs with hope and destiny
I see all her essence divided among parcels of household supplies
and the corners of her smile spreading out against a joke or a song
I whisper into shivering ears that nearly burst with giggling
and the sententious factors deign that negro threads of dawn that
spread from the base of her waist to her toes are improper but she
flaunts them with the curious turn of phrase that reveals inhibition but
shows the stalwart courage of the not-yet-brazenly humble in beauty
Pulses quicken as the rays continue beating against a rumpled pillow
and as I linger in bed for more thoughts of entangling in her soul
All the more I need it
in my window and silently crawl towards the pores
of my face and enter without a trace of inhibition, closing
the door behind them and dwelling in my cheeks, brewing
a miniscule fervid passion for all things vitamin-C and streaks of
yellow blowing through lashes and tweaks of polaroid film
denoting shaded black tights and wrinkly eyes laughing between
serene moments of infinite, child-like bliss, crinkled smiles
curvy and near-bellowing with the hoots of a game played
between friends of lovers and loving platoons of crooked fingers
placing cloth on top of winking bangs and blessing Moloch
with the curling lips pecked at rosy cheeks and giggling madly
for the procession of possessive benefactors whose
feet dangle near the parading infants and discuss work
and toil, unknowingly stepping near the bliss they hoped
to regain with spritz and gobs of lotion nearly burned into
crackling flesh, we chuckle as their varicose pains simmer
on grills of denouement, and we bask in felicity under the
separation of youth and adult, bathing in pools of sweetened
wine and mulled dreams that haven’t yet bordered on the caustic
and still remind us of chasing balls onto asphalt and scraping
knees in a fall, with physical pain but the joy of a memory
I see her tangled hair again and again when I wake from the musky
sun and breathe in air that tickles my lungs with hope and destiny
I see all her essence divided among parcels of household supplies
and the corners of her smile spreading out against a joke or a song
I whisper into shivering ears that nearly burst with giggling
and the sententious factors deign that negro threads of dawn that
spread from the base of her waist to her toes are improper but she
flaunts them with the curious turn of phrase that reveals inhibition but
shows the stalwart courage of the not-yet-brazenly humble in beauty
Pulses quicken as the rays continue beating against a rumpled pillow
and as I linger in bed for more thoughts of entangling in her soul
All the more I need it
Friday, February 4, 2011
At least, before the snow melts.
There was a hint of victim-less tragedy in the parched air as Samuel Prig huddled near a sallow window-sill and drank his liver to tatters. Victim-less not in the sense that a vulnerable piece of nine year old flesh was being violated three doors over under a splintered UV light by the gooseflesh hands of a used-car salesman, but more in the sense that Prig wouldn’t mind either way. It was blunt tragedy, advertised by seraphim from the swill of drained bottles.
Still, the fractured bits of saxophone maritime bliss that fluctuated from the undertones of a negro-packed joint across the way blustered in the poor Irishman’s pub each time the door opened and another hopeless bit of trash staggered in with heaps on each shoulder and a chunk of regret to drown. Luckily it was a nickel to an ale and a dime to the liquor, keeping the flow of grizzle-patched soldiers of misfortune frequent. Prig noticed nothing in the first few months, tired of fretting over profit returns, revenue functions, and delineation curves that swerved through his brain and rattled his dreams with the fervor of a torched crucifix waking up a parishioner.
His eyes grumbled in the form of the twin dioceses leading the procession of broken-hearted infant men that trooped in with cavalry sized hungers for self-effacement and a blinding urge to sink into the nearest nook and dissolve. Frayed knuckles bled into yellowing nails that flowed into an outcrop of distilled froth bubbling into stomachs. Smoke blistered in fractal trails across dart-board intimations and struck his corneas with the force of the twin speaks shattering.
An excuse for flattery earned him a hard-wood flooring kit and weeks of unchecked passion for rolled-sleeves and mid-afternoon beer breaks. The bathroom’s stalls sometimes overrode the water supply and chucked heaps of man-spirit and gin excess in dregs to be mopped by calloused hands. It was a maxim of his forefathers to forgo drink at work but his work was drink and he lavished in a hard day’s night.
The occasional winking from a flowery persona directly across the cobble-dirt street earned a month’s worth of filthy strokes in his creaking bed just up the stairs, that inhaled the scent of the amassed sense of regret that spewed from each patron like a repackaging of cognitive desiccation.
Barely woken by the devil’s mix of brandy and bilked coffee that rested under his brimmed nostrils and vaporized with the speed of quicksilver, he sleepily dreamed mirrors were shattering just outside the veranda of an ethnic pavilion under the breaking of a rosy dawn. A final splintering of glass shard marshaled itself into the area between his eyes just as he coughed back into reality and noticed the shapely damsel hustling in the entrance like a penny that knew its shine.
Stepping on each spot of cleaned vomit with the grace of a forsaken olympian, the buxom, shaded woman appeared near the dusty counter as smoothly as if she were drawn in for the very purpose of enhancing the altitude of pant-suits.
Her eyes were the color of sapphire jewels stolen under a pale, xerox light, and they beckoned his attention with a mere flitting of lashes. More character was etched into each swiveling of carved wrinkles around her mouth than could be mustered from the entirety of seamed peanut shells that crusted the perimeter of the stool-seating.
“And you, I suppose, are Prig,” she exhaled, with the sensitivity of speech that accompanies any lady of poise.
Interpreting when was a comfortable time to begin speaking was a moot point for Samuel, as he stumbled through thoughts in the way of a tender whose only interaction with women has been mawkishly holding hair back and trying to catch scents of rose-petal perfume in between wafts of vinaigrette vomit puree.
“I..I don’t believe I know you madame, or missus, whichever you prefer, if you don’t mind me choosing,” he sloppily blustered from the center of wildly trembling lips, eyes darting from each slope of her body to the strikingly white dress draped lightly on top of her sun-kissed skin.
Their diametric approaches to conversation would have been comical if Prig hadn’t been shuddering under the azure gaze of that now-florid woman, blushing with the knowledge that she’d hurdled another man’s speech. She still wasn’t quite used to the sensation, which Samuel noticed, giving credence to the idea that she hadn’t always appeared as a stunning temptress in white skulking through whisperingly ladled lower-Village pubs in the stark breach of the near-corrosive sun.
Still, the fractured bits of saxophone maritime bliss that fluctuated from the undertones of a negro-packed joint across the way blustered in the poor Irishman’s pub each time the door opened and another hopeless bit of trash staggered in with heaps on each shoulder and a chunk of regret to drown. Luckily it was a nickel to an ale and a dime to the liquor, keeping the flow of grizzle-patched soldiers of misfortune frequent. Prig noticed nothing in the first few months, tired of fretting over profit returns, revenue functions, and delineation curves that swerved through his brain and rattled his dreams with the fervor of a torched crucifix waking up a parishioner.
His eyes grumbled in the form of the twin dioceses leading the procession of broken-hearted infant men that trooped in with cavalry sized hungers for self-effacement and a blinding urge to sink into the nearest nook and dissolve. Frayed knuckles bled into yellowing nails that flowed into an outcrop of distilled froth bubbling into stomachs. Smoke blistered in fractal trails across dart-board intimations and struck his corneas with the force of the twin speaks shattering.
An excuse for flattery earned him a hard-wood flooring kit and weeks of unchecked passion for rolled-sleeves and mid-afternoon beer breaks. The bathroom’s stalls sometimes overrode the water supply and chucked heaps of man-spirit and gin excess in dregs to be mopped by calloused hands. It was a maxim of his forefathers to forgo drink at work but his work was drink and he lavished in a hard day’s night.
The occasional winking from a flowery persona directly across the cobble-dirt street earned a month’s worth of filthy strokes in his creaking bed just up the stairs, that inhaled the scent of the amassed sense of regret that spewed from each patron like a repackaging of cognitive desiccation.
Barely woken by the devil’s mix of brandy and bilked coffee that rested under his brimmed nostrils and vaporized with the speed of quicksilver, he sleepily dreamed mirrors were shattering just outside the veranda of an ethnic pavilion under the breaking of a rosy dawn. A final splintering of glass shard marshaled itself into the area between his eyes just as he coughed back into reality and noticed the shapely damsel hustling in the entrance like a penny that knew its shine.
Stepping on each spot of cleaned vomit with the grace of a forsaken olympian, the buxom, shaded woman appeared near the dusty counter as smoothly as if she were drawn in for the very purpose of enhancing the altitude of pant-suits.
Her eyes were the color of sapphire jewels stolen under a pale, xerox light, and they beckoned his attention with a mere flitting of lashes. More character was etched into each swiveling of carved wrinkles around her mouth than could be mustered from the entirety of seamed peanut shells that crusted the perimeter of the stool-seating.
“And you, I suppose, are Prig,” she exhaled, with the sensitivity of speech that accompanies any lady of poise.
Interpreting when was a comfortable time to begin speaking was a moot point for Samuel, as he stumbled through thoughts in the way of a tender whose only interaction with women has been mawkishly holding hair back and trying to catch scents of rose-petal perfume in between wafts of vinaigrette vomit puree.
“I..I don’t believe I know you madame, or missus, whichever you prefer, if you don’t mind me choosing,” he sloppily blustered from the center of wildly trembling lips, eyes darting from each slope of her body to the strikingly white dress draped lightly on top of her sun-kissed skin.
Their diametric approaches to conversation would have been comical if Prig hadn’t been shuddering under the azure gaze of that now-florid woman, blushing with the knowledge that she’d hurdled another man’s speech. She still wasn’t quite used to the sensation, which Samuel noticed, giving credence to the idea that she hadn’t always appeared as a stunning temptress in white skulking through whisperingly ladled lower-Village pubs in the stark breach of the near-corrosive sun.
Nights of snow are eerily bright
I’m sitting around during this series of snow-days watching a NOVA documentary where those being interviewed keep referring to a set of fossils as the “hobbit” off-shoot of the human species and it brings to mind questions, like why do they keep doing that when they know Lord of the Rings is more entertaining than NOVA and I’d much rather watch or read that, and why does this person not realize the message I’m trying to send anytime I talk to them, and if they even have a semblance of understanding of the passion that I feel or how enamored I am or how clammy my hands get when I think about just the most miniscule details of their existence, baited breath and all, and how it’s exhausting and demanding to maintain this school-girl phenomenon with zero response and zero feedback and zero reasons to keep plunging forward.
Confused about why I’m most often the clean-up crew after an oil-spill that leaves each affected animal infatuated with their captor. Kind of leaning towards signing up with Frost Bank at the moment because their commercials say they provide each client with the same amount of respect and dignity and I’m not used to that and I think it might be a pleasant experience even if it’s from a bank, I’m sorry Chase bank, but text messages about my balance or lack thereof is not enough sometimes.
Done writing this for no one right now, kind of an effortless effort to remind myself that sometimes effort and ambition are tantamount to a heap of horse-vomit, if they do, because I think it’s agreeable that of all animals, a horse vomiting would be the most uncomfortable to watch.
Confused about why I’m most often the clean-up crew after an oil-spill that leaves each affected animal infatuated with their captor. Kind of leaning towards signing up with Frost Bank at the moment because their commercials say they provide each client with the same amount of respect and dignity and I’m not used to that and I think it might be a pleasant experience even if it’s from a bank, I’m sorry Chase bank, but text messages about my balance or lack thereof is not enough sometimes.
Done writing this for no one right now, kind of an effortless effort to remind myself that sometimes effort and ambition are tantamount to a heap of horse-vomit, if they do, because I think it’s agreeable that of all animals, a horse vomiting would be the most uncomfortable to watch.
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