Vi Lo
your body is pure divinity.
buttresses stately and hidden,
ribbed ceilings magnetic and holding,
pointed arches lend elegance to your statuesque theme
lines are your soul and here i can trace them to heaven
a secular being sometimes finds themselves in your stained mosaics
pilars have become your outlines
to hold the delicate stained glass.
prayers are here
and I am transfixed by your
transcendental symbolism.
light shines through your windows and I myself
am drowning in this
gothic beauty.
i could die
a million deaths on the ladder
fall off it's runes 30 times
many sunsets come and watch
and shameless is the sweat
that falls down my neck
if i say hello to forever
i shall grow tiresome quick
and this is for you
princess aurora
when your day has come
i will help you back on your feet
after a hundred years rest
and our soles will touch the blackened soot
of hell
the demon is waiting for us here
i shall like to say hi to
the red right now
may dreams come true
.
Pinocchio has told this tale a thousands times
oh what a feeling
he says as he marches to the wonders of Pleasure Island
where whores and games are galore
begging distraction he couldn't seek
.
lilies took her far into the woods
her dress brushing amongst them,
as she sang a swan song,
a prayer of her last will
to find an empty grave worth sleeping in
.
then appeared, on charred faces and knees
five hundred mothers, sisters and sons
carrying a man of burdened soul on their shoulders
in the scented night
screaming. thank god i'm alive
thank god i'm alive
one is too little, two may be perfect, three is too much.
four is hard to keep track, five my head is spinning.
six i wish i never had that much to drink, seven i watch the clock ticking.
eight, is that a tape recorder? nine, i wish you were here with me.
ten, it's too late, too late i guess.
it's so beautiful
bullshit.
it's a heartless bitch that luminates the dark sky as dreamers lie to themselves
romanticizing and influencing young everywhere to love dream and hope alike, when it stalks upon the sun.
despite all this,
the red on your white pants
makes humiliation sound a lot better than the repulsion of a custodian finding a used maxi pad, soaked in red
clogging up the toilet.
dear.
it's a floozy that flaunts upon it's charms
while lingers in the blue sky staring up at the sun.
the red in the sun,
burns eyes so that the neurons in the optic nerve
die and somehow gives you a miraculous squint
but it's far more better than the repulsion of the custodian finding "lady" napkins clogging the toilet hole.
dear.
someone's always got to be a custodian don't they?
nobody says that enough
stands alone today and tells a story to clouds
(putt putt)
the worst has happened at the days end
and the frozen orange Gallon
like ice has chosen to now become hand
all in all more or less
3.78lbs put in plastic wrap.
stands alone in the dollar market surrounds with fleeting thoughts sometimes forgotten
today at days end lost while
bloody sun at times lost in goddamn fucking snake movie
pouring into the retina of the brainless child
o mi babbino mi caro, past is the skating rink of hell but
knock yourselves out in deep perpetual insanity of whats, hows and neverminds.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosallycan be adisappointmentsometimesbutwestillloveherbecausesheis just whatwe callfamilyandfamilyissoimportanttoidentifyoneselfinaworldofchaoscalledearthoooooooooooooooooooooooooo
computer glitch and error of the metaphysic naiveté of the skating rink of hell near the goddamn fucking snake movie in the story of the white trashed oppressively personified virgo at the dollar market holding a gallon of orange juice that costs more than $7.65 because it's apparently organic and thereby magical.
just a girl with an odd skin disease
should i cry should i laugh
opera houses and speckled faces with masks on
covering your face in a banal masquerade
while you're looking like an actor with an odd skin disease
perfect in your on ways with glitter on your face no one else sees
as a music box nearby sings a dreamless tune
opens up the case with dangling jewels for you to caress on your skin
the last rays of the sun touches upon you from the windowpanes,
allowing the radiance within shine for one last moment until night falls
and the dangerous erroticism of the sun finally releases as it nears the horizon
like the necessary evils of the full moon as it draws in the horrors of the night
a child you once were with less worries now beckons the dark in your jewels
glittering in the dark
stranded, alone and yet free
of the banal masquerade.
maybe they'll watch you maybe they won't,
in your parade towards the clouds.
she says that she's been scared a long time ago.
that pink dress only gets worn in special occasions, mary lou anne!
so lost here, in a crowd with my fingers crossed behind my back, talking to a wall of pictures
--what she means is she's a queen of Chopins, the queen of cum covered mountaintops--
the hair dresser shall pin your hair up later at four, dearie.
she says that he was a man a long time ago.
mother mother, is lost in Kuwait. father father, is troubled with apple turnovers.
if this isn't right, then nothing will ever feel right again.
madam, please stop fidgeting with your dress.
a kiss has been seared onto her breast,
making the tissues underneath
smooth and strong.
darling, you look beautiful.
but somehow she's been buried there, with her daughters, her sons, and 200 families.
in a sundress by the beachside.
she says the Ripper tore her fucking open a long time ago.
music boxes tells her otherwise
that in his arms there are no more pink tomorrows.
like gossip
only in a diary
a journal you never wanted to spend the time on
an expression of mindless thought
--a thought encapsulated with the dragons--
of something
only hypernormal
a noisy glare, discerned in knowing and not
phallic at times
unintentionally touching to those it wasn't meant for
between the humming quiet room
fluent
in words that may never quite be.
lately. o
o.
the feels of the world
weigh heavy o.
on shoulder-less giants
in the brainy child.
o.
lucky o.
that children
have no wisty
.o slits
of
orgasmic fields of green.
o.
traveling makes the young weak
and the old stronger
while dreams o.
can be kept by boxes in a gamblers
lawn.
o.
sometimes the naked wusses in your planted pots just want
them back
but only get o.
the siren chagrin.
o.o
.o
i think artists get depressed too, but no one should account for it seriously.
to make someone feel the way you want them to feel
is to trade in your soul for a pizza
without the mushrooms, sausages, pineapples, M&M's, pepperoni, cheese, tomato (it's pronounced toe-mato mind you) sauce, crust, dough and
leaving all but an empty
box on top of the garbage can.
too bad for the floating astronaut,
drunk on coconuts,
when he left in his tin can.
he's begun dancing on empty matter
with all the missing pizzas.
i guess their owners have been
fucked and dumped
in another swirling portal
a long time ago
when the light was flickering off on
that empty street at dark(au contraire, mon cheri!),
just threatening to die when you believed it was ageless?
the night will never be a color.
goodnight my loveless ingénue
I really want to make known to those who read this, keep in mind the color palette of each imagery provided and let it play through as if it were a montage of random images. I truly hope that it will reveal an important theme of this poem and allow, you, the reader, to comprehend each and every stylistic and symbolic touch.
silencio
green headless are on the counter
screaming their watch-less glare
they lie silent in their wrathful stare
at my wall-less lair
this was not supposed to be
the bilipid layered says
I cannot watch you out to die
the zeroes yell this time
coreless deficient famine
the clock ticks its time
i think my mom is at the dock of the sea harbor in Sublime
and don't their lobsters never die?
if that is cake then so be it
and then we will make you mine.
chant with me,
hey no more negativity,
we'll go out and find a dime
it was till then I saw the sleaze
at the rear end of the bus
who told me... no more... no less
was what the bus was fee-d
a journey travelled
and journey lost
to Target I ventured to and back
and here the sandless land
I find you
weighed measured and broken
by your own laughing stairs.
llorando
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altho
ugh i push y
ou away, yo
u have alw
ays see
med to kno
w that
the truth of the m
atter is, i will alwa
ys need you more
and yet
poets are flagra
nt wastes of space
hem
ming the edge
s of this society
confining it
with hed
onistic needs and wants
and all t
he ridiculous feeli
ngs assoc
iated with the fu
cked system of
emot
ional intelligence
emascu
lating the blac
k and wh
ite i des
ire of
Alas, Alas
I seem to have drowned myself into Kool-Aid.
"Poets are shameless with their experiences; they exploit them" said Nietzsche once.
I wonder how you are today.
spastic discs swirl and swivel at times
when the dream machine follows through
it's good intentions
it's at this time i'm held up at the overhang
on the rainy day
sputter gutter and mess.
take it from your acidic siblings that
brothels are for the sissies and the missies.
i know not of the time or place
but the measures taken for this dream
to make pace.
sometimes even jelly fish can jive to this tune.
now can it, Betty Lou Ann.
the young girl with her fat brightly colored shirt uncle
playing games
you guess, i guess, pork flavored buns!
one by one by one.
IQ games,
what quite fun.
try and find the
lying nun.
"fuck" says he quietly to himself.
what's this word?
bystanders see
and laugh inside
but the other girl at crackers lane
can only
watch and die.
Words never set reality in stone.
and sometimes
people
places
and
things
pass and go.
Nothing can be captured
caught and possessed.
All the better
to learn the facts.
But today was a yesterday again.
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Your days of becoming an arrogant ass
are far from my days from being a condescending bitch.
But in the end
we're all stupid whores
who fuck
and marry
their cousin's cousin
from a long time ago.
