the dead air shrieks
with a venomous lullaby
slams and reverberates
with salvaged impregnation’s
of speeding threads
a stimulus that empty’s
the insides of short lived
moments between reality
and imagination
provides for scattered
but orderly quatrains
that tremble with the sound
what is it? what is it?
it is the metallic blue guitar
the music of the band

walk on broken water
where there is a sweetness
of myopic moments
crunched in the palms
of your hands
organised and agonized
in secret loneliness
perhaps better to be gone
than remain here
a redundant conclusion
defined by a strange
relief of paragraphs
merciless in their pursuit
of an entitlement
to be heard
in aggressive palpitations
of resisted dematerialization
of sounds

in a dead street
a cat owl bleeds
its mind effused
with images
of music
and the songs
that would alter
pocket thought
it  hears the echo
of a buckled sculptor
a blue and chromed car
that loots its understanding
leaves it warped
while autonomous ideas
flow in prophetic vision
as it moves between
life and death
a volitional freedom

looking for a road
a beach road
with an awareness of
frozen vision
that appears shocked
that the world is
in ruins
a vision that interprets
disintegration
as an introduction
to temporal vestige
as the road to
another dimension
a beach road
that leaves one
drowning, drowning
in ones own breath

i’m gonna watch you bleed
got a trocadero in my mind
black blood, green blood
from your synthetic rage
spills out on the carpet
turns into France and Spain
impoverished beauty relocated
i’m gonna watch you bleed
in the Place du Trocadero, Paris
bleed Trocadero tears

and I have had glimpses
of an eager dawn
turn to the crackle of flame
and incinerate itself
in the creation
of an emotional impulse

there is a feeling
one of exclusivity
that suggests
a solitary reconnaissance
of self orientated purposes
moods reflectively animated
in individual focus
in order to infiltrate
a non sharing experience
but the feeling abruptly stops
it is a synchronized cyber wound
it is the assassination
of the distant and complex
terminals of my mind
i am irretrievably shocked
there are no survivors

a new vocabulary is driven
as the authentication of genius
one that convinces a migration
toward imagined conjugations
of constellated false inflections
mirrored words on camera
dematerializing radical mutations
interspersed with graffiti and poster sounds
words, sentences in cadence
framed vowels, recordings of consonants
a punctuated acceleration of the visualized
the scanned and the incalculable hallucinatory
holographics of a language in which
communication is not spoken directly
but becomes the audible interpretation
of a microwave

shame on me i have died a while
transmogrified with sleeping pills
killing time, as time kills, killing time
no-one would give me a gun
and back where life still bleeds
i die a little more, gone to far, to far
to  far inside my head where a medical drip
steals my time
time in a little plastic bag
shame on me i have died a while
could you get me some
some time, any time
but mostly some time

there is a long pink road

lime trees walk its path in judgement

twists of dazzling colors

zigzag through

unclaimed silences

coaxing a belief in magic

dismantling and reassembling minds

i remove one eyelid then the other

there is an immediate

diaphanous color of red

a flimsy dimness

that shows an escape route out of time

displaying the fragmented mosaic

of my disordered mind

scarlet watches me

searching my face

trying to seek out

a geography yet to be discovered

i feel an overexposed rhythm

of alpha spirals

they collide with the colors

among the lime trees

a coca-cola bottle

smashes somewhere

I hear the secret song

played in the time of the assassins

seventy-three silk worms

live on the peripheries

of my consciousness

i see them

encounter their stares

hundreds of silver eyes

their ravenous mouths

that keep me emaciated

in my own mind

long vertical ropes of thread

spiraling in molecular contortionisms

among my thoughts

there is an elasticity in their movements

their speech is laden with androgynous chic

they possess and exacting ambition

not to be kept alive by toxins

and look to their Dadaist progenitors

for encouragement in their silken tasks

seventy-three silk worms

who find affirmative properties

in the rebirth of my brain cells

Cobra writes

in indecipherable script

while consuming portions

of a botanical garden

mostly ***** poppies

sunflowers are amassed

at its oval entrance

where the peppermint people congregate

associations of place and time are lost

familiar figures vanish

replaced by holograms

of eroticized dimensions

who occupy the light

eyelids painted in rainbow colors

giving a pink glimmer of affirmation

to gay rights

while the blanks between

interpretative thoughts

are popularized by a blaze of color

where authority comes

into confrontation

with python

there is a sense of fluency
in his visual metamorphoses
framed in a diaphanous red
that isolates a consciousness
yet at the same time allows a journey
to ultimate extremes
of perfected enhancement
of the higher realization
of unfulfilling limitations
he knows that he can never be free
like a name in an address book
written in blue ceramics
that provides the impulse
to sensitizing thought
to the silence that walls him in
spiraling back in second hand decibels
overloaded with the complex distribution
of metabolic need
forms contradictory impulses
an index of vulnerable and invulnerability
like the familiar dissimilarity in his eyes

I awake and the earth is dead

Its life has evaporated

They plundered it

Their persistence unremitting

Surviving their own fragmentation

By storing ***** in a refrigerator

And leaving, abandoning the earth

Accelerating their departure

As if the earth is a transient consciousness

Their trajectory pursing an arc

To a timeless interior they flee

I awake and the earth is dead

Doctors say I’m mad

there is a warmth

in the cold glow

of articulated extremities

that occur within

a biospherian belief

in the isolation

of esoteric initiation

of discoveries and

aspirations that allow

self consciousness to expand

to that dimension

isolated within brain cells

that can assimilate

and instigate great changes

in a personal universe

ghost, anyone’s ghost, perhaps your ghost

steps back from the mirror

a door into the imaginary, an apprehended space

where is visualised a discordant haze

a pulse of implosiveness

that never intersects with anyone

yet stares back at you

releasing a helix cycle of identities

where in indolence cleanses

are made lamentable

with odorous contempt

for the pitiless destinies

of ghosts, anyone’s ghost, perhaps your ghost

the acrid unease of incence

emaciating the mind

hangs in the air at the edge of the forest

where the dew drops wither

the sorrows of the moon

where shaped and tailed eyes

pacified only

by a satisfaction of images

that buzz in frenzied movements

savored and perverse

strangle

in black, scarlet, white and pink

divergent parallels

the quantum connection of memory

listen to the deformation of silence

and tease the disunity of

attempted cohesive geometry

where nothing is heard

but strained articulated color

by shaped and tailed eyes

amid pentagrams

satelliting my mind

an outward location

of an ostentation

that lids a voyeuristic eye

to Da Vinci’ fingers in a jar

waiting anxiously for them

to move, perform an ******

panache of evocative art

but they are congealed

in a stalactite shiver

that lacks transmitted urgency

but contact with these

enigmatic digits causes

a correspondingly delayed

then urgently convulsive frenzy

that somewhere in time

bring frictional contact

with a canvas or a ceiling

Da Vinci’ fingers in a jar

an outward location

of unclasped curiosity

tactile touching

a severed caress

a withered arrangement

the sort that belongs

to an abstract expressionist painting

suspended for all time

like a contemplated constrictor

who has asked

why he wishes to split

his personality in three

but has been denied an answer

instead gazes upon the

disunity of his vision

For all of us who know the pain

Of Valentines that never came

black storms rage in his eyes

fierce, frightening dust devils

making silent apocalyptic statements  

while searching for identity

recording the sound of color

black, white, red, green, blue

experiencing a drift of thought

as if floating in a dream

menaced suddenly by vowels

distorted, disconnected in delirium

he perceives a frequency in the air

like disturbed hidden speech

or a dream that cannot find

its alternative

and whose function it is

to study drug wasted features

of a skeletal torso

or to recall the unrelieved

immobility of time and place

to write the color of sound

how long has he been alone

he does not know

only that he is made of light

a non molecular form

that brings him into focus

a charcoal stencil

on the dimensional planes

of an imagined luminous sketch

that constantly flutters

like a black silk stocking

falling through space

forever tilted with expectancy

but impeded by a blank inertia

a stream of forms blown into light

but he has a relationship

a relationship with a double

dust jacket and book

for we form an indented regularity

mutant mannequins

stare from the shop window

visions of Venus de Milo

awaiting the hour to come alive

indecipherable simulations

anonymous

yet they have about them

a lacerating urgency

an elliptical and oblique

consciousness

that emits the light

of relative thought

establishing a symbiosis

of non gender

that stimulates the color of dreams

in unleashed silent appraisal

steeply angled eyes

supported by hollow cheeks

stare from a semi-circular mirror

with a dark consequence of outrage

like a constricted sunrise

that appears to float

a pictorial cryptogram

defying a resisted

notation of gravity

they are eyes that

momentarily fascinate

then frighten

for you can see yourself

falling through a deep hole

in their vision

causing a complete

dissociation of identity

steeply angled eyes

are watching, watching,

watching.....................

Inconclusive patterns
Form indented regularity
In flowing drifts
A panoply of tropical orchids
In my mind
A menaced distortion
Straining forward
Like an isolated image
In an old photograph album
Disclosing only the fragments
Of an insoluble puzzle
Its atmospherics of frequency
Disturbs me somewhat
It is identical to hidden speech
Or the resistance to time
Of exclamatory reminders
Of forward motion
That momentarily fascinates
Then falls through a hole
In a central vortex of vision
This is the architectonics
Of a thought
That can never be articulated

A stone terrain waits

A landscape deserted

Devoid of real

Or imagined explorations

For it turns inward

At a tangent that

Precludes inquiry

It has an articulation

Of slow deliberate movements

Where particularized

Geology has painted it

Cut off and disconnected

By an estrangement of creation

Other existences only serve

To magnify its sense of isolation

Its blank uncaring non-geometric

Dimensions of observable

Unquantifiable location is obscure

And unrealised

Producing an immediate

Initiated sensory experience

Of unreleased silent appraisal

But why does it wait?

What for

Does it anticipate or foresee

Some expected prediction

Of apocalyptic presentiment

Is it recalling color?

Or is it experiencing

The present like floating in a dream

Alas there is no clue

To its tilted yet frozen expectancy

A stone terrain waits

survival of disappearance
stranger than the way it is
with unknown translation
like an escaped oblivion
or quatrains from a vanished book
written on yellow paper
with purple-black ink
casting shadows among the shades
that group the lime trees
in their huddle of powdered gold
gathering scattered thoughts together
in an epitaph to the vanishing of
extreme affection and devotion
that passes away
in the hand of the wind

We do not belong to this world - we are immortal
I go where you go - I have to
For the world has conspired with my thoughts
And everywhere I look I see your presence…..

how different
the temper of the true
whose anger
can make the worst
the better cause
and give
delightful form
to fiction
as that of fact
where their
frequentation
becomes the inequality
of imagination
a delicate
truth telling lie

sitting in a bar unawares

sobriety is relinquished

incoherence

voicing hallucinated delirium

sweating profusely in distress

disconnected

without identity, without form

a long and terrible descent

into the effects of derealization

staring at nothing

listening to imaginary sounds

that cling to the dark draperies

that hang upon the walls of the mind

charting the outer geography of life

with invested inner humanity

in that instant
consumed suns
planets moons
fire out
annihilated to nothingness
then into his mouth
all darkness pours
he shallows and he shallows
and the darkness pours in
it is the abyss of humanness
into which we reach
not knowing where
the bottom lies
now the darkness
shines on his face
a cold metallic blue
while a historical shadow
sits on his mouth

the day before yesterday
is different than today
streets are deserted
a population lost in a city
searches for its destination
beautiful and disturbing
statues stare at me
with a ****** plausibility  
though I think they are blind
there is a heartbeat
it pounds politely
making an inventory of time
that possesses
the magnitude of a disaster
because the day before yesterday
is different than today

old prayers scuttle,

amen themselves

still the air

and to this quiet place

the unquiet come

those who fall

for they are cursed

who bright their coffins here

and follow water

to its pure black fountain

appear like bats

charred black pages

from a burnt book

darken the twilight sky

they embrace

turning light to darkness

those

undead

now

unlive

black shadows spread
congregated  silhouettes
torn from their sleep
anguish etched on their faces
where nightmares have been dumped
create an avenging rage
of systematic hysteria
beyond all human bonds
become blind
to the anticipated
repressions of reality
entities whose powers
are not fully grasped
grey noise a menacing presence
anthracitic, their blackest tasks
so horrible
creating night in the middle of the day
mischievous  and malicious
they are no more
than an eternity away
where a box has no mother
black shapes beg
in their furtive
ballet once again
pure with night
sees the scene

i have found an inner reality

incorruptible, immutable

soon to be repossessed

words float on my breath

but this is where i hide them

in this inner reality

for many wish to confiscate them

but they are safe here

here in the desert of my inner exile

I am aware of nothing

That has brought me here

A boy, on the threshold

Of being

At the front door of a Dantian pit

I am on the inside of night

Where a racing heartbeat

Measures time by its frantic beat

A mirror appears

Providing a compulsion to stare

I gaze and realise

The impersonation is the real being

And I am the occupant of a mask

A cosmic persona

Of the true nature of identity

The same strangers in all respects

Twins of a harlequined society

I walk through an anemic street

Its galvanized paleness generating a ****** fever

Menstrual blood smears the walls the alleys

There is an expectancy of life and death

As a single occurrence

An experience of inseparability

It is a primitive animistic street

That propels dark gods to ****** frenzy

Who generate molten red drifts

Along the steerage of its passage

It is a street that has anticipated its journeys

Of a concentrated and indelible red

Of loud and terrible silence

That knots around white waists

Speaking in frantic crimson

It is a street of cycles

In a lavatory a pink transvestite

Applies ruby and rouge

To my cosmetic mask

Hoping for a wished encounter

A fiction overcomes us

Conveys us as strangers

Into an unknown territory

Leaves us there

The two of us, stranded

Our location inaccessible

As intuitive yet unpredictable

Thoughts cluster

In constellated

Images around

The rehearsed persona

Of myself

A timeless dimension

Unmitigated clarity

I focus on the page

And surrender to

The pointed direction

Of the transcription

Of my unconsciousness

There is writing

There is a wind

a wind that displaces me

from the limitations  of the present

it locates me in a century

i shall never live to see

a coloured wind

that overtakes me

lifts me out of this present

transports me into

the fragments of a fiction

it is a wind with violet eyes

it disperses me

into celebrated elements

a wind that cradles me

listens to me

a wind that stops me

in mid-sentence

makes me fumble

over the cohesion of my words

it is a wind that

drapes the mirrors

causes voluminous

approbation of thought

across purple, blue and red lit canals

a wind that is

the potency of a swallowed aphrodisiac

blowing through my veins

a wind of implacable silence

that causes me to hear

the tireless serration of

my mind expiring

on the last moonlit beach

All strangeness consumes me

it clings to me way beyond all compass

am I somewhat unbalanced

i suspect I know the truth about

empty chairs facing a white sun

waves of my mind unroll the

white hemmed lace of their thoughts

upon the arid shores of my being

and cause the aquatic butterflies

of anecdotal memory to appear

of white sunlit streets

of meditations on pictorial images

of ideas that spark a rain-storm

of blinding brilliance

am i somewhat unbalanced

i see imaginations, colored imaginations

that turn and twist into

impossible extravaganzas of geometry

am i somewhat unbalanced

i take my shirt of it is bleeding

am i somewhat unbalanced

i hear delirious laughter

it comes from an open window

though my shirt still bleeds

am i somewhat unbalanced

I feel the black breath settle on my neck

A black sun communicates with me

There is an imaginative power at its source

It is like the purple stain on a drawn wine cork

My vision is occupied by it, it twinkles and crackles

I see a scent hang in the air, an anesthetising intoxicant

Numbing, cold, like watching gargoyles in the street

I know the winds speech it has an oneiric vocabulary

That drifts among the scarlet stained scent

Swirling through my crystallized thought

Causing a pristine vacillation in my mind

That echoes like a vacant cobalt night  

Disturbing the fundamental enigma

That is the centre of my being

I close my eyes

Flying with cut wrists

Above the color of a surrogate self

Osiris Son of Earth and Heaven

I suddenly feel the warm red viscous liquid

Slowly it seeps out furtively at first

Then with more determination

Down my arm across my right hand, across my left

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip

I can sense it congealed on my head where my hands have been

Clinging to me not wishing to leave

My face is caressed by crimson fingers as a lover would

My eyes, ears, nose, mouth, neck

It seems to roam over me looking for a home

Trickling across my lips it offers, no dares me to taste

Teasing me, but my mouth cannot respond

Lips now matched against the scarlet

A growing blue in comparison, colour mix

Form a new symmetric sapphiric jewel

I feel rushing air as off a great wind

Bright white lights curiously dance above me

Invite me to join them

Colours speed past

Drab, dreary colours green, grey

Then suddenly a veil is laid upon me

All is black

Glass blue birds stitch themselves across my mouth

Catching, capturing, carrying by breath

They cause a tangled nature in my words

Attack the paper forming an anarchy of sentences

Apotheosizing my breath into iambic speech

Of dreams invaded by frantically malign illusions

Chanting, chanting, chanting, chanting, chanting

A form of salacious incantation

That fills me with a need a need

Like a rats craving for poison

Compulsive, irrational and destructive

And here I sit in the complicitious confines of my bedroom

While a cold wind frisks the streets

The lime trees are heavy with the glitter of wind

Words like a host of flies buzz inside my mouth

A fire roars in my head an apocalyptic holocaust

My sentences articulate themselves

Like an ****** bruise on a boys neck

Appearing with a rapacious and concentrated existence

Forcing me into an uncompromising solitude

A concealment like the sitting of a stone in its own shadow

I am on the other side of time where transient moments

Imprint themselves on other people’s minds

Forming and colliding in immense fictions

But there is also a sustained silence

Within the speed and space of thought

That holds the creature of my metaphysical anguish

I watch, wait for him

Now he is here, floats on my breath

Confiscates my words, holds them

Like a whisper in a rats mouth

His imperishable body is kept on recall

And leaks through me

I see a projection of him, disconnected

A cinematograph, a vision

A vision that will not dematerialise

Yet allows my words to escape

And slink out of drains at noon

Hissing like static interference

As they slither across the page

They allow me to catch the curve of a rainbow

Catch it in my mouth

Denying all realities but my imagination

The words dart along my tongue

Like the shiver of wind across a pond

They form a recreation of heightened moments

Of my consciousness, the weightlessness of inner thought

and the page and I become one, I write

i am standing at a high window

it overlooks the city

i attempt to correlate the emptiness

of the thin blue sky with the vacuum

that is my life

one of desperate predicaments

I think of poems and poetry hear them voiced

become confused, for I don't know if

poetry is the poison or the cure

i feel an evocation of madness

suffer its reckless inner portent

struggle with its urgent transformations

breathe a continuity of collective emotions

and fear the mediocritized collective of life

i am standing at a high window

it overlooks the city

a city elliptically compressed

in my stampeding mind

i am standing in a city

it overlooks a high window

there is a poem involved in a violent scene

a confrontation with the inexpressible

I am standing in a poem

There is no city just a high window

the anguish of this agonised arena

where black angels

roam delusional paranoia

a commitment to life

a responsibility to death

an obedience to immense solitudes

of anticipation generated by inspirational charge

an agony of imagined dreams

found in missing time

the unattainable that no longer exists

an unrealized reality

oh the anguish of this agonised arena

this continuous invocation of other

of I of me of we

a great elucidation of emotional chaos

the outer geography of my imagination

where all is led bare

and i see the black shadow of light

qualified, qualified, qualified

I witness the carnivalesque dance of illusion

the self conscious telling of a familiar story

a darkening tone, the synthesing

of incompatible perspectives

that cause an incandescent agony

of self-inflicted wounds

caused by the somatizing of events by others

but leads to epiphanic illuminations

the transformative energies of disintigration

where all the beauty that is inherent in the ordinary

becomes clear

everthing lights up with the glow

of the quantum expansion of great silences

and I can retrieve from the unconcious

something I know but have forgotten

shall i bring death to life

and in doing so **** it

for what is death if it be life

or life if it be death

for reasoning’s in my mind

have chosen thus that both

once closed to each can be reconciled

by the life of death,

by affirmative lyrical flights

that issue forth that desperate need

that desperate need to know

to shape such understanding

into coherent form

to endure the vicious energies

that cause such enactment

an intense and exhausting experience

that such presentations and transformations

of permissible or possible effect do yield

to love and to be the companion of death

into its halls and become

one with the universal consolation

of solitary echoes