the corpulent rosebushes stirred
As time dragged on I felt the slow meandering of oceanic, shattering vibrations
With flesh flayed and spattered out onto the gravelly pavement
Broken and blistered in the barren hovel that men and women call truth
With the weight of monastic guilt and filthy pretense on my shoulders
I broke the back of madness, for fear, for the fat opening of cuts
That bled, tearing, sutured, stained with bandaged innocence
As the daylight spiked into a heat of pain and flesh and disgust
What is the passing over of this viscous, liquid crutch that holds us
Like children, like adult impulse given name and a destination
At the cold, embittered heart of speech grown loud, or maybe else
The burning ambiguity that helps the cripples on the street shout their lies.
As the withering sun turned its head over onto the septic, selfish horizon
With its arms laid neatly beneath the seething mass of clouds and polluted sky
Airing out whatever pleasant theme the faceted, belligerent populace could bear
To hear, to cry for the bothersome, ponderous, dry gargling
Spat forth into the night, breathing copiously and heavier
Than the pulsating, writhing combines could bear
Than the onerous, apathetic will of the people, of the nations great could bear
I counted ten thousand, intent on meaning more than what they could see
Before their eyes, before their hearts gave into the grudging plod
And there I sat watching the flies consume garbage behind the malls
And behind the temples I watched naked skin flay its own fears into nothingness.
As our vicarious lovers lay weeping in the courts of law and trust
They made hovels into homes and called them theirs as they sat pouting hopeless
Weary and breathless in the cold darkness of lunacy and perjury, and there, nude
Skins to the smog and the cigarette smoke drafting in from every crack
In every window that creaked with the walls, snapping in the windy embrace of cold
Tethered by the limitlessness of love and light they were told were present
Even during their blackest horrors and their most terrible mistaken impulses
Painless and pining for the frosty winter to come faster than the glorious spring
So in the ice of new sprouts they could crash cars and explode in righteous faith
Though their pins poked and their shins snapped between metal and teething bones
They crept along silently through their insane, godly wanderings.
As the pointed, poisonous resin of transience slips carefully between our saintly ribs
And the tips of glass slide precariously into the first layers of tissue
Which our crusty exteriors of posturing have held so tight and delicate and close
This cursory affection that has been seamlessly mastered despite ages of turmoil
Becoming as effortless and useless as chipping stone from stone
Collecting the sharpened pieces in canvas bags and heaving them away
We should drop these sacks into chimneys, over jagged, abysmal cliffs
Build homes below the stacks and cracking boulders, an asylum, labyrinthine
Instead of row upon tortuous row of pre-fabrication and incorporated insatiability
Allow our smoke to gust freely in intricate tangles between the mineral fissures
Only in a place such as this might I feel peace despite the fleeting conditions of life.
As the foreign signs and roadmaps gave everyone their potent direction
Their fragrant possibility, their fragile and tenuous importance
I sat, tearful, milking the anger with which I strode across the boundaries
I sat and stared belligerently at the copulating majority as they bred
Incessantly and without modesty, pleasantly and engorged with joyous freedoms
Mounting their wreaths on certain dates and ignoring the rest of the year
That passes without trace or vitality or significance or longevity of moral thoughts
I crouched under the passive concrete bridge and held my yelling breaths in
And I was patient but for the roaring of automobiles and trailers that buzzed
And rang, and blasted my senses with tremors and asphalt, entombed
In their lacking permanence, I discovered my raining doubts and spilling pleasures.
As my weathered, watery heart decried its pathetic, lonely estate
I strode among blizzards and buildings covered in sheets of fabricated wind
Expanding my contempt and swelling tongue, speaking angers of lightness
And the numbness that held my mouth strictly in the presence of failure
I watched passively as the fires of lust and agony consumed my wearisome body
Singing high halleluiah, singing high harmony, singing sacred sanctimony
And brutal determination that washed into a bleak, starry expanse
Quivering with smoke and sparks and delirious infernal discharge
In the tempest of consummate greed, in the heaving breast of failure
I watched the contest of the complete and competitive oath-takers
Dream of catastrophe and bombs, of exploding cars and towers of envy toppling.
As the corpulent rosebushes stirred in the smog-coated breeze
Washing in from the tranquil sea and merging desperately with effluent waste
The spineless worms towed blissful dirt back and forth above the hill’d plains
Metal containers lifted by metal machines, metal chains, iron-clad, forlorn
And the flagrant, youthful howling of curled-back fathers and mothers and children
Who brought fortune and moonlit ruin to each narrow city street, draped in oil
In the shrines of a deadened, lifeless god, a dreary, worthless, loveless god
These disastrous familial groups vanished frantically into a hole in the floor
While their hallucinating, vicious god gazed down in scorn and tired pride
At most an empty husk, at least a long-lost and circular pattern of imagination
And I pushed and I shoved my way through the crowd to the roof, where I fell too.
As the giant mechanical politicians stir emotional discord and bleat “Pity!”
One hundred thousand citizens or more breed and scrape up wooden ladders
In a misguided attempt to climb higher than their brothers and sisters, graven
At the top of each rung is a mausoleum of clutching hands, separated from arms
And shoulders, and bodies, for the rest of these have fallen down, crippled
Sunken beneath the asphalt, beneath the concrete, beneath the dust and the soil
Sunken beneath the layers of bone, piled high from all those shrunken souls
Who called and who culled their meaning from worthlessness and vacant boxes
Wrapping paper, birthdays, blank celebrations and dinners that devoured their own
Trapped inside with fears of death, fears of dark, fears of living free and living fast
And I parried blow with blow, steaming and incensed, filled with rage and liberty.
As viral, pathogenic beliefs were bought and sold by street vendors, small carts
Colourful lips spoke precious lines and bright secrets that only the shadows knew
Off to the side, off in the corners of the alleyways where drunkards slept, cold
And where all the addicts never went; no coffee, acetaminophen, no pacifying falsehood
No peaceful, ignorant, heavenly comfort or wishful, fictitious promise to satisfy
The anxious ecstasy, the restless frenzy of reassurance at Death’s swift approach
For the graceful passing with which, as it hovered adrift, made cycles of life and time
O, reverent bereavement! O, demented mortality! Make martyrs of these shells
Drown these ashen sailors of distress and entomb these embracing liars in mud
Let the Reaper’s claw sow clarity among these belligerent, sadistic men and women
Whose methods and manners I so despise, whose covetous fingers I would break.
As the pillars of dogged temptation are driven deeply with nails into splendid coils
Of twine, of splinters, and of shavings, I pushed over those drowsy crosses
In favour of stony conception and hollow originality, and laid a formless foundation
To rally and to wrestle my deadly impulse, my ragged sense of purpose, into shape
To ravage my treacherous lack and instead exist in both logic and feeling
Rather than succumb to beaten, worn ideologies or gleaming interpretations
And so hopefully assume an overflowing of significance, far beyond capacity
If it is not too lost for us to regain our clutch on the spirit born in dead languages
Then I would nod my head and raise my brow, spitting at those drunk on perversion
Clenching until my knuckles turn white enough for me to strike, hard
And trembling with the stormy bolts of wrath, as they swirl frantically even now.
As the birds built weaving nests from scattered bits of the frames we left behind
And the isolated ribs, clipped fingers, and polished teeth from the lake’s bottom
Diving below the depths, swirling and grey, to break the surface anew
Sending spirals of ripples to collide, bursting and shifting, disturbing the surface
While howling dogs shook their throats and sent out mad wailing shrieks
Sleek black cats rubbed against the bark of drooping willows, dying slowly
And they too were all skin, all bone, all tiny, blistered tracks left in the dirt
All contorted and convoluted, their bodies bent, withered, blank, and blurred
A deliberate progression towards the valley’s edge where a bright demise awaits
In a capillary trail, a pulmonary divide, and the measured stalk of melancholy
That I caress and nurture, fervently holding an inferno for the end of cheerless days.
I fell into this hole that was too deep to climb out that I started shouting for help
Hope happened to pass by and peeking in, found me in hysterics and left
Telling me she will go and find help and some rope, then come back
To lift me out from this place, dark and cold
And left her twin - Despair to keep me company
He jumped in and told me his sister is a consummate liar, that she will not be coming back
He said that she knew I'd be stuck down here forever and just couldn't bear to tell me the truth and so lied
But he told me not to worry 'cause he was willing to help me dig my way out and so had jumped in
He says he will not leave my side (as if he could now that he's down here and not up there)
That the only way out was down and that we'll be best friends in no time
At least that's what he told me
The other day, Depression happened to peer over the hole because he heard the sound of someone digging
My best friend invited him for help and he jumped right in without a second thought before I could stop him
Now I listen to both of them chattering and laughing away, best friends forgotten, in this crowded hole
And in between telling me that I need to lighten up saying they were there to help me as they dig beneath my feet
It's been two months and a half since Despair jumped in to help me
And this hole has gotten so much deeper, thanks to Depression's tireless help
I wonder where Hope has gone and was she really what her brother told me
As I try holding all this dug up dirt up on my shoulders without falling
And no matter how I tell them to stop, her brother and and his friend won't stop their digging
They say we are getting very close to the other side of the world
I've been told the world is flat and if I believe it to be true
And if these two should dig their way to the bottom
Where will we fall? And how long? And what's down there?
And will Hope's helping hand ever reach me that far down?
There is a resonating rhythm which cultivates a warm embrace from electric boldness.
Congruence is to be found within the fire of an athame, where familiarity can direct energy from each quarter of sacred space.
As nature displays her petals with utmost sincerity, there is certain direction to northerly earth, eastern air, southern fire and westerly water.
Invocations are personal. I now feel the need to consummate our equilibrium. Please do not be offended.
she's the come to my hither
the look to my glance
she's Helen, Cleopatra
the face of romance
and Susan B
the consummate woman
for the man within me
If this were a stainless life, where my wishes outran my dreams, I would be your Muse. You would be my consummate liberation. Pure. We would be two impeccable and intricate halves to a Whole.
I would delicately whisper the perfection of your thoughts. You would always know that every throbbing second of missing you scalds my chest like a straight shot of whiskey. I would always be guarded in your warrior arms incessantly, while your trembling fingertips fumble & untangle the strands of my hair. This, my love, parallel with your parted angel lips, perishing to taste my skin like deliverance. But instead, let me savor the deep sighs of your soul as you read me poems of Us in an embrace that vows timelessness. You would always deeply crave to flicker your tongue on my clit with the barbarity of a dragonflies' wings. (Nipples & Button too, please.) Our Love would always be frail and delicate enough to cradle a wounded sparrow or a bruised robins' egg. I would kiss away-- the raw heaviness of the world, the look of disquiet on your face during a restless & riotous week, the howling tears and grieving weeps on your cheeks that you never knew how to cry, your sad eyelids goodnight when a sinuous and cruel current of doubt tries to wash us out. The words we spoke to each other would always be used as a sanctity & a solace at all times and never to rage or destroy or damage. I would revel in the chasms of your heart when I heard our childs' laughter. We would float when you held my hand. In the mall. At the grocery store. In the car. On the sofa. Everywhere. We would always remember that every sky is not pale blue, that every rainfall is not tame, that every grin does not always radiate truth, but if we have each other we will always be pacified. We would never cease to see the fate of our boundless love with every docile or rowdy or concise kiss. We would reconstruct the phantoms of both our pasts into worthless and abandoned yesterdays, so they can never define Us. I would always appreciate the little things with you; Our harmonized breaths as we sleep, the pull of gravity when you take my breath away, every note in our favorite songs, the faint sunlight in Autumn that pierces your eyes to make them crystal, the crust of the moon in the cloudless night sky as we dream in each others arms, every precious word that is conceived behind your sinless lips, every wave and surge of ecstasy of every crescendo in the raptures of our frenzied desires, every smile that is illustrated by you. I would never stop reading you, interpreting you, learning you, saving you, holding you. I would anchor our wary hearts, fasten our hopeful eyes, meet you at every opened door, walk with you down every path of life, and never stop collapsing and descending and falling madly, deliriously, wildly, deeply, doubtlessly in Love with you. Sometimes we would cry ourselves to sleep until the weight of our pseudo laments turned into vigor. I would try my very best soothe every hurt, heal every scar, fight every war. Take every battle and make it mine so that you never have to fight. So that you never have to try. So that you never have to struggle. You would sing me to sleep; soft and quietly, out of tone and raspy, whispering and sleepy. We would just be, simply, us.
No longer let our voices fall to a whispering
march of death. Jam your baritones and
inflections through songs for a god gone
Make the earth shudder under your footsteps
as you let the wind take the pages like
a flickering flame
Make your presence known through the howling
sleet and rain - scream in the faces of distorted
kings, spit on their robes and shit in their eyes
Cast your fury like the waves and witness the smoke
of god vanish in the shadow of a cat, feast upon the
words that wither like the grass
Smear the self indulgent prophets in sweat and mud,
drown the child of the Euphrates and piss on his
Go horse in your burning wrath, sodomize wretched
Isaiah, suffocate him in the wallowing tears of Job,
let the blood of your hatred flow like wine
Drink of your consummate supplication steeped
in rage and disgust.
Let it sustain you to shake the pillars
and columns of his temple to the ground
Dictate your commands and bask in the boundless
power your existence brings to bear upon the weak
and know you and the fake god you hate
This is an old one from my depreciated poetry blog found here: http://www.letthewords.blogspot.com/
“Tim Patch is a pretty talented Australian! He's a painter, see, but is not tied down by custom or tradition. He paints portraits...with his Penis!! Yes, one fateful New Year's Eve, Tim showed his friends his amazing talent of painting portraits with his member, and they were all very impressed! Tim and his staff are now populating galleries throughout Australia with penile pop art and the crowds just love it. His latest renderings: a portrait of the Prime Minister and also of opposition leader Kim Beazley.” – http://thedailydrivel.blogspot.com, May 8, 2006
SCENE: Tim, a twenty year old college student at the University of Melbourne, busily paints with his erect member a horizontal canvas which sits low on an easel. His rainbow colored penis extends through a hole in his muddied apron, which he lovingly refers to as his ‘shmuck smock’. His color palette is composed of a series of fluted glass canisters filled with paint, sitting ergonomically in a queue at penis height. Sitting on a nearby dorm bed is his roommate, Cranley.
Tim: (pondering the canvas, and then poking it with his penis) Nailed it!
Cranley: That’s bonzer! You’re the consummate craftsman. Let’s celebrate and get pissed on a slab of Tooheys. I’m thirstier than a boomer jumping paddock fences in a dust storm.
Tim: You’ve got quite an awning over the toy shop, you bludger. Another amber and you’ll be chucking chunder.
Cranley: (grabbing his belly and shaking it) Abso-bloody-lutely. Let’s go then.
Tim: Any tic of the clock. I’m busier these days that Bourke Street in the rush hour. (switching canvases on the easel) Just got to put some finishing touches on this portrait of the PM.
Cranley: He paid you to do his picture?
Tim: It was actually commissioned by the leader of his opposition party, Kim Beazley.
Cranley: That’s swell of him.
Tim: Not really. Those banana benders are always in a blue on the box. Beazley said ‘the PM is a prick and his likeness could only be captured by one’. I say, fuck’em both. I can use the cash to get my Gibson out of pawn.
Cranley: If it’s about the money, why don’t you have your old man set you up. I hear he’s swimming in it since Mel Gibson starting funding his new church, ‘The Cathedral to Blame the Jews Who Whacked Our Savior’.
Tim: They’re all bloody hypocrites. At least I’m following my dreams to forge a new aesthetic for the arts. McLuhan said ‘the medium is the message’. I’m ratcheting it up a notch. For me ‘the tool is the message’. Art is dick. The history of art is a mere footnote to the penis and an annotation to the vagina.
Cranley: That blarney and a tram ticket will get you on the Met. Gibson’s the real artist. He can milk an audience until it moos. His films have grossed over five billion U.S.! Cunning as a shithouse rat, Mel is.
Tim: I’ll grant you there’s some method to Mad Max’s madness. I know I’ll have my audience some day. If I keep painting with my penis, they will come. (there’s frantic knocking at the door)
Cranley: Expecting any sheilas? (Tim opens the door) It’s some blow-in.
Tim: Prime Minister! (extending his hand to greet him)
PM: (staring at Tim’s penis) Then it’s true. (crestfallen) I’m too late. I read in the tabloids that Beazley ordered a portrait of me, to be painted by a…donger. That! must be it -- en flagrante dicto.
Cranley: No troubles, Prime Minister, Sir. I’m sure my mate Tim here can do one for you of Beazley. ‘Prick quo pro’, so to speak.
PM: (excited) Can you? Can you really!
Tim: I do need to get some of my gear out of hock. Sure I can do it. All I need is a photograph of that mozzie and $500 cash.
PM: Money’s no object. It’s satisfaction I seek. I want this portrait to be your masterpiece. More compelling than anything you’ve ever painted. Let me think. Let me think. (pacing) I’ve got it! (hops in the air) I want you to paint Beazley using only your balls.
Tim: My balls?...I’m having an epiphany. That’s it! That’s the radical link I’ve been missing in my new aesthetic. It all fits now. Bad art is dick. Great art…is balls!
PM: What will you call your new ‘ball’ movement.
Cranley: How about scrotumism?
PM: That’s a mouthful.
Tim: From what I hear that’s no where you haven’t been, Prime Minister. No, I can see the critics overscrutinizing scrotumism. It’s too clinical. We need a name that falls more fluidly off the tongue. I’ve got it! Bumnutsralism.
PM: Perfect! You’ll have the art world by the balls – just like I’ll have Beazley. So, we have a deal?
Tim: I’ll start as soon as Cranley lays out a fresh canvas on the floor.
Cranley: (bending over a new canvas) Is this a good position?
PM: (unzipping and dropping his dacks) Grouse!
Cranley: What the fuck! Someone put a stubbie up my ass.
Tim: (having another epiphany) Hmmm, bum nuts on a ‘human canvas’. My aesthetic is constantly evolving. Keep buggering, Prime Minister. Let me get the paint.
Cosmo's Guide to Snapping Hot Cock Shots for your Online Profile
The mirror of Dorian Gray, deceiving -
his portrait lies buried that tells the truth.
The wandering heart, self-excusing, believing
it never will face the end of its youth.
But darkness will fill the heart of the canvas
And bloodstains seep through to mar beauty’s face
The countenance hardens, the mirror won’t show this
Until retribution has found her place.
Then sheets torn away to the horror of all
reveal the true nature of Dorian’s sin
No veil can now hide his consummate fall,
Nor repentance be found to begin again.
Only flames and torment, for this one must die.
His sins have dragged many, unwitting to hell.
Yet there, but for God’s grace, go I
Uncloaking my portrait, I know this well.
Oh this time out,
No doubt about,
Will not be my last,
I will go back and back,
For it is my future,
I met Her where the land
Failed to go further,
What a gentle maiden the Sea
was, for I had never met Her,
like this before, the white sharp
teeth barely showed, as Her lips
curled as waves do,
and She spoke with a still sweet
voice, not the snarl and crash
I am used to, and She whispered
to ME, "step closer, and enter me,
I will take you, lighten your load,
we will float together, under the stars,
bottle to my
lips, full the
I share with
no one except
the sea, sorry,
the Sea, the will,
if I had not had a
to lay with you Sea,
as you would pour
into me, to empty
my sorrows, replace
my one joy, with
a cold into which,
my witch, you
would no longer
that would hide
me, as I would
bottom out of life
You my wife,
forever and always.
a very long time.
Flying along with the feeling of freedom. elation. sprouting wings, they shoot out from shoulderblades. Time to sour. Unrestrained, liberty and life in the breath of the clouds. Whole and Complete. Joy unending.
these things can't be written, only felt and forgiven. Unbidden, so, welcome still. Freedom of the soul can't be lost of sold. the way the music plats, crescendos and dances. Notes the most beautiful melody of joyous abandon.
Freedom in the waves, wings glide along glistening waters. Sparkles. Millions of diamonds dancing atop waters, delighting in the laughter of joy and, innocence. Wings unfurl, plummet through sky. no stopping, no turning, no end to this flight. Can't open or close, define or control. this freedom brings so much more. Words can't describe, minds can't imagine. Poets left wordless, musicians without notes.
Purity, not a definable thing. This love, that they sing. it isn't a definable thing.
release, be free. That's the song to be sung, nothing can come, near. Sweeping and swirling, with no worries simply twirling. unimaginable. uncontainable. the beauty of this freedom song. A dance, sweet flight, all things beautiful. Release and relinquish and be free inside. arms open wide, wings spread so free. on top of a cliff, overlooking the sea. Breaking. Free.
Forever and always, the love of which we sing. freedom comes at a price, I'm growing new wings. break. free. New and completed, ever appreciated. Perfection in imperfection, every bit accepted and, unabbreviated. No need to say no, to change or to bend. Just spread those wings and sour through the breath of the wind. Undivided and unqualified, yet utterly complete. Perfected in the sight of love consummate.
Flawless, fearless, freely flying, forever and always. such a very long time.
Perfectly broken and unintentionally flawed. Beautiful in the chaos of a world still in snow. Beautifully broken, all the battles have been won. sweet wings open wide, feathers glisten and gleam.
fly. fly. fly free.