Fever clutched down
grasp again and I'll make it
furtive glance around
I shiver
You have, dead grey surface pores that gasp and pull
we try to breathe through, but you **** in and control
all the while radiating that fever feeling
of a surface wide fever-catch reality
that awful feeling
all for the sake of continued neutrality
I yell, but you take it
a clamorous reduced warbling of my own voice drawn into grey gasping caverns
you see nothing with that pockmarked visage, but I've still one good eye
I'm blind as any fool but I can fake it
screeching truth through bland ciphers
dreaming on and on
it won't be long till I break it
You've still got some sort of hold on me,
but you know I'll make it.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
crooked grains with a shivering bite-feel.
Sharp
Bit dry around the edges, bake to perfection.
Organism-traffic bends all about
A loving monstrosity, how comforting.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 5:53 PM UTC
Sweet owl!
Flown to me
right inside my eyes
I can't ***** anymore
but I say I'd love to bleed you dry
This knowledge is astounding
I could just cry or try at least
I've let out a moonlight sigh
these furtive festering dreams inside
right between my eyes
but the owl is in my pocket
so lets peel apart my eyes
and even though I might try try try
we never stop looking at the sky
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 5:48 PM UTC
dear old sir, poor father of mine
you've left me quite alone
all on my very own
I don't miss too much
dear father
I don't miss you
dear sister
I don't trust you
dear mother
it's not a bit real
there's a little baby bird with a hold on you
dear baby bird, sly thing you
with your man, watching clear and strong
may I take him along?
For my eyes are starlight black
With those spirits on my back
Somebody must be watchin'
As we dance these wicked tunes
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 5:45 PM UTC
A point
sequence
perchance a pattern
things constantly intertwined
perfect circle
golden ratios
where there are 2's there are 3's
but in the end...mystics
Our lady & father as named in scripture
sequential gatherings
we join as community worshipers
there are patterns as I walk
numbers as we talk
non-believers gather on us
Herald, we walk as words from your mouth into eternal
shall we seek forth that which repeats onto itself, changing again and again into familiarity?
Or has it been found already?
Perhaps before the eye could see it or the mind conceive it.
We take hope upon the chance
That this is but the process into something, we have finished in ages past
For what would it be to know the answer, without the how, without the meaning?
We may know the how, given time,
however the meaning hasn't been seen yet & the purpose has faded as other things become clear.
Must there always be this strict balance?
Perhaps the comprehension of such balance is a sect, missing among a unitary spiral of knowledge.
Always this path is uncertain, I navigate it as much as can be done, but this vessel is fickle & prone to deranged bouts of change.
As I think, breathe, see, hear, vibrate, pulse, fluctuate with life...there is nothing and I revel in it.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 5:40 PM UTC
Walking
Talking
Seeing
Breathing
Living
Loving!
Little boy all eyes wide open.
Spinning head with 360 beauty all about!
The world is alive,
He says, "Oh! What to do with such a wondrous day!"
If I remember correctly, there was a slight pause in the day. A little boy enthralled with the world floated above in the still air. One skimpy leg outstretched with ragged shoelaces and an expectant weight.
Then, a plunge!
The street I lived on hadn't been repaired in years, and right at the end of it a large hole had developed in the nearby grass. Perhaps a sinkhole of some sort. There was a little boy who ran around our street for a few weeks. I used to wave hello. Now I never see him. How strange.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 5:15 PM UTC
Listen to the bell's toll
It brings solace to the soul
The imps of my fitful slumber
Hope to drag me in the deep of sleep
Awakening to the noon of day
I leave my house with no delay
Hoping to find the one I love, dream of
Upon the stone from where she lays
As I rush into the sea of granite
The tombstones' voices drown my thoughts
A hundred murders, a thousand deaths
Accusations, reveries, pleadings
They cloud my mind
And I embrace darkness.
I feel the chilling touch of winter's baby soft breath
As I rise to my feet
To find myself in front
Of my long lost lover's
Final retreat
A heathen's breath descends upon
My heaving breast
As I claw the cursed ground, oh, the cursed ground,
Away from this place of solemnity
‑
As the final clod of dirt is removed, in an air of infallibility
I hope to obtain a glimpse of my dearest
Only to find those accursed pits of black like a pool of tainted water
With hair like limpid worms in the night
And that ghastly nightmare grin,
Mocking my very existence to see whom I seek
In a terrible rage, I shred, I tear, I smash, and render the Beast
Indistinguishable in any form
I fling myself into the streets
Tearing thru the crowds
Vaulting over and thru the market stalls
To find my wild flight halted by a pair of
Panicked citizens hoping to alleviate my obvious distress
Only now in a flash of mental shock
That throws me close to an unconscious state
Does the realization of my actions ascend to my heavens
And as the citizens holding me let go
I myself let go
Of everything and everyone that matters
Or should matter to me
Stumbling, hoping to hold my balance along the precipice
From which my mind has already cast itself
‑
I once again see a dripping, searing red rage cloud my vision as the madness
That had taken me among the tombstones returns
Swatting aside those near me
I approach the river that runs thru the city
And staring into the depths
I see the creature that I had become
A haggard defeated man that had succumbed to the
Eternal darkness that engulfs everyone in time
And I see my love, the one who I had sought for so long
Alongside this poor creature that is within me
Her presence is all that I can now perceive
And I let my grasp on this world
Decay, and as I sink into the depths
My love approaches and embraces me
In the final act of Love
In the final act of Life
In the only act of Death.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
Art is delicate
yet it will tear you open
a silent night spent pondering
with music lapping at your ears in the distant background of a room
when that one wicked note appears...that frustrating, elating, releasing, infuriating, frantic passion!
You think to manifest something,
No! It takes a hold of you! That thing!
It throws you on the floor and you let it run!
Muttering, you grab your medium, you gaze at it, witnessing visions of those particular fantasies cascading around your brain and throwing themselves through your eyes! Words roar onto the page, taking their rightful place in this creative freedom. Perhaps there is colour, a photo, a leaf, some of yourself that has drip-fallen from the wounds in your brain! Giant cerebral colour crevices torn open to let thought, love and ideals flow out! They will close up and heal stronger than ever. However, you first must empty yourself into it all.
Time is up.
Slumped back against your life you can gaze upon this thing that has shown itself to you, perhaps you thank it for giving you a chance with such passion. Then you can return to what it is you do in the mean time. Waiting for that delicate thing, that is always there, but thrums and hums with your creative spirit in waiting, until it is delicate no more.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:33 PM UTC
Try men's souls. Provocative mind-whip how you soothe me. I scorn modern poetry...not because it is truly bad or truly good. It just makes me feel as if my pores are ever-expanding with clicking, skittering, masses of insects.
Black shiny minuscule monstrosity.
Beautiful in gritty grotesque.
A lamb lights upon the searing dark-light torch...kill them all with glee
No pity or remorse towards humans humanity human nature,
we are disgusting creatures until I cease thinking about us.
Then we are interesting and subject to more discovering and journeying.
Take the child and expose it to everything at once; it shrivels and mumbles distant screams of flaming cliches combined with a burning shot of plasmatic soul searching. How would we approve of such?
Inside the black brown shriveled parchment child-casing: The other children are ignorant. My crooked cracked being shivers disgustingly. I hate them instantly. Not hate. A rigid viscous feeling. Rip apart the sublime ape. She-he in all splendid obsession. Strive, then, no more to ape the emblems of the spirit that was, but evoke anew that spirit in modern life.
I, we trust none. Drama drama dramatic dramatically dramatical in all appearances, but truly flat-line non expressionist.
I love only once.
Burn them and their wicked kindness.
I will soothe my satisfactions and live love only once.
My Muse is the riptide chainsaw hackslash terror of our generation. Reveling in the natural ones. The rocks scrape phrases up of graves and trees wickle waveringly with pleadings of insane sleeps.
How beautiful is nature. That it can reduce us to nothing at all and raise us upon our grandest delusions.
I love to despise of women's voices. Androgyny is revelation worthy. Epiphany causing in romanticism.
I love to desire my emotional and mental consumption.
she is grandeur made flesh
epiphany constituted within reach
glorious
******** you sweet, sweet ********
this soul will rest
not mine, not ours
it will take rest and tendril itself through all
love commissions such things
what ****** soul
She I Cannot Resist
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
slight music
quite instrumentals slither through the space
now an ethereal silence and a curled, gnarled hand rest at the table
weather-worn pockmarked face twitch
a common occurrence
a scene worthy of a masterful painter
the air sighs, not in sound but in feeling
it is demure, languid,
a seamless bond of hunched figure and wispy breaths
a heart feels light and hollow with pulsating winds surrounding it
a man's hide tingles, prickles
pores gently widen in anticipation
a boxed room
a shackle room
dark, yet for the dim lantern
and a speckling of pinpoints in ever shifting pupils
patterns shift with tightening skin, hackles raised
billowing smoke against snarling and jolting
our West is not kind
a child stumbles with its chittering and chattering, back into its hole
an equalizer delicately rocks upon the floor
hot in its despondence and billowing smoke barrel
the metal becomes cold, uncaring; what despair was impacted upon it has left, as is the same with all objects subject to human emotion
Old blood sleeps in the shackled room
with chattering mumbling children in their holes
life is but glorious process, while we all wish for results
how deplorable
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC