creased like a greek piece, at
least the fleece is free from it's one eyed beast.
you look like a magic man
your salmon hands waving
eternally bathing in the wax remains,
masks and games, claims the same as bees in your brain.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
Soft and turning the thing beneath the
tortured skull shouting at itself from a four story
window into the cavernous place behind the bloodied
face.
Tricking yourself into doing nothing at all.
Fold the washed letter and place it into your appendix where it
can gestate into the form I meant it to take.
What's the use into downloading into words of a language a thing
that doesn't belong there?
Like waves into bricks and paint to pixels
it is trying.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
Something about the way
I can't seem to keep my skin in place,
it most likely wants to escape.
So now i'm skinless, naked in a new way.
Another thing I forgot to say
as the grass becomes itself in a mirror under ground.
Too much to possibly be satisfied with the
incoherent twitching I produce.
Nothing of use to be found beneath my
ancient rotting flesh or in my boiling
bubbling brain, whose melted contents
pour from my mouth like a spoiled soup in a broken
static-producing radio broadcast.
Dirt of a time when the walls were built from
HUMAN FLESH.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Misplaced orb squeezed between
ringed fingers, a mass of palpitating flesh.
I'll look like water when kicked square in the jaw, fluidity from
a faucet in a burned out kitchen.
Filth and grime and a mouth whose
rhyming can't become anything else
but a nest of mechanical insects that
explode from your quivering teeth.
Also the thing about abrasions is that
they can be concealed behind the curtain like something from
olden theaters
(HIDE AND SEEK)
(PREY ON THE WEAK)
(SINGS FROM HIS SLEEP)
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
Soft and light
(a dream at night)
This is the only thing , the
secondary sky above, the
afterthought that walks into a cellophane box.
That is home in the glowing of taste,
like the nuclear waste.
Spare my lungs you can rob the
head and intestines and heart
and my bones filled with objects but please let me keep
my rotting lungs
at least for a time
to catch my breath and continue scratching nonsense
into empty bright spaces caught between those wonderful
wings at the end of a disaster.
Can you see the movement in my eyes?
Those are the snakes albinistic that
twist behind my eyelids, the slaves of the old gods.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
It was all in smoke.
A reminiscience of Vietnam, the
time before
that defied what was hence.
And here we were at the pinnacle, the salt of all the earth's accumulations.
Her own spawn who
turned back to the sorcerer,
the cloaked shaman who worshipped the cave bear and scratched his visions
on the walls of his prehistoric domain.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
I now know that I am composed entirely of paper and
wax, and the strings that hold my
body up on my paper feet are fastened with
knots to my heart.
And from the wax heart to your hands that twist the
strings about and my wax limbs and my wax hands
dance like the jointed segments of a
forgotten marionette.
The sound of rocks falling onto a wooden floor
caught my attention as I sat
in that attic with my strings draped upon the floor
waiting for years and years and years and years for
something that I could not name
and now the wooden head is tied in it's own kinds of knots.
Say the words but then it
will become apparent what cavernous space has been filled.
But remain and the valleys and caves will remain
as well.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
What an indescribable mess I have made myself into,
toppling over my own heels
falling over my feet in a spinning whirling whoop.
Can you hear the comical horns as I begin my descent?
Bulging pupils as I see myself
hoping not to bust into flame at the sight of you.
Carnivore my third glaring eyes is
(and yours too, I could imagine)
but lacking is the verbal commencement
the proclamation that is called for when doing such business
on this field of what there is.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
Back and forth,
Back and forth,
Between being too much and
saying too little,
and at the center of all of this
the core of what you know.
Peeled and glowing
radiation from the dimensional seeds.
Say too much, but too much is
all there is and you understand
that the sting of a disgusted or worse
sympathetic face
is not worth the freeing of
words that scratch your
throat and
pound their crumbling walls in the nemesis head for
freedom from the
human wall.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC