A Writing Process in Delirium
In case they come looking, I will pretend I don't see glitter
in the sky, because I do,
a crossed eyed believer
screams for you. "I want to go home now"

twenty-four years grieving
the past
present      future, I still don't know
who I'm missing

I've gone psychotic once again-- don't dare
turn round, they're coming for you
with rot blood
and a poor children's army

so I was told
Lucy is full of magic,
under the
insane asylum,
in all delirium
she left her body within a hollow
                                              willow tree

to become a dream walker
pacing deadfall manor, yet,
someday
you will understand
why we cannot build ivory towers
to heaven

someday you will understand
why the deciding fates
left emerald tablets for
daria's eyes, why they burn-- I don't know

I cannot make a move
without DMT and a heartbreak--
the critical axis
of creatures
connected to contrasted scenes

here I was told to burn the money,
"birth stars, instead"
but if you catch the ash...

Hell is a poet. roll it. smoke it.
look at all the glitter in the sky?

each moment is a myth
handed to people who
can no longer remember where they came from

I have too many, they pile up
like tangled chrysanthemums
beating out each others
beauty in the pursuit of the virgins sun-- Edger Keela

Edger Keela said
moments matter-- in fact, 15 minutes from now
I will look up and mourn
another lost
trip
trip
trip trip

knowing that the only time I cry
is when clarity and alchemy forget one another,

true love
is a twisting light, I bow my head
when I speak, I lay down
and write with my tongue, my lips

but willow
can't sleep       why can't willow sleep?
on white sheets
of unwritten life lines

I've come to understand
nothing but secrete doors, as if
reality was hidden behind them;
words of pitch black can be found, here
the house is on fire...
we set ourselves on fire on fire on fire,we write.



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The Life and Times of Johnny Behave
This is because you wanted
to be a human God

of bodies. of degradation,
a violent flower
and witness to
humanity dying
                on the hard chest
                of a dirt ground

to be a God, give up your ways
and dare to tell me of love,
sacrifice compassion
anymore than a
whisper,

                        a vicious
                  pain that brings
      with it inhuman screams, sounds

so guttural
the onlookers
will cover
their ears
in an attempt
to lessen
the horror
of their own fright,  

      until a jaw is broken and incapable of audible speech patterns,  
leaving the only language left to be made
a gurgling unknown
tinged with a coper wetness,
listen,
          it tells a story of escapism from the lost crisscrossed
paths of unmapped crossroads, veins of *******--  

and who should judge the wise blood for wanting to flee from a broken home?

to find air that can no longer
survive a hostile environment;

the people will not.
the discolored flesh will not

because flesh alone
opened its own doors when
the beatings
bashed
so loud that
it became impossible
to ignore the violence
of hate
ringing in the half
blackness

half opened eyes, a
slow motion blur
that only leaves
faces
abnormally
abstracted,

haunted
when vision
turns unkind

        and shows
        small strokes of clarity into
the deep
hollows that are never fulfilled
by watchers in the distance,

watchers in the distance
loyal to silence,
and when
omnipresent silence
cannot
stomach imagery
created by hungry fear

they will become

loyal to slammed doors, thumps
behind walls
or volume buttons
on remote controls, high music

the mamas
and the papas - -

but

never the one
left to wonder why
some people are the victims,
and others keep smiling.

though,
there was a wildfire
somewhere
in a killers heart
    
        that is
when the distance
of light ignited--

a matchbook,

history had called them stars, though
they are too
        hypnotic. deviant
in their ways, broken
diamond eyes

tasked to
observe
the observer;

I think, what ******
eavesdroppers,

do not speak to me
of them,

they are just like us
and I cannot condone immortality
after death, with the lights off?

the birth of them
are foolish--

but really, you should
stand your ground

this is a threat,
threats threaded together

because I cannot surely say
anything of my shame? in a day,
in a human?
what saturated rays
should make me recoil

                    I can see
                  whine tinted
                blinded angels  

like it was a
Sunday sweet liquid filling,
of innocence pouring sins
and

Hina, Hina, Hina
exploding
grand
****** golden suns, I

had seen the future time
we would reminisce of existence,

reminisce of existence

like an echo of harpy lungs
buried yet still contracting beneath

small childhood streets
that remind me
I am more alive
than when Daisy
and God
broke my own rib
          on the bottom
          of a concrete
          hilltop
and made a wish, a dream
out of it

leaving me the lesser kind,
how does it feel to be the lesser?
    this isn't a question,
    you already know
I know
I know
I know
        I am like a man
cataract to the greatness
that succumbs surrender,
      the anti- truth
    the Johnny behave
          
the strength  
that cannot save us,
muscle and tissue
yes
yes
          
  you should
                stand your ground,
the fall is coming
and has something
to **** for.

In case they come looking, I will pretend I don't see glitter
in the sky, because I do,
a crossed eyed believer
screams for you. "I want to go home now"

twenty-four years grieving
the past
present      future, I still don't know
who I'm missing

I've gone psychotic once again-- don't dare
turn round, they're coming for you
with rot blood
and a poor children's army

so I was told
Lucy is full of magic,
under the
insane asylum,
in all delirium
she left her body within a hollow
                                              willow tree

to become a dream walker
pacing deadfall manor, yet,
someday
you will understand
why we cannot build ivory towers
to heaven

someday you will understand
why the deciding fates
left emerald tablets for
daria's eyes, why they burn-- I don't know

I cannot make a move
without DMT and a heartbreak--
the critical axis
of creatures
connected to contrasted scenes

here I was told to burn the money,
"birth stars, instead"
but if you catch the ash...

Hell is a poet. roll it. smoke it.
look at all the glitter in the sky?

each moment is a myth
handed to people who
can no longer remember where they came from

I have too many, they pile up
like tangled chrysanthemums
beating out each others
beauty in the pursuit of the virgins sun-- Edger Keela

Edger Keela said
moments matter-- in fact, 15 minutes from now
I will look up and mourn
another lost
trip
trip
trip trip

knowing that the only time I cry
is when clarity and alchemy forget one another,

true love
is a twisting light, I bow my head
when I speak, I lay down
and write with my tongue, my lips

but willow
can't sleep       why can't willow sleep?
on white sheets
of unwritten life lines

I've come to understand
nothing but secrete doors, as if
reality was hidden behind them;
words of pitch black can be found, here
the house is on fire...
we set ourselves on fire on fire on fire,we write.

yesterday we bloodied our minds
In the pursuit of crystalline love and happiness,
a balance, I know

the movement you speak of is dark,
but celestial, the moment
is at twilight.    we cut our irises
with glass fractals
full of color
      falling from the out turned palms
      of a much more vast fragility
      that once was the body unshattered.


we have been blind for millenniums

the elderly
believe we hide the moon from them at night --
they say, they can see our
transcendence of spirit even with the
transplanted steel they now have
for lookout posts,
        this frightens them,
          so candles are lit,
                antique
opaque prayers are uttered
        In frequencies

when we wake up, fingertips
crawl through graveyards of dead Gods
and redemption. this was redemption


Because our mind is a Fortress of light,
Those in the depths
climb
indigo mountains
with gnarled teeth,
         reapers.
                              down the mountain
                                   down the mountain.

gazing upwards, towards deities.  we
marvel at them because they believe if we exist,
anything is possible

        
here now, they call for you
lovely. such lovely names we thought were lost

yet, In birth we scream at
maturing generations
For allowing their aging souls of belief to
Open wide and swallow the new craze of doubt
In a strange house made of what is seen and not seen--

They look down at us,
Kiss our empty electric sockets, as
they hum lullabies
teaching small things to
hush
  hush
    hush.

What was said.?
My time here is dire,
One night it will be told
                The order of things,
When it's quiet
Sometimes knowledge is violent.

Silent.
Bodies of heavy

Left to slumber with their thoughts--It's mouth ripped off
Obey the taker, the giver of tanzanite crowns


assume not to keep it
A sharp knife at my hip, at your
Throat-- oh my

Morality has gone
Gone gone,

In the morning we plead
Forgiveness, fill our holed sacks with grain
for the winter and force upon our backs
a chest of liquor      wooded wine to sooth disease,
before attaching our hooded masks
to their bedpost

Leave without telling them why.

the mother's and fathers
Will keep gold in their pockets
and a noose around the next life they choose to live,

if we come back we will take heed
of each broken neck that failed to see
the compass of their bones

Because we were always looking down
when we preyed on Grace, waking
and dying--
Both found home inside the same second
our awareness was alive--

Terror in the north
Terror in the east
Terror in the south
Terror in the west,

we saw love In a lost world,
then doubted its
Existence.

oems (48)
Ranked
Links
Gods and The Lesser Kind
They say,  come to the abyss,
the Abbadon, the back of beyond
a place that should be nameless

where condominium men
with cool blue eyes
gyrate coiled bodies
gesturing lambs
and lions,   seething
mean stories
sordid in their constitution,
spitting
bottle blades
******, but still shiny
from sore mouths-  and the girls,
they laugh,    They say,  

          come to the abyss,
the Abbadon, the back of beyond

where their lips
pale white,      cuss the sun, defiant,
longing for it to drop from a sullen sky
and into the decaying harvest
of their itching hands    stained cherry wine,
burning to kindle it firelight

near train tracks and trees,
the woods  rubber band their veined
branches, waiting for my
sweating flesh to melt out
by open flames,    an accomplice
to a crowd ignited,
                caught by
a sickening kind of fearlessness,
I don't feel good here

in the beginning,
boisterous, screaming

leapfrogging steel rods
with pupils the size of ponds
while others
are left lonesome,
staring at the hypnotic wonder light
that comes with a tremor
through stale bones
they never wanted

those people always come back
with their hands
and fingers
and fists   and arms
still alive
******* air
with a frantic disillusion,
digging for cheap thrilled
pennies in their jeaned pockets
just to watch a copper body
tossed into affliction,

hoping a God will come down
with the feelings of gold instead, but

I am out late at a blue hour
there are no saints or deities
when swallowed drunken, I will not worship
in this kingdom,
swollen bright, layered with gloss,
the hemisphere of this realm is split in halves
to be seen twice like duality,
reminding me
there aren't idols high enough
to live in my heavens,
nor darlings too sweet
not to ******--   these prayers are damp
and intimate. not meant for a drop of water
over the complete sea
or the illuminated commander of a tide, no

for now
I'm feeling human, which
disturbs the transcendence of the grounded sort,
now all I hear is a disembodied      run

run
because the people here
remind me that I will always search for
something without knowing what it is,      run
because they are too close to who I am,

all of us can be seen
lynching limp smiles
from the top of our scalps,
left to sway
halfheartedly
in a grave gesture
of love
sent to the spirit of midnight
who unravels freedoms
and happy notions,

injecting calm dreams
into the arms of slumped and melancholy
purple silhouettes --  a rush of warmth

silent culture, shamed culture,

believing they don't have **** to say,
deadened people

their backs
are down
hard,
almost panting in language,
with a heavy thumping protest
of indecision,
which in the end is a decision
that will betray them, and I am
no different than the last

smacking their bodies
smooth into rough, pulling
on short toughs of grass grown in a clearing,
happily burning greens because
everybody's starving,
I'll die feeding a plentiful hunger.

when it's over,
we are whaling Kerouac lullaby's

a consumed and sallow generation,  
unknowingly gutted
by a clawed sadness,
heeding the suggestion of sedation
to ensure survival--
******, but pretty alive,    ****
is the new love, is a numb love

there's something terribly wrong here

we must look
gruesome to you, Visceral
exteriors,
nauseous,
prodding the hot metal
that fills the chasm of our teeth,
crying a choppy
metallic haunting
shaking like factory machines
and their overworked bodies
heaving chained clunks
through the throat

wishing for goodness
in between bile, to take up communion
where open spaces
are too cold and seeking

an unholy embrace,
otherwise ethereal,
unafraid of sacrifice,
I'll give you what's left of me--
                   you don't know what you've done,
whenever we touch,
it is always an absolution of life

a forfeiture      a creature to shoot
and put down when perceived
to be the lesser kind-  
             angry and hostile
in my own environment

asking why small gods
the size of bullets allow the fearful
to be their messengers,
who tell the people of neon
to Pacific
that runaway consciousness
is a rebellion of truth

yet,  no answer will ready me,
history says I can't keep straight,
if ever you came looking for my life,
I still wouldn't know the difference between living and dying--
the back of beyond is so far away
and the Abbadon is a war that never ends.

it was
                                                                ­                                                              Des­demona




                                                 deceiver of new Edens
                                                           ­ 
                                           left black fields        flooded
           by the sewage coming from the open wells cut into her skin.
I've been here before. A place where saints can be violent, and still   pleading
                                              for father, please, let me go?

he releases.

Desdemona follows,
dragging her corpse
through the minds
that unhinge
for the cold mechanics
of violence;

how the Savage
                            tick
                            and sputter
their jagged gears.        how the human bits,
human bang bang
counts to an unknown number,
waiting
for Desdemona to click her tongue

to spit out
to splatter
wingless
hysterical angels
across the walls of liberty

who with flaming swords
in their hands, slay
to the bellows
of a martyr's sweet rendition,
muttering
words of annihilation,
scavenging for faithful men

that
from the droning
of hissing solicitors
become fettered
to the yin
of fractured knowing
underneath skies
of starry nobility

                                                       ­                                                                 ­ Desdemona



sees this country
through a thimble

knows the name
of every state,
every citizen  that assumes
today, they will be protected
by glory
and that tomorrows
list will not get longer
with each new birth
stamped
American,
maybe It's American.?

this fleshy
and gentle
citizen soldier

quickly taught
to remember
their place
In this

grand Nation,

already paying
the tithing
of mind
and
body
cleaned
in a kitchen sink
       baptised

in the plasma of terror
with the wet
hands
of good hearted parents
commercially radicalized
by tv frenetic
freedom mobs,

fleshy

gentle

soldiers

remember to take
until swollen, because


there lives a longing,
and there lives
other monsters
caste in lighter
shades of violence.



                                             America. You eat your own children.
                                                America­, that dines more divine
                                                     when there is a different
                                                                ­    heathen
                                                     ­      at the dinner table,
                                          
                                                             Land of the brave,
                                                              yo­u worship fear.


                                                         ­                                               American Desdemona
does not know
of her own death song,
she leaves the grieving
alone to paint a tableau
of future Gods
to spring from barrels
sprouting
beheaded bouquets of metal
seen in the slow motion chaos
crawling in the gallery
of methadone media.

the harbinger of all things
seemingly unimportant,

who's orders
are definite



urging stillness.    



to sit with them in the   quiet   room
where lamenting will not be heard

told hush in the morning,

why the **** are you screaming.?
this is the ******   quiet     room

this is existence, this is what surrounds us.
                 "What did you see?"

said
the ones warned to behave
in the silence of tragedy,
But are still sent to the
purgatory
of tin rooftops
in the midwest
or a brick cloud by the shore

bouldering their fists
to beat bright punctures
into the sky
before the eleventh hour
pushes them down eternal twilight.

here again
are the bells that toll
with the kind sound of ammunition

with the voices of
all those disagreeable people
moaning
their grim
disenchantment
for yesterday's sorrows


who stay up late, dizzy
and red faced, shouting
about the guns
of politics,
shouting
about the guns
of politics,
vomiting guns guns guns
and political despair
throwing their voices
out of windows
broken
by
expletives
twisted in the
left over red lights
that bathe rallies
in mayhem
to be taken back
to small boxes
where
young
and numb lips
smoke turpentine
   after *******
to political ****

No longer shocked by politicians
who remind the masses about
9/11 jumpers
falling
to the concrete
in ten
second
intervals

they want you to
remember terror in the 10,000

Terror.

get down on your knees
and bow to obsession--


accept this
as indulgence

for what it is,

you live to be whole
but revoke
the thoughts
you inact in a soft blanket
of cerebral vices.

This is what purity
seeks in the wilds,    

bloodwood virginity
wet with the constitutional lust
of victimless moaning
victimless crimes

oh

holy holy
I arch my back for you
I bend for you
I writhe painlessly
with every moment that passes
your gun can lay at the alter of my temple,  surly
it will be an anointed dimming

a secret that is kept in the chest
of dual gatekeepers
who yearn for unison
and longs to tell the other,
     do not be afraid

Or,    Don't you dare
stand in front of
a podium, condemning
slaughter like a daily prayer
at the dinner table,      prayer

that sounds like faith
and God splitting in half, prayer
which has always been
a plea to change life
into what we think it should be

like the once happy

Elitists,
now soft belly sickened
by the obscured notion
of protecting
the people they
claim as their own, if only?

apostates
of folklore,
weren't so full
with grievances,
with their
own wars

brooding and
burdened by lax limitation,
seething angry
at
the great agenda

utterly raging

against the talking mouths
too loud with
freedoms thoughts,    swelling
with maddening repetition
and promptly ridiculed
into the execution
of sentimental insanity,

crazed

enough
to arm themselves with something
that does not feed the machine
in the pursuits of destroying it.




                                                         ­                                                                 ­  this is
                                                                ­                                                       Desdemona

that seeps into the burrow
of a throat

is the auditory creeping
that dredges a chemical longing

until everyone is gasping
at the horrid image of death,
or in the middle of a vitriolic
death cry

only accepting finality
if the afterlife
proved to be as infinite
as a blue sky slitting itself open
to let in the burnt offerings of the sun.

And no one will ask,

what have you taken to the inferno.?

flesh and blood,
That which is not yours.


bodies for the dead, you say.
well, how many?

not everyone
has a key
to the quiet room

away from the decidedly
unlucky,

we
Will be the ones
behind the locked door
pretending
she is not
on the other side,
unhindered by her cracked skull,
she is listlessly
heaving
dissected torso
through
junkyard corridors
collecting the dead
for tomorrow's congregation

who have become
sinfully reincarnated
by the flesh
of their own belief,
or fed into zombie culture
to sing and sway
in the pews, reciting

My people
I love you.

my God!
do I love you.
do I love you.

My God,
my Desdemona, I love you.