Peter Christian Ness

Peter Christian Ness Jan 2014

For
Against
01100101011
on/off
in/out
dead/alive
deaf/blind
through/between
Every cross
on every road
Viddy the screen
&
let the sun evaporate
every tear

Peter Christian Ness Jan 2014

Magnulomaniacal

Apollo illuminates Dionysus with a cutting laser edge carving meringue mosaics
into the nebulae.
I'm enslaved by the concept of the interstellar
on the edge of the bed, my feet tapping into nothing as willful seizures
bring ****** sensations to my center, now nothing but a distorted face endowed by contrast
of shadow on black and white 35 mm film.
What a wonderful, heinous thrill it is to be so utterly and completely lost in the transcendence from the heart of darkness to the glow of a thousand suns, humming the beat of a million drums, attempting to attain some kind of summary, even though you know all too well where the stellar direction of man's folly has lead to before.
Wicked...yes.
Someone, somewhere
Anyone, anywhere
No one, Nowhere.

I run around in circles
like a stray dog.
Kicking a ball down Cedar Hill road.

Peter Christian Ness Jan 2014

Note to Self

A strict director yells at his actors
and ask them to trust his creative decisions
because he thought of them
while he was high.
Trust me, Peter!
It's funny

Peter Christian Ness Jan 2014

Isotel

The Prophet stretches in wrenching pain
across the continent.
We travel south across His chest
where Roman spearheads
have cut into the landscape.
Scratches in somewhat healed asphalt
and burnt forests in a pathetic wasteland of violence
and decay.
East and west, trailing hundreds of strained veins
toward nails like pins on a map.
Seek out the latitude on
elliptical scopes
in honor of something.
The Slave
and
The Savior

Peter Christian Ness Jan 2014

Sound & Fury

The lunar eye looks straight at her
From which level of Dante's of hell does this allegorical figure ascend?
She sings perfectly. Not a chord off scale, not a single octave too high or too low, minors, majors, sevens and suses, yet the distance between performance and performer grows like canyons in continental plates. How does she sing so beautifully? But yet, something is missing. A sorrow, a fury, a hate that burns for miles, and a love that wants nothing in return; eyes that properly protrudes the profound passion of human horror.

So she throws herself savagely at the world, to seek out life's horrors in the hollow souls of every unholy ghost in purified form, profound suffering and endless sickness. Birth, death, disease, loss, love and life itself, knowing that everything else is expendable, because what does not make us itch beneath our feet or stir turmoil in our minds is of no relevance.
The Duende will find his way inside her marrows. He will fester on her cords and well up her eyes with ecstatic enlightened tears of exploding color, because life came caterwauling, yet here she stands.

She breaks into song once more
The Devil burns inside her now.
And the well of her wisdom boils with the Sound and Fury of Humanity.

Peter Christian Ness Jan 2014

Rolling Barrage

Classes clash and collapse in collective implosion

The lower estates plant their insignia
ostentatiously on heaps of men
after storming the Bastille
to make way for the malady of the mitrailleuse
and celebration of Entente supremacy.

Clemenceau rise in rank as the
bodies of Flers-Courcelette stank.
Villains of the Devil's backwash
Slap you lightly on the hand
before commanding your neck
to the narrow stand
of the Guillotine.

Blood alone drives
the infinite rolling barrage of atrocious folly.

Liberté, égalité, fraternité

**Keep calm
and
carry
on

Peter Christian Ness Jan 2014

The Tale of Bobby Tumulus

I remember a story, it starts at fourteen.
I had a crooked back and low self esteem.
I was afraid I was gonna end up in a ditch somewhere.

I had to devise myself a plan
of which direction to go if **** hit the fan
and I knew my mother wanted a prodigy child

So I figured I could sing or get really smart,
but my voice would crack and my mind was dark,
so I decided, in this crazy world,
that I could rob graves.

So I left home when I was sixteen
my boredom peaked and my senses keened
I grew with a morbid fascination with the dead

It started out
me figuring that
they wouldn’t miss their dimes, their shoes or their hats
I tramped on the dusty trail with an evil eye

As I ended up along the borderline
I met another young man who had gone insane.
He just got back from the war.
Like he said: “I’ve seen some things.”

So we rode together for quite a while
in the dust on the trail for a thousand miles
until one night, we came upon an unmarked grave.

My partner fumbled around in his pockets
evading worms and maggots from his sockets.
He turned around and looked at me with his crazy smile

It turned out what he found was a letter
and with this smile he said: “The dead have it better.”
So i reached out to grab it while the stench arose.

He handed it to me and on front and back
I read about this lonely, old, sad sack
who, being sick of life, ended up hanging himself.

This really put things into perspective for me
for the attention me and my partner was giving, you see,
was often more than these people received in life.

But one windy day the law caught on our path
and with a holstered gun me and my partner had
we stopped by a local tavern to wet our throats.

The law had converged in the front door
my partner flinched before I could do more.
And before I knew it he had bolted down for the gun.

Before I could say another word
he dropped to the floor and his fingers curled.
He rattled and faded away while I was restrained.

As I was lying on my stomach on the ground
I looked over and I heard a sound
It was my partner whispering his final words.

“The dead have it better.”