Peter Christian Ness

Peter Christian Ness May 2014

Ismism

All tools are ******* symbols in the eyes of the disillusioned.
The mountains are phalli, the valleys and coves, vulvae.
Cross country crotch rocket, crevasse stretching, rough landscape.
All interconnected, like the bluffs on the beaches, with holes right through.

Ismism
Feminism?
Masculinism?
*Equalism!

Peter Christian Ness May 2014

San Francisco Sound Frequency

Something happened
You don't know what

The Great Whine
The silence screams on Market Street
Between the sleepers, where the peddlers meet
Rock'n'roll stance break the fall
Head leaning sideways against the retaining wall
Stardust/Smog
Who could tell?

The slight thump of the body against the B.A.R.T. station floor
A voice choked with tears, kneeling, crying "what's going on?"
Bitten lips, tainted crimson red.
He crumples his jacket to support her head,
And prays.

Crackling coke can, consumed by the Castro
The great pacific tempest roars. The Asphalt Maestro.
San Francisco Bay Bar Blues
What bricks collect in the murderous sun;
Dignity
Fear
A pattern obscured by a shadow cast
Nowhere to hide
In your animal hide
Exposed in full on the 24 carat divide
Of the Golden City.

From a cat's meow to a lion's roar
From a pistol shot to a world war

Peter Christian Ness May 2014

Veneer

We slip across the border, anonymous and unnoticed, just another tin can of rank sardines. The border patrol paid us little mind. Der Bünden Europa is not like America. This is the land where borders still exist merely on the map. An abstraction. An abstraction, rightly belonging in the realm of the abstract. No all out profiling, no pandering or demeaning behaviour, just a slip. A slip, a slip, the thin veneer, that we all cross. Who could tell? I put my head through the window, and with the punch of one strong breeze passing, we rage full on into Deutschland.

Short excerpt from my work-in-progress, "Elliptical Scopes."

Peter Christian Ness May 2014

Ode to Politickych Veznu

Ten Koruna rooms,
****** doused in red light. Purple, then blue.
Sickness and health dancing
In the street to the thumping bebop of the night
Veins and heads filled to the brink with:
Crank,
smack,
****,
goofballs,
Neon lights.
The bad ***** is optional.
The city twists and bends in the chrysalis night, uncoiling.
Azure skies of deep summer, polluted
Only by the glare of candles
In living souls on slow pavement.
They burn, burn, burn, bury their heads
In thrills and friends.
They burn until there is nothing left,
But a white speck of off white wax sizzling
Away in the darkness.

Ode to the wonders of Prague, Czech Rep.

Peter Christian Ness May 2014

The Birth of the Ether, or the Rise of Human Disconnection

We can always arm ourselves, said Epicurus; against all sorts of things, but when it comes to death, we are under the constant, universal misconception that we are somehow able to emerge from our defenseless citadel unscathed.
Step outside the citadel
singular obscurity.
Medulla Oblongata.

Listen...listen...RATS!

Send in the snakes!

The door slams
Sisyphus' boulder
Into the ocean
Splash-ripple, dripple, burn the strip.
Abort the trip!
A Singular Obscurity
...

#of #stream #conciousness #albert #camus

Peter Christian Ness Apr 2014

The *** Stain Massacre

My bed is a mass grave
My toilet is a mass grave
My kitchen sink is a mass grave
Stretched out in lines of chrysalis coke, choking the evanescent life that could have been. Straight into the empty Coca Cola can you go. A litany of atrocity in every bed, futon, desks, truck stop bathroom, camera lens, attempting to capture the genocide on film.
Alas, the lens is Covered with white, bioluminescent death.
Choking the unborn in the ****** drain.
Coffee mug refill, for but a single dime,
sweaty palms connected to strained veins on wrists,
connected to thrusting elbows.
Firing wrist rocket, V2, V1, buzz bomb.
Unsuspecting future citizens, blocks of thousands at a time.
Tadpoles, rotting in murky basement suits the world over.
The war is on.
Auschwitz, Dachau, Sachsenhausen.
Arbeit Macht Frei.
Swim for dear life

Peter Christian Ness Apr 2014

Symbolitude

Stuck around in the board room meeting, ravenous and blissful, chugging down on freshly laid piles of rhetorical excrement, modes lingering in the air like Chernobyl.
Soon we will either have to evacuate
Or we will grow malicious twins on our shoulders
Two faced
Mind duality
Mode dynamic
Facetious solitude, always side by side with the proverbial circle ****
Of terminology, "lest ye be teriminated." White lies, loving, adoring, detrimental white lies.
Dead mythology
Dead language
Can you handle the live ones?
*Symbolitude