Mar 2013
I
Crested by the infamous gown
during a tribute to all digestible,
sentient,
grown strips of light
playing splatter off the sockets
of fishermen birds,
who can no longer ignore all
the puppy dogs and kitty cats canned
in squeeze tubes.
Now every corner of this landscape--a puzzle-piece room
designed to think in shades
and seasonal plume dances.
The usual beautiful* late evening
has become clotted with hip hop Down's Syndrome
mixed with jazz Dual-Personality Disorder.
Vampire Hades' skull evacuated of ****** power,
a scene of literal watercolor
where moods collage with paper rings
on their stubby tongues. An unfixed saturation,
clean oils
split
like the parting of hair
Alice's pirate boy, her beauty is parched of tomorrow,
a wolf for a blood-red moon
that works like a farmer
to
the water.
Let us all that are wild
quote the stormy truth that shifts the particles in space
"It is all in the direction a flower grows,
educating a sea of doubtful faces--to the cruelty of nature
Close the brutal mind,
unless your eyes are flame-proof, Alice."
--It is yours to consume
but it is relatively us that belongs to the consequences--
Churning coffee water,
reenacting romantic bloodshed
to addicts in attics
--jostling war heroes
back to this side of the looking glass.
--coming back to their tempest
of cremated breaths--a den with no one
to sing with.
Sad Alice,
always sad Alice--mud on her face from the Dead Sea's end
of immortality because Death is albino.
II
The top of the day,
negative space
has a dying voice as it lies under the boot
of the night sky
watching stars.
"Simply tomorrow is right there
above the mortals," Sweet Alice
speaks, "To the many heavens
its overpopulating the fields."
The earth needs its cotton blankets.
Fresh air accents symptoms --dancing on slick gravel
at 10:18 at night with a pale, pompous view of someone else's Paris.
Crocodile roads spit up by patterned archipelago drags,
updating the scream, "think more about going off the edge of hair and the last number
after twenty shots of anesthesia." The culture of Spanish sun denial devolves
the fig tree
novel delights.
99% of the fear that saturates the throats of people is a blonde tumor.
1% of the love is too passionate to contain the fires of field cotton.
III
end of immortality
accepts her trying to escape her pirate boy
but tones of nostalgia prevents the revival--a war with God, herself,
trying to escape looping Paradiso,
factory vents malfunctioning forth
the guts of Inferno. Purgartorio plots on
erased continents
rolled down lamp shades/ everything is useful,
waste nothing.
Republics spawned in damp pits stamp bargains on trust
ringing each solo anthem as one: I saved you,
feeble beast.
I saved you,
dear lonely and you didn't care.
I reserved us both
and you cast me back
into Dante's imagination.
I saved you,
you feeble child
and you burned
me with your
world.
Weaving Alice, calm Alice lies in a dingy on the river Styx,
cobwebs fit to her feet like rank shoes
she gave her children when they were born malnourished
---starved of insurance money, mouths agape
for the silk heart of their father--an image of a moth in the shape of a human pelvis
with alligator mouths on the wing tips. They shared
--Alice and him--those wings like scribbles tied together on chalkboards
--places to venture--
Your Wonderlandia, she spells, a wasp's nest
of combs
in a hive locked
in with the others--concave atlas skies.
Alice smiles with inebriated
country boys
tossing comrades in the natural flow.
Richly blonde Alice, admires the impression
of the night
once charred dreams,
now volcanic forests.
She glides on a dingy
across the luscious joy
--lubricated veins in atheist's beliefs
don't get lost here, just new places to venture.
Beneath malicious eternity, on the River Styx
the boy she adores
all of a sudden, she steals his hat,
looks into his double-barrel eyes,
sees how sad
she makes herself --like a mother tired of brushing
her daughter's hair, looming tears
extend beyond widows
to the water.
The pirate boy says
his friend isn't far up the river--she cries through her hand.
Hopeful Alice prays, smiling, hoping everyone goes to Wonderlandia.
The pirate boy never finds his friend
but keeps his promise
and takes her away from Euphoria
--the cranium loss still fresh.
Crested by the infamous gown
during a tribute to all digestible,
sentient,
grown strips of light
playing splatter off the sockets
of fishermen birds,
who can no longer ignore all
the puppy dogs and kitty cats canned
in squeeze tubes.
Now every corner of this landscape--a puzzle-piece room
designed to think in shades
and seasonal plume dances.
The usual beautiful* late evening
has become clotted with hip hop Down's Syndrome
mixed with jazz Dual-Personality Disorder.
Vampire Hades' skull evacuated of ****** power,
a scene of literal watercolor
where moods collage with paper rings
on their stubby tongues. An unfixed saturation,
clean oils
split
like the parting of hair
Alice's pirate boy, her beauty is parched of tomorrow,
a wolf for a blood-red moon
that works like a farmer
to
the water.
Let us all that are wild
quote the stormy truth that shifts the particles in space
"It is all in the direction a flower grows,
educating a sea of doubtful faces--to the cruelty of nature
Close the brutal mind,
unless your eyes are flame-proof, Alice."
--It is yours to consume
but it is relatively us that belongs to the consequences--
Churning coffee water,
reenacting romantic bloodshed
to addicts in attics
--jostling war heroes
back to this side of the looking glass.
--coming back to their tempest
of cremated breaths--a den with no one
to sing with.
Sad Alice,
always sad Alice--mud on her face from the Dead Sea's end
of immortality because Death is albino.
II
The top of the day,
negative space
has a dying voice as it lies under the boot
of the night sky
watching stars.
"Simply tomorrow is right there
above the mortals," Sweet Alice
speaks, "To the many heavens
its overpopulating the fields."
The earth needs its cotton blankets.
Fresh air accents symptoms --dancing on slick gravel
at 10:18 at night with a pale, pompous view of someone else's Paris.
Crocodile roads spit up by patterned archipelago drags,
updating the scream, "think more about going off the edge of hair and the last number
after twenty shots of anesthesia." The culture of Spanish sun denial devolves
the fig tree
novel delights.
99% of the fear that saturates the throats of people is a blonde tumor.
1% of the love is too passionate to contain the fires of field cotton.
III
end of immortality
accepts her trying to escape her pirate boy
but tones of nostalgia prevents the revival--a war with God, herself,
trying to escape looping Paradiso,
factory vents malfunctioning forth
the guts of Inferno. Purgartorio plots on
erased continents
rolled down lamp shades/ everything is useful,
waste nothing.
Republics spawned in damp pits stamp bargains on trust
ringing each solo anthem as one: I saved you,
feeble beast.
I saved you,
dear lonely and you didn't care.
I reserved us both
and you cast me back
into Dante's imagination.
I saved you,
you feeble child
and you burned
me with your
world.
Weaving Alice, calm Alice lies in a dingy on the river Styx,
cobwebs fit to her feet like rank shoes
she gave her children when they were born malnourished
---starved of insurance money, mouths agape
for the silk heart of their father--an image of a moth in the shape of a human pelvis
with alligator mouths on the wing tips. They shared
--Alice and him--those wings like scribbles tied together on chalkboards
--places to venture--
Your Wonderlandia, she spells, a wasp's nest
of combs
in a hive locked
in with the others--concave atlas skies.
Alice smiles with inebriated
country boys
tossing comrades in the natural flow.
Richly blonde Alice, admires the impression
of the night
once charred dreams,
now volcanic forests.
She glides on a dingy
across the luscious joy
--lubricated veins in atheist's beliefs
don't get lost here, just new places to venture.
Beneath malicious eternity, on the River Styx
the boy she adores
all of a sudden, she steals his hat,
looks into his double-barrel eyes,
sees how sad
she makes herself --like a mother tired of brushing
her daughter's hair, looming tears
extend beyond widows
to the water.
The pirate boy says
his friend isn't far up the river--she cries through her hand.
Hopeful Alice prays, smiling, hoping everyone goes to Wonderlandia.
The pirate boy never finds his friend
but keeps his promise
and takes her away from Euphoria
--the cranium loss still fresh.
