"auricular" poems
You wouldn’t let my feet touch ground
until side A died out
and the pirouette ceased.
We laid there in our Analog Atlantis
staring beyond the ceiling
letting the soundscape crash over us
and cascade into auricular orifices.
Our bodies lifted from the mattress,
floating up and up—
past the ceiling, past the trees,
past the planes and clouds,
past the stars and planets—
into the ether we fantasize about
in our synchronized dreams.
Til the sound waves receded,
and our bodies washed up along the shore,
our contours molding into impressionable sand,
turning our gaze to one another—
the needle lifts from the wax
and returns to rest,
the platter ceases its cycle,
the speakers die—
and instead of feet touching ground,
I flipped over to side B.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
I watched the fan blades rip furiously
on the pale ceiling of my snug room
The *********** of silent airwaves
in auricular, circulatory fashion.
The hum of electricity burning steady
trance inducing
I feel eyes wired poster boys
for a sleepless mind.
Thoughts and conscious dreams of
Life:
Incessant,
Voracious,
Alive.
Above small town fantasies:
an Artist.
I'm an artist, by God!
I don't have time to sleep!
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Lightly airbrushed girls, they tie ribbons in
their hair. Speak of innocence as they kneel
to their own affairs and softly say their
prayers. Skeletons and piano keys,
porcelain, extraordinarily white
and wary to be played, so unlike your
auricular thoughts. Grimoires and cairn like
symphonies, we’re wanting to be repaired.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 2:13 PM UTC
Smoke scintillated by ***** lights
Scent of cheap beer and cigarettes
Arms and legs and heads and butts
mashed
mangled
mingling
In a space ejecting bravado
responding to the auricular bludgeons
plucking veins and boiling blood
arms and legs flailing like spiders
hammered by raindrops
Calloused voices scream through feedback
eking out of anguished amplifiers
while jungle drums synchronize hearts
to their frantic pulse
New friends old friends celebration
in sweaty embraces chanting screaming
stumbling outside the gates of eternity
sidewalk where we gathered round the sordid soapbox
and cast beleaguering gargantuan buildings
and endless cataclysmal streets
into abeyance
to prance along these old sidewalk cracks
stumbling along cigarette butts and beer cans
efflorescing under amative neon lights whose bombinate glow
tingles our skin and dazzles our eyeballs
rolling back into our skulls in the wake of ecstasy
billowing over our ambulant bodies
Friday nights
Saturday nights
Sunday nights
skipping school on a week day
braving city night life to find us in the nooks
they forgot to sweep out
where trash collects and pretends
to be unwavering and implacable
for a moment
Til it's back on the streets we spill out upon like puke
like the beer sticking to checkerboard floors
and we float home on the feedback high singing in our ears to sleep
dreaming of these ecstasies as something perennial
in punk lover's dreams
Pure when we're filthy.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC