caveat! —bursting out as the fuse fetters away
wafting t'ward oil spills, tranquilized guns
with pace maker minds
and time to ****

sickle celled, graving shores
plead to crawl underground
through cascading bile and sedatives
that sift through these negatives
like bangled thieves
who crawl on broken knees
and lie idle under haunted bridges.

bouldered bones intertwine
or veins cut along a dotted line
caveat! cries the sayer's sooth,
for he says it scours and devours—
the slinking nightmare sleuth.

the tar is interrupted in carved equinoxes
soak in the crippled toxins
as the air becomes as thick as theophany
and tharm like grease in blood that take me in,
through ash and mud and
all the spider webs caving in
like delicate gorges forges beneath
nightmare sleuth reaching zenith

caveat, silhouettes
stretched out like oil in water
and this silicon tomb can hold me no longer
for i must break out before i am a goner
because it's a mistake that i'll never shake
your face turns opaque
and there was nothing in your eyes
but dripping flesh

wring out all your words for me
your jeers and your juries
but go cling to your crutch
your kings and your qualms
and the church that burns
in its hallow vacancy

for none can resist the urge
that thieves its delinquents from catatonic catacombs
and quagmire junctions
where the swamp will **** you in
and festering sweat sticks like guilt to your skin
and hell is a nightclub where every loss is a life
and heaven's a daydream with your neck to the knife
it needs no rhyme or reason
and every slip of your broken lip
just lose your grip and give in to the treason
would you rather burn at the stake
than suffer your cement heart break
with no reason or rhyme
it's just the weight of the season

backdrop collapse
railroads unfolding
and like a cell storm the train
is coming your way

and slinks away like a nightmare sleuth
it just takes one swipe of the claw
or one bite of the tooth
and it drags you in
feel the sidewalk sleeping
and the blinking lights creeping
above the overpass
and the cold wind reeling--
it'll be your last.

I had forgotten the way to the hut that I had traveled to so many times,
so many days. So many moons, I would say. But no one marks moons anymore, except hunters. And I am not one of them. Nor a gatherer.
I listen to old men tell how they felled the stags. I do not believe them.

I am a wayfarer, to use the archaic words I used to love, the words
I had forgotten, the words of time in eternity, the words of orange leaves
on towering pin oaks, the words of circles of shadows settling on Gavarnie, of snowfall in the Pyrénées. Sever Spain from the Continent.

I had lost the language of the *****, spray-painted sheep scampering
over gray-bouldered cirques on mountaintops, boulders turning into mountains in the shadows, in the fog, in drifts of snow. There are no words for this now. Bleating sheep drown them out, and yapping dogs.

There are no words for the radiance of transcendence. “Climb higher,”
I hear them say. Higher into the haze of clouds. Cirque: circle, circus. Acrobatics on hillsides, balancing acts on rockslides, skimming streams in hard-toed boots. I had forgotten the way to the words, far behind me.

I have come to a gate, a steep stile in shadow. No sheep can pass. Nothing looks familiar; nothing looks strange. I saunter in a cloud
of unknowing. I had known the words: worn, smooth as stone unscuffed by hard-toed boots, slick as snowmelt. Slide from France into Spain.

This is the path of Santiago de Compostela, the route of St. James, who said, “Do not be double-minded, brethren.” I cannot remember if I have been double-minded in my travels. I had forgotten the way. If the words do not come, which mind sees the threshold; which mind circles the fog?

What passes, what begins when we travel? I do not look backward.
The way lies ahead, waiting, wandering away from the words. Splotches
of lichen sprout orange and green. “Go no higher for safety.” No higher.
They do not mention exile or ecstasy or the straight path of radiance.

The cirque circles my words in mountain shadows. I must unlearn
the art of travel, adrift in broken fields of stone. I had forgotten the way to the hut. Rocks obscure the path. Light ensures the path leads upward. Nothing is lost. Words hold their weight. Stags dance above me in fog.

Crashing surf on roiling sands
Bouldered with volcanic might,
Westward storms howl from the sea
Battered seagulls shriek in flight.

Pale dune grasses thrash to leeward
Scattered shafts of milky light,
Wild and storm caste portraiture
Of cruel sea's eternal might.

Searching eyes across this tumult
Reaching gaze amongst the foam,
Sodden gown to clinging body
Frantic eyes in cold waves roam.

Desperately she seeks the lover
Hauntingly she calls his name,
Writhing seas consume her words
Crashing surf dispels the blame.

Sad solitude in loneliness
Outstretched slender arms so frail,
Yearning for that tender kiss
And for his cold, dead features pale.

Rain soaked ******* lonely outcrop
Railing at a raging sea,
Lost within unfeeling vastness
Unobserved by all...but me.


Marshalg
On the wild & remote, black sand beaches of Taranaki
20 November 2010

As i went walking one night to the graveyard,
I met an old caffeine head walking my way.
I told him quite gently but with undue emotion,
I will boulder on through him and leave him to lay.
He screamed at me slowly for fifteen long minutes,
I stood there and bore it, my eyes on his shoe.
He screamed of the mischief, the sadness and spirit,
I re plied at random,  then bouldered on through.

hypochondira and hyperactivity,
misguiding nouns.
                vinum bonum et suave,
bonis binum, pravis prave,
ave mundana laetitia!
          łyski - whiskey -
  łysy... itching to slap a skinhead...
so the question:
  what are the ad hoc parameters of
cogito ergo sum?
           i so wish to be given an
ad hoc clarity for certain maxims...
   in most instances they're bibles,
obscurity riddles them a hymnal status,
and that said: holy.
                i wan't to be given the ad hoc
instruction manual for certain
   eurekas...
               i'm told that the already stated
prefigures subjectivity...
            and that the subconscious
isn't merely a bystanders' experience of
puppetteering...
   insinuation sphere...
            just like i might add third party
inquisitors demanding of me that:
every dream has a hidden meaning behind it.
       so many have died trying to
create the uncoscious contraceptive...
this mental *******...
  this exploitative subconscious insinuation
puppet motivation...
                  the subconscious only exists
to create the other's drone capitalisation
   of fragility...
   the synonym of the subconscious
   within groundwork of making choices,
acknowledging ethic, is insinuation,
  spies and the alphabetical fixation on
  subversion, and all other subs- congregate.
           and it really does sound like nonsense
once the enemy's tongue is waggling...
                      some even called it the
omnivore safehaven...
   when in fact so much was prioritised
for dietary requirements...
                               that became bouldered
anorexic grey-areas;
    synchronised skeleton army
         tugging the chimeras of crimea,
shortened to the word: Krym.
knowing this tongue, i should be apt at
      forging any and all ethnic linkage with it
being expressed: i should be gagging
for a forthnight spent in las vegas!
                   but there's me, dreaming of a tartar steak.

On that warm pavement lang syne sings, on that silky water the present I breath in, on that cloth of heaven I weaved hereafter. A shelter for my glees, woes and reveries. I paused and found myself, I ground my sole to rest. On that path, in that bouldered, airy nest.

She was drawn to the center of the valley, where the night’s coolness lingered at sunrise. The sun lifted above the surrounding mountain peaks, silhouetting the hikers perched on bouldered precipices. Grounding herself into the concave depression, she closed her eyes as the others marveled at the sun. Her light was dawning within her.

It almost went unnoticed
The 10,000 stones you
Bouldered upon me
Kind of a weird flex
I thought as my
Shoulders cracked
Within the breath
Of that thought
A new thought
Actually no
I breathe
And say
“No”

I like to call this thought the
Great Unencumbering
As I take your hands
And move them
Very very very
Far from me
I’m talking 10k
Miles away
Just gone
With a
No

A great power I hold
One that you will
Never ever
Own

The road was winding it was something it never had
Love like a pedestrian came across telling me to leave fads and clads of Harlem Renaissance
Clutches of the evening cars were watching the scenery like the emollient evening sanctity
Clasps of the automobiles catching the stars too lost to fall from the cliff of subliminal fantasy
Gladly, I'm clapping forward untoward tomorrow is today
The story never ends, as long as it has a road and changes like flat tires like fickle women
Bouldered on the broken arrows of Cupid's quiver, stealing a glance across her shoulder
Changing the tears into wine, changing gears from behind such is the work of backstreet bromance
Street romance is full of plastic love, polluting the heart and the road too
The road was killing me and you, like a Scotsman in his kilt singing from hailing hills elegies
Snowstorms  and memories of lonesomeness grow cold when love brings the luminous light to the numinous ones
I wake up after all these dreams are put to a conclusion with drugs
Dinner sleep comes after afternoon, noon lies with the dawn
Drugs dawn on me, and it's already dinner
I've slept in the anarchy and chaos, afraid of my own thoughts
Sleep comes like a pacing sea, which you can hear in the darling darkness
Puerile cries, mewling, and puking follows life, or it can
I'm unsure and that makes me confused with sickness

(What we need most
is where we look the least)


I opened up
the big blue barrel
dumped out all our past , present
and future quarrels .

(Just so we could
disagree)

♤  ♤  ♤  ♤

There was
a landslide
          of
em(bouldered) words

A tsunami
         of
emotional waves
all come
crashing down

destroying
all the
encapsulated gains

(the days ,
the months ,
the tears)

the living years ,
now come to disdain

(When you tread on danger's angst
Your words tongue
the leaks in dikes)

(When the clouds come promissing drips
. . . . . . . . . . . .
but instead
it's dust you eat)

Then ,
my lapras dear ,
it's time
to end the years