"celluloid" poems
in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rinks
at ****** ******
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
falling through the sky
firing squads
that's the best
thinking of India
looking at popcorn stands
watching the bull get the matador
that's the best
boxed lightbulbs
an old dog scratching
peanuts in a celluloid bag
that's the best
spraying roaches
a clean pair of stockings
natural guts defeating natural talent
that's the best
in front of firing squads
throwing crusts to seagulls
slicing tomatoes
that's the best
rugs with cigarette burns
cracks in sidewalks
waitresses still sane
that's the best
my hands dead
my heart dead
silence
adagio of rocks
the world ablaze
that's the best
for me.
13.8k
Her warm words wash over me like a dope fiend daze... other voices boorishly buzz a cackle cacophony. At best they are the background noise of your existence.
bit players (endless layers) as she comes my way
**Your body pixilates in an ******* focus**, it bends, projects all else slowly into your frame, the deja vu of ****** tunnel vision. I struggle to speak as I stand before you.
All others condemned, reduced to extras in a celluloid daydream
they are arrayed for your adornment
set pieces that surround you in the cinema that is your daily divine saunter
body sacramental (those around you incidental) as she walks away
The subtext, the reflex, the ambivalent, ambient lighting
means nothing without you
**my arc, my carnal ******
any other epilogue is dystopian
cdh
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC
hand cranked
re-imagined 35mm slides
Rough Trade posters
on the wall
Pepsi and premade sandwiches
on the counter
aperture: wide open
he sees her often at the multiplex
there she flirts
from the third row; second seat
sheer blouse
hands in elliptical motion
pointing toward
silk chiffon shells
the invite in a tilt of her mouth
lip; gloss
eyes hidden from the light
a prayer before intermission
celluloid reliquary
reveals God's plans
lest her trifling with him
cause a miss in changeover
enraging his self-regarded audience
the walk back to his car
one long montage of her lacing up
May 24, 2023
May 24, 2023 at 10:02 AM UTC
The scattered words disturb the silence.
I prefer written pages with my left hand,
But it is trembling too much to write slowly
I miss him, his calm hands giving juicy oranges.
Shattered glass falls in slow motion,
Screams in the apartment,
Just the neighbor next door.
Another struggle,
Another soundless fracture
From the outside,
It’s not visible
What really hurts.
I have my refuge.
My piano and fingertips
Strike the rhythm,
Racing to speak in time.
What I want to repeat to myself
It isn’t lush or gentle,
Only barren,
like thoughts hung on a dry twig.
I trace figure eights,
Locked in a simple shape.
I stare and cannot fathom
The logic of a cold two plus two.
A thought-form circles
Around the blue planet.
Something pointing,
With its mercury finger.
It speaks in an unknown dialect
It shows the place to live
And huge fluorescent deserts.
The clouds’ minds —
A piece of earth
Soaked in different
Kinds of screams.
This is my blind chance.
I was born here.
In my mother’s paradise garden
Spinning in dawn’s glow.
Sometimes I just write
To ease personal and common guilt.
I hear tattooed numbers,
Granting citizenship of the lower caste.
And here,
The fresh scent of good life in the morning.
Blackbirds and thrushes fell silent.
My mother knows how to speak to them,
I know how to speak with trees.
Everything pulses,
On this small piece of earth,
Giving shelter to creatures
And stones no one throws.
I am here in a place I can happily bear,
Without cold speculation.
I can still dive into metaphors,
This is my greatest luxury,
The gift after so many disturbing lives.
It would be better to create a world
With only diverse breathing gardens.
I don’t need too much for living,
A naked soul is enough for me.
So, I am sitting in this landscape
And I peacefully hope
That my daughter will remember me tenderly
As I remember him, my father
And all who passed away.
The simplest thing is
The presence of every human being
It's like a celluloid film strip
Left behind the broken ribs
In the left ventricle of the heart
That never lies, never cheats me.
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
“Don’t consider my words the sick
ecstasy of a sick mind, but you are
for me perfection!”
- Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot
I remember
I can taste blood
on the roof of my mouth
I remember her face the first time
I asked her to coffee
when it rippled in a minor
hemorrhage of surprise
like the request was unexpected
but maybe
I hoped
hoped for
holding fiery cider in her hand
she was word and color transfused
when she spoke
she was celluloid and strawberry blond
and her smile looked like water
racing over rubies and the years
that I had waited
to meet someone like her
her hair was tied back
in a hurricane of dim gold
her voice spun out veins of thought
fluid and manic as magma
but brilliant like serrated ice
I remember
the cardial whiplash
when she said she would like to do this again
the sanguine dreams that came
after giddy toss and turning
turned to sleep
the saccharine thought
that I might be with her
suddenly washing away
leaving only the clean sting
from the bluelit photograph
of her having coffee somewhere else
my sheets grew thicker
as I stared
I did not blink
I just drank in cold acceptance
of the stranger staring back beside her
as the palpitating hope stopped
and the sunk aorta darkened
there were no feelings
save the ones that
I remember
I can still taste blood
on the roof of my mouth
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 10:22 PM UTC
I
Our ****** dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boys' limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.
The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,
When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,
The bones of men, the broken in their beds,
By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.
II
In this our age the gunman and his moll
Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,
Strange to our solid eye,
And speak their midnight nothings as they swell;
When cameras shut they hurry to their hole
down in the yard of day.
They dance between their arclamps and our skull,
Impose their shots, showing the nights away;
We watch the show of shadows kiss or ****
Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.
III
Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which
Shall fall awake when cures and their itch
Raise up this red-eyed earth?
Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch,
The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich,
Or drive the night-geared forth.
The photograph is married to the eye,
Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth;
The dream has ****** the sleeper of his faith
That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.
IV
This is the world; the lying likeness of
Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move
Loving and being loth;
The dream that kicks the buried from their sack
And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.
This is the world. Have faith.
For we shall be a shouter like the ****
Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack
The image from the plates;
And we shall be fit fellows for a life,
And who remains shall flower as they love,
Praise to our faring hearts.
3.7k
Old Cowboys, forts and shootouts
Black for bad and White for good
With a spinning canvas background
And cactus cutouts made of wood
The desert sits behind them
Fifty yards away at most
The heroes don't ride horses
They sip drinks and sit and boast
About their celluloid adventures
singing songs all dressed in white
While behind them in the background
The stunt men do it right
A canvas background rotates
Through valleys, hills and streams
While the hero rides his deck chair
And the director yells and screams
Central casting fills the tribes out
With Italians, and made up stock
While our hero stops an avalanche
Of fake paper covered rocks
Cardboard Cut out Cactus
And heroes smiling in the sun
Most have never seen a cowpoke
Let alone shot off a gun
But, it's magic when it's finished
the dusters up there on the screen
All the fakery and snake oil
Are all hidden, never seen
The white hats beat the black hats
The hero sings and gets the girl
And the background on the spindle
Is still spinning, watch it whirl
A celluloid adventure
Cowboys no where close to what they were
But..watch the next show for a nickel
And don't forget your spurs!!!
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
avenue sounds are never agreeable, ignore the drift,
ignore the hum,
ignore the suburban neophytes in the city lights (I never did care much for hipsters).
ignore rapid eye movements, the flush red face, ignore the snapshots of you that adorn my semi-sleep state
I stare at my ceiling and see the cobblestone summer streets you once graced, long ago in the eternal occident, I want to ignore but I’m so very boozed, in a blue lucid slumber:::
eyes closed::: my head spins and sleep begins with the tidal delirium of dopamine drips, your legs, your hips, I’m drowning a bit, doused in a sanguine sweat inside a fantasy **** I’m dreaming of you**)
Synaptic friction
she is a pleasant fiction
flash/sparks segue a dormant memory ,
the two of us riding familiar highways::: she gazes at me with her usual emerald encased ocular torment, those limbal rings cast aspersions at the last vestiges of my will power, until, I’m done, done in by the divinity of her lips:::
There is no end to (your) energy
It even finds me here::: in my dystopian dream (eternal)
now
an inescapable, **myopic curse
(nocturnal)**:::
the nightmare of not having you near
Awake, I roll over to clutch for the pacifier of your comfort (violent midnight)
I find only a fragrance,
i flail, searching, when those flashbacks fall short
isolated into the banality of bedsheets and pillows pleats
(the retrograde nature of my reality, now readily apparent)
cdh
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
Doc, I've been trying to deal with these issues for quite sometime to no avail;
A good friend of mine (you may know him, Elmer Fudd) recommended you.
I fear I will never be able to eat, let alone catch this turbo inspired example of flightless foul;
Stuck in this celluloid world vividly inspired by an Emmy award winning colorist.
I am a proud animal from generations of fine breeding, born in the pristine coyote valley;
I am not stupid, not a fool or buffoon, and so I thought contractually, not one to be laughed at.
And I, always the bad guy, constantly daunted in pursuit by haphazard ACME products;
Expensive, bulky, time consuming, they characteristically fail right before they almost work.
Rocket powered skates, unfortunately, only allow me to kiss the cliff-side really really hard;
Very heavy anvils serve no other purpose than to be dropped on my head repeatedly.
The incredulous manipulations of the impossible by the so clever writers of this farce;
From trains appearing out of nowhere to run me over, to fierce lightning storms in an instant.
Laying there in the release of my own bowels as the uncontrollable result of
500 Megajoules of energy traveling through my body yet again.
I am the twice electrified mass of dribbling spastic protoplasm
Personified proverbially in that lightning does indeed strike twice in the same place!
As the smoke arises from my chard hairy frame and I sweep up my ashes to reassemble later;
I realize Doc, I'm losing my grasp on the reality of ever succeeding, I need your help!
I'm still hungry;
And still I have not caught that **** Road Runner,
**** you Warner Brothers!
-----ChawzzyScript
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
Boy meets girl,
Gives her a whirl,
Log on, take selfie,
Update fakebook,
Thumbs up, look!
Had breakfast, look!
Update fakebook,
Went to the gym, look!
Update fakebook,
Now we're gym junkies,
Upload selfies,
Update fakebook,
Thumbs up, look!
Now we're wed,
Enough said,
Update fakebook,
Thumbs up, look!
Shall I kiss the bride?
Not fair, fat and wide!
First, update fakebook,
Thumbs up, look!
Now we've got kids,
Marriage on the skids,
Oh, man, that's bad,
Divorce selfies, too sad,
Update your fakebook,
Thumbs down, look!
Our 21st Century,
Celluloid selfies..........
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC
Celluloid cells of candid smile fun
printed in race track, river-run stems,
the 120 down to the 35mm
fold it over to form the hem.
You can be my New York
that never sleeps
or that Venice Beach
with bright, chiselled high cheeks
or
the more probable
lesbian lover I’ll never get to meet;
meet properly for a drink.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
Mondays in Van Nuys:
velvet morning, bee stings,
and medicating angels
wrapped in mesh,
at the scene of a fugitive motel,
swimming towards
*** and misery.
Nicotine lizard
fresh from film school,
and his molten young
interceptors
with corduroy legs,
scouting for girls
any way, shape, or form,
pinpointing them
in alphabetical order.
Flashing red light means go:
pretty Eve in the tub,
lit from underneath,
she sun shines,
her back to the prehension
from a survey of hands
and power tools.
No tan lines,
the boundaries of
this celluloid garden
begin at her knees
--a fleshprint,
start the Van de Graaff
and watch as she reels
the far faded whispers
of carnal quicksand.
A smell of peroxide and sweat,
her constant freezing
and thawing
totally crushed out,
the dark don't hide it.
Candy Bar
--it's not her real name,
but she smiles like
she means it,
lying is the most fun a girl
can have without taking
her clothes off.
Once again
the week gets lost in repeat:
a certain smile,
a certain sadness,
look on the bright side,
this isn't happiness.
Oct 10, 2022
Oct 10, 2022 at 11:35 AM UTC
"This s.o.b. has got Tourette's.
Who knows what he might say? We'd better
Get him under before he rises.
Sterilize something fast!"
I'm awake for the time being. When sleep comes
I shall play the perfect display of my bacillus. Reposing
On the white table like a necrotic pieta. Off to my
Left I can hear those touchstones spinning in fine sockets,
Sterilizing my hands by binding my feet. Soon I will be
A paragon of grunting celluloid, clutched at by
Heated hearts to wrinkle and shear.
I can already taste the cleanser.
Rubber foam, steel clamp and tongue depressor.
Excise the black portions with a serrated life,
You might as well. Because it doesn't matter
How much morphine sits in the delirium drip.
I'm still alive: the crush and blink in Boris Karloff eyes.
When I gather up my self in the morning.
I will be instructed to take all Ten a day
And check in regularly. Despite the cold,
Despite the heat, the embryo has quite failed.
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 10:34 AM UTC
THE DREAM CATCHER
(A RED INDIAN LEGEND)
* By Raj Nandy*
The continent of North America during those
ancient times,
Were inhabited by various Red Indian tribes.
The Delawares, the Mohawks, the Choctaws,
The Dacotahs, the Omahas, the Blackeet,
The Camanches, the Ojibways and the Apaches!
They inhabited the forest, the prairies, the marsh
lands,
The great lakes, the mountains and the fen-lands!
They lived close to Nature and honored their Gods,
With the spirit of Nature all thing were fraught!
If we recall the story of "MacKenna’s Gold",
The ‘Shaking Rock’ and ‘Canyon del Oro’,
Of human greed, - breeding death, and sorrow!
Which in celluloid has often been shown and told;
Yet none could take away that Apache gold !!
Today I narrate a legend of the ancient
Chippawa tribe,
About their "magical net" for a peaceful night!
An old Medicine Man of this tribe,
Wove a ''magical net" with fine gossamer strings,
To catch the dreams as they float by!
He hung this net above the bed up high,
To filter the dreams as they float by,
During those darkest hours of the night !
This wondrous net trapped all bad dreams,
Letting the good ones pass through its netted
seams!
And as the bad dreams got entangled in the net,
The good ones descended upon the sleeping bed!
So should you come across this 'magical net',
Never argue about its price, -
Just buy the one for your bed size!
Then hang the net high above your bed,
For there is nothing to be afraid!
Since dreams shall never ever cease,
Have sweet dreams always, with a good
night’s sleep!
- by Raj Nandy
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
Not the drip of freeway from Pittsburgh but a rough trundle
on chalk roads as flaxen skies shade to molten celluloid
and I can still see them
flash in August fields like a crop of traffic lights
they flare as hay-bale paparazzi or
floaters in the humour and hang
careless in seasonable decadence
so I’ll pass from the frigid, processed air
and join them in their closeness.
No buzz but a minor hum coming from the
moment’s luminosity and then they’re gone
making good on thunder’s empty promise.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
Lay with me, darling
Within the New York summer
And hand me softly, a Gershwin kiss
Under celluloid sky.
We will dance, you and I
Beneath the bridges of central park
And we will sense
The Broadway skyline.
Frames pass by unseen
With imagination and ideal
Burnt into their core, as
The music of a thousand orchestras
Start our fandango
As we fall in love
With the freedom of tomorrow.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
Today I straightened all of the hairs on my head
whether they needed it or not. I like being organized.
Ironing out the kinks in my leather jacket with a baseball bat.
I try to cut the blues from the spinning record,
flicked numbered matchsticks across vinyl to
set the fleshed room on fire,
don’t touch me, I’m a real live wire.
Being on top of my **** is like handmaking
beeswax candles, I twist & turn, carving wax
in the air—There is always more to do, I
always tried to cross t’s and
sort the junk mail from the paychecks,
accidentally dropping cigarettes into the piles of post.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched you
lick postage stamps for the outgoing flood.
The laundry gets done even though I’m
too tired to pull my key out of the door.
I am in control of my own destiny.
I smoke Coca Cola & drink cigarettes for breakfast
because I don’t roll out of bed on the right side
of any given day, and
yesterday I put my foot
through the television
because tap-dancing on the shards
of the wood-paneled tube from dad’s first marriage
sings gnashed-teeth harmonies
with the microwave’s low groan at 3AM—
I used to eat cold spaghetti in torn jeans and nothing else
while you flipped through channels on basic cable
to hear the collage painting the end of the world. You were
always an empty can that year, you saved
orange peels to fill with oil to burn—
your name whispers itself into the grease hissings and
I hear it over the skyline and I cannot seem to find a match
to strike to light the last crumpled smoke in my pack—
All I want to do is send you photographs with singed corners,
photographs of your letters, attempts to burn away
any sight of you, ways to cut&bind; the flint that ignites
the only bonfire in my eye.
And sometimes I wish I could just scream at you until
the flowers crawl up the brick walls of your apartment;
my kitchen smells concrete like celluloid ashes and
if I snap my fingers to break broken promises and
floss my teeth with violin strings I might not miss you
anymore.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
The weathervane slept high above with a lolling head.
Clouds were holidaying excessively in Spain.
Sun was lost in a haze after chain smoking cooling towers.
A lethargic wind, moseying low with cat-like whiskers,
I hear it complain “I’m tired” in child-like whispers.
My hands are sweat-sore with callouses
And salty enough to summon the call of gulls in numbers;
I find shade, imagining myself as a cartoon Huck Finn.
When I put dry grass between cracked lips and think of dustbowls
In a zoetrope of sun-stroke, I vanish through my buttonholes.
This is now where one would rise, wake or come to.
Nothing I recognise, else the world is enveloped in storms.
I strain my sight, blink repeatedly to force myself awake,
The angels are listening, I hear wheezing, see fingers in my dreams
Gripping tightly to milk thistle stars, bursting at the seams.
Amongst the angels, whispering too! Did the stars imprison you?
Free-spirit like mother, but I slept our childhood through
Sustained by knowledge gleaned from canteen floors—
My eyes feel somehow sharp, heavy, like spears more than eyes;
I thought I saw the weathervane spinning madly, unraveling the skies!
Nobody talks about the weather.
There is a good chance of wrought nerves.
This is a time of stillness and dwelling on doorsteps,
In doorways where death sits among us, resting his eyes,
An end to the ration that was harmless reminiscence
As memories go up in the heat like celluloid;
Now the stars are a steely prison
Heaven’s lustre is lost, missing.
Through the angels I have seen that this is a time of living -
Through our dreams I have seen that this is a time of living -
Outside the confinement of the Holocene.
—I have dreamt of drowning...often. I always seem to wake up out and breath and feel I can taste the salt in my mouth but fear does not play any part in these dreams.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
you can never under-estimate the humanity
of one example,
as you already exampled undermining
the humanity of "you", or whatever choice
of pronoun that befits your idea of superiority -
as said Japan attacked, China retaliatory -
Mongol kept apart - bereaving Scandinavia
bereft due to the European ploy fancy;
you can never under-estimate the humanity
of one example,
as you already exampled undermining
the humanity of "you", or whatever choice
of pronoun that benefits with your idea of superiority -
as said Pearl Harbour: war against war
rather than war against society - indeed modernity
with the man in the high castle rather than
i'm the king of the castle - whereby the softened
consonants rather the hardened vowels -
ð adjacent of j - verifiable ðe- or -dje,
dje - or thus extreme English definite articulate of θη -
i won't give you answers, forget it ****
i don't have a lifetime or likened vein of thought -
variations of f and some vowel, θ- e-i -φ - gobble up
a blah... due to η we endow θ with a calibre of vowel necessary,
fully... eta is like a missing diacritic on emicron, shortened,
ah **** epsilon - one and the same...
still involved, softening, duck-quack-and-feather cushioning,
i admit it's regardless of being 90 years of age
skipping rope and boa entanglement to myth
in memory of a life actually lived -
the stink of my great-grandmother's apartment
the coal-set-piece of what could be a baking oven...
the whole place was scented in ferns...
i don't know why, ferns, it was just ferns...
it wasn't Parisian perfumes, it, was, just, ferns...
it was't the next trend of clothing, it was just fur,
you watched your neighbour's television because
you didn't have your own... ferns! ferns! ferns!
the myth told to children about a golden fern leaf,
the myth of Gutwin and the bee that stung my shin -
it's so long ago, i wish it remained,
all i have is America i'll never see, ever hear,
ever touch, America is just an advert, it's nothing,
all i have is America i'll never savour, ever feel,
ever know, it's just abstract, all i'll get from America
is Apache alcoholism as worth writing about
rather than taking a selfie... and that's about it...
otherwise i'm left with kardashian celluloid -
globalisation really has made London a village
and Abridge a capital.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
Your beauty lies between sheets of dream,
On your eyelids have fallen the rough tears of stars,
There they have taken root like a magnificent oak.
With Every glance I give to you
A leaf falls into my palm;
They are chips of ivory and fire,
They are cut from the edges of glorious desire,
They melt upon my tongue like snowflakes.
Soft, soft, I raise my shaking hand to the memory of you
Long, long I dream of our afternoons
Solid and perfect.
And the image of your eyes
The colour, a Van Gogh blue,
Stolen from that starry night
with a transfer of wine,
sets my heart ablaze.
My curled lips have brushed the beauty of your celluloid shape,
The wind brought form to elegance as it caressed your hair
When the tide brought rhythm to your kiss.
Tonight's moon is a slipper where I will rest your heart,
There I will wrap it in silk and water it with silver streams
Until your beauty breaks through the starlit boundaries,
And as it grows into a magnificent oak,
I shall sit beneath the shade of its bows
With my palms anticipating the fall of a leaf.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
I wanted to
write you something
that said something
and I looked at your hands
like the losers of a street fight
beaten until they are no longer hands
and thought of nothing . . .
well . . .
nothing that would mean something
anything to you
and I looked at your mouth
that rolled like waves on a stormy day
in a movie
a celluloid memory that is blind to me
hanging like a silver ghost
tethered to the wall by the
wrong kind of light
and it rolled and pitched and
yawed until it was no longer a mouth
and I thought of nothing . . .
well . . .
nothing that would mean something
anything to you
and I looked into your mirror
that was a boomerang
a u-turn
a paddle ball in the hand of an
obsessive-compulsive mute
keeping the beat
like Belinda Carlisle
like Jane Wiedlin
and it came back to me again
again it came back to me
it came back again
to me
and I thought of nothing . . .
except . . .
anything that would mean something
anything to me
And I wanted to
write you something
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
Fragile flickering celluloid reels
Behind the light of the projector
A single beam of changing colors
Displayed on the silver screen ahead.
Fixtures dim and black the room
Filled an audience anxious and waiting,
Waiting to see what’s to be seen.
I love the look of film!
In its variety of size and color
35mm and 70
Digital and Film
Black and white to Technicolor
Three dimensions or two.
The history of an art form
Forming before your eyes
Seen here are the scenes of time
From anywhere that’s been seen
A dynamic show of lives lived and lost
Brought in pieces pieced together
By those much like us
Unfolding a world survived
By war and a way of life lost
Fallen years ago
Survived by the look of cellulloid
A world encompassed in film;
Where time is never lost
And life is always found.
:)
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
Slow, you breathe. Barrel-chested shelter. Shelterer, from weathers and fictions seen only for a moment. They flutter under the lids, furled and reeled by your celluloid-spun mind. If only I were there. I do not want to be cold. (I am trying.) Just to warn you, I’m a bit of a hoarder. But I’ll keep the edit room floor clean. I am ready to say it. (And I am not ready.)
You mumble these dreams. I promise I’ll guard each like my own. Every word you will ever almost say. Your orphans, your nothings. Your ”please understand”s. And the “never mind”s. They sigh heavy in your greasy paper lungs. Babe, even your un-popped kernels are gold. If only you knew. I lose sleep over that kind of garbage. I remember which closet. Which shoebox it’s in. I am ready to say it…
You want a wider-angle lens for your camera. A few more popcorn munchers at the alter. I want to know just how cold it gets in your room at night. To rustle in drifts of your lightly salted dream fluff. I want to measure winter’s gradient from the bed’s edge to yours. If only I were there. I do not want to be cold. (I am trying.) I am ready to say it. (And I am not ready.)
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
In deepening dream a dark moon song
Careening oration to the reeling inside
of flickering film, burning fast celluloid
An internal tribute to a time now past
Adrift at dawn the dervish swoops its
whirling and whining an awesome spectre
enraged she raps her raw knuckles
Pushing apart deepest self
Seeing in sleep the shadow of my daylight
That blinds me habitually; subliminally she
Speaks the script to a censored play
I’ve never seen.
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 11:45 AM UTC
My
lens is myopic
as the lunar lights reveal a replete and sallow stillness
I close my eyes... stuck on her
Our
slow motion
Zapruder film flesh hostilities play out
They
Lurch further toward me from the worst part of my mind
This is an
ante-meridium rerun wrought familiar
Those slow motion frames serve as a reminder
and I tell myself
“not again”
It’s always destroy, withdraw, withdrawal, return
No thrill, no endgame,
but we (i) play it out just the same
Renewed, resolvent, arisen,
(my) stake is wooden,
(she is) wet, crimson lipped and collapsing
Rest coldly now, unmoved upon a moribund midnight heart
These Thoughts of her feed on me in the night.
Images that prowl, project and play like celluloid
wanting her I toss and turn,
till, I lay,
languishing, and losing
lifeblood
lost and dreading daybreak
a living dead type of drained
Forlorn Feelings brought back from
damnation
soulless and predatory
This vampire lust won’t die.
But still I doubt Nosferatu had an *** like her’s
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC