"fuselage" poems
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
in my dream
i'm on a plane
beside a horse
without a mane
and out the window
only sky
the color of No...
as deep as kites
And there was a boy
his name was Yes
and he held a rope
he stole from the dead
the aisle was lightning
speaking in tongues
the flight had arrived
but the captain was gone...
and i heard the wind
condemn the lit fuse
and the wings were clipped
and the stars removed
the ghost of Jack Benny
had swallowed the key
that opened the box
he left in Belize [ and ]
i sat in flames
and enjoyed a cigar
and i lit the ****** thing
to see in the fog
there was a girl
kept from the pilot
she was a threat
and you knew that she liked it
long in the tooth
but wrong for the mouth
i never heard
what each hell was about
but everything changed
the plane had landed
in the palm of a glass hand
random - Oh...
we had absinthe, guilt -
and candles
sand in our wounds
but only one camel
i sat for days in the night
and dreamt it
drank from the fuselage
of my symptoms
strode across miles
and miles of inches
doubting horizons
the sun had believed in
then you crossed my path
in a chasm
told me to open my eyes
if i had 'em
then you laughed
and it came out backwards
stole my joke
then you left what you
asked for...
saving my life
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 12:36 PM UTC
The spirochetes of the ages embellish themselves in a mystical quartet, as our respirations reverberate across sanctimonious plateaus of Oedipus and Electra complexes.
Your celestial convictions are tasteful as they wistfully meander through the fuselage of hydrangea bushes and ***** foxgloves.
I can feel the beat of your apprehensive pulse.
As we applaud the demise of this psychological stage-show, where connected separations unravel their shameful mysteries into a vortex of deluded academia; it is evident when someone communicates deep convictions across pulsating swamps of cosmological hemispheres.
So, as we merge into this cataclysmic vortex of enshrinement, let us embrace the past understanding of future ambivalence where the beginning can only be understood within the context of the end.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
9/11 happened,
so I turned to friend
and shook.
Year 5 boys won't understand
the chaos of planes and buildings,
together in a perpetual meld
of iron, and fuselage weld.
Help note snow turned September to December,
within a million pens to paper.
People fell.
Hearts sunk.
Raised hell
in New York's cold front.
Bowery, Bleeker, Church & Liberty
all shook to one man's thought:
dreary and undefended, destroyed in the heart.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:31 AM UTC
Jagged Edges
Speeding along
500 years a second Passed
Clear Light
Six Sided
Eight remembered
9 finished
12
Perfect strangers all
Known
By the Omission
Carried by the Flame
NOW
Body Complete within
X taken as four Angels LosT
Fuselage of a Rocket
Allowing
Christ Risen Pentecost
Er aven Rose
Language Forbidden
Chalice Returned
Distant Meadows
How We Used to Play
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
It may be that you were an astronaut before
And now you clamber unknown chambers of my heart,
Knocking down the tilt-up walls
To find the inner space of your reservoir
And your oxygen; my bloodstream
My heart; your pulsar beating out cosmic revelations
My future; framed by your unblinking past
Terminal comets tumble alongside
Undisturbing of the velocity of your experiment
Exploding suns in supernovae spin-cycles
Left your scientific mood untouched
The last horizon, my need for security
Has been hitched to your superior fuselage
Now we float together, at the end of a single lifeline
I breathe out as you breathe in
A symbiotic bellows, in perfection geared
Neither of us make a move
Except we go in the same instant of direction
This must be what heaven feels like
At the end of time and acceleration,
Facing the unknowns inherent in the expedition
There were never any promises made,
Discovering the wonders and terrors of deep space
And at the finish of my hibernation,
I awaken to explore a mysterious new portal:
Held open for me, an orbital doorway
In galactic eyes of bluest heaven-shine
Which will stir the primordial chaos of my existence.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 1:25 PM UTC
The fuselage must gleam
in a pink Pacific sunset
at 29000 feet
inside, I am brought puffed cellophane pouches of tamarind by attendant ladies and men
and a sanitary case wraps my pillow.
Bangkok’s taxis are driven by a man with bones for a neck on cracked
roads that vanish into blind ways.
Later a child – spying left – pulls me through a curtained door into an ante-room to
sell me cling-wrapped copies of Japanese slasher movies. “Cheap!”
Flies circle a mound of meat spiked to a vending cart -- “special for you.”
A sea of mopeds rumble up the road and chase me between parked cars
Tattered hunks of plastic bag blow past off the beach.
At night gut rot infects the air, and I walk in brown puddled streets.
The tar sky smothers above the neon and the barkers and the *** for $10. This last part was in the guidebook.
A woman sits, cloaked in a shawl, selling women’s apparel, all arranged on pale and chalky mannequins, angled at attention.
They wear the rouge of the truth-telling jester.
Their mouths are gaping, smiling, lurid, laughing, howling. Eyes wide, piercing and empty, excited.
They look like me. And I look away.
The woman’s throat moves. Or does she chuckle?
“For you.”
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 11:14 PM UTC
Falling
That's what we are doing
Slowly spinning out of control
The masks drop
Like bodies hanging from a noose
The turbulence
Of a hundred lives
Coming to an end
Throwing our hearts astray
Along with the wreckage
Strewn across this valley of despair
Wings
Ripped from our backs
As we lose altitude
Along with feeling,
Numb to our loses
Ears popping
Like celebratory bottles of champagne
Commemorating our near future deaths
The fuselage
Comes in like a missile
Prepared for utter destruction
Touchdown
The landing gear didn't deploy
You were unprepared
As were those watching
In pure terror
At the scene of our death.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
On my sixteenth birthday,
my uncle gave me a balsa wood airplane,
or rather, the wood
that comes together to make one.
While I started out strong,
assembling most of the fuselage,
it would go unfinished
and stay a skeleton.
Most of its life
collected cobwebs.
My uncle drinks whiskey
in the pool at night.
I think of the airframe
still waiting to be put together,
waiting to fly
to the other side of this.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
On The Great Lawn of my mind,
The city's biggest dance floor,
Upon its cushions, stepping lightly,
The spring breeze, feeling its way,
Making, reawakening, a thousand acquaintances,
Absent parent kissing each long-lost babe-blade of grass
Breeze takes each blade of spring grass:
Cajoles, asks not,
With windy hands, guided missiles,
gentle/firm
push/pull
engage/ disengages,
open/closes
Breeze makes each one
Neck, caress their neighbor,
A thousand pas de deuces of
fresh faced green children.
All in all a triumphant processional,
Cloaked in robes of sky blue velvet,
Crowned by the sun's burnt orange kisses.
At the middle school dance,
The walls are portrait painted
with the shy ones,
The ones-who-don't-know-how-to-ask.
Passover's children
Needy for a Moses.
Student of the spring breezes,
This silly earnest teacher/chaperone,
Grand-pa-rent will:
Cajole, ask not,
With hands, guided missiles,
gentle/firm
push/pull
engage/ disengages,
open/closes
Under his tutelage,
Every boy and girl
A dancer, a blade,
Each a Passenger on the fuselage
Of his Spring Ballroom breeze.
These are my spring rites
imagined,
Visions of my sight
unimpaired,
Present and future
clarified.
Soon we will teach our own
Little Princes and Princesses,
The shelter of dancing,
Feel the embrace of nature,
Under the mantle of an
A Capella choir of tree leaves,
We will lie side by side,
Skyward pointing,
Sharing our spring-sprung imaginings,
Performing each and all
Upon the breeze to carry away,
For all to gleeful applaud!
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
Age Old Invocation
Of the Philosophers Stone
Morning Lady...
That's Right... Mornin'
Dawns Past
Night Already Fallen and Dissolved
Night
An Addiction to Falling
So True
Woman
like the Night You Are
Throwing Yourself off the High Dive
Again and Again,
Backwards Now,
Just for Fun
Astronaut Tossed From the Third Dimension
Weeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!
Oh Yeah.. Backwards Now
Makes It Easier
To Dream
Rockets Lift Off Always A Favorite
Where Else would you take a Girl on a Date
Come on PINK PurrL
I can't change Lady
I Was A Born Black Robe with A White Fuselage
Shiny Silvery Starlight Black
Robes Made For Holding Galaxies
Moonbeam Dark
A Fullness Made For Soft Caresses
You sure would Look pretty
Against the Twinkles In my Heaven
Lullabie. Lullabie.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
She is the plane you are crashing.
The rusting, dusty ex-service plane
that you took on and rebuilt.
Inch
by
inch
she improved.
You did not merely add a lick of paint, making her glow
whilst her engine only rotted further.
You dug deep to the root of the problem and
once you were done you flew her
up,
up,
up,
and higher.
She is the plane you are crashing
She is spiralling down whilst onlookers frown
and murmur and comment
on the bullet shaped holes in the fuselage.
Yet they did not look close enough and failed to see
the absence
of the most important component to a healthy, working plane.
Further inspection of the flaming cockpit reveals the
replaced buttons and stickers,
now covered in safety measures of no use.
If you press the wrong button
this creature will explode
around you and
for everybody to see.
They will point and they will laugh.
They will point the finger of blame.
Yet nobody thinks to question the absence of the most important component to a healthy, working plane.
Nobody thinks to question the absence of the pilot.
The pilot of the plane he was crashing.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
aboard the aircraft metaphorical
bearing those employed
by companies large and small
a moment arrives when the cryptic
overhead lights instruct
that the time to leave has come
passengers are led to the open door
at the rear of the fuselage
where they will leap into the mist
the happy few will be strapped
into a designer backpack
filled with a carefully packaged parachute
of luminous gold
others are handed
a sturdy bundle which holds a
lifesaving paraglider of shining silver
a group somewhat more numerous
gratefully accept their sustaining dome
of spun silk and exit with confidence
the greatest number will be in a line
leading past a toilet paper dispenser
each individual to be ejected will be allotted
a single sheet
the one ply tissue will be printed as follows
“Grasp tissue firmly on opposite sides
hold tissue above head parallel with ground”
a hearty cry of “Good luck!” follows them
as they are assisted through the door
by a well placed boot
Apr 1, 2023
Apr 1, 2023 at 11:42 PM UTC
But he became an astronaut
And had his first mission to space
Dear John this is Houston
You’ve seem to have gone dark
Please reply?
But astronaut John didn’t reply
Because his tether had broken loose from the fuselage
And he was now at the mercy of space
Quickly floating out into the endless unknown
Johnny was scared
As he floated for hours
And days
Off to find better adventures
Off to make better times
Off to find what I can’t
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 2:05 AM UTC
I left Barnes and Noble in tears
when the words swam through the in store speakers
through my ears,
into my skull
to my heart, and opened
the box in my soul labeled
Things I never told my dad before he left.
I was with him at the last bus stop
There in that cozy white room where
All that was left was to wait.
If I closed my eyes
I could imagine the sound of
An idling engine waiting
I could almost see
An impatient agelict cabbie
Fussing over the meter.
I don’t know suzzane
Nor what plans put an end to her,
But I know what it means
To hide in the hulking fuselage
Of the dream you thought
Would fly you to where
you wanted to be.
And I know how it feels
When the veil is taken down
And you think of
all the times
You didn’t say
I love you.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
Operation Meetinghouse was launched and underway,
Each Super-fortress stripped of all but tail guns for the day.
We came in fast; we came in low, let darkness shield our flight.
Within our bays the bomblets lay to set the Nips alight.
I heard them at a distance, a large incoming flight,
Inexorable and frightening; like Death approaching Life.
I awakened my old mother, took my small child by the hand.
I fled down towards the river, as the first bombs shook the land.
The night was clear and windy and our bombers cut a swathe
of death, fire and destruction through their capital that night.
Their homes of wood and paper were quickly set alight.
We could smell the people burning. We flew so low that night.
Shitamachi was on fire and the high winds helped them spread.
The fire crews were overwhelmed and quickly joined the dead.
The thick smoke made it hard to breathe, old mother couldn’t stand.
The horrors that we saw that night were like tales of the dammed.
Our fuselage of silver reflects their dying light.
Our losses are acceptable; few planes are lost this night.
Flying in formation, we bank right and turn to go
The skyline of the city flickers with a hellish glow.
I walk the ruined streets of home in dawn’s uncertain light.
I hold my small child by the hand, old mother died last night.
We have no home, nowhere to go, I stare in helpless shock
At charred cars and blackened corpses on what used to be our block.
The General is ecstatic and enjoying his cigar;
our losses few, their suffering great, the fortunes of the war.
Tokyo lies in ruins from the fires set that night
How fortunate God is on our side and we are always right.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
The stalling plane fell,
A toy, yawing back on its tail,
Tilting left and down
And down.
The boy’s dad at the stick,
Frozen,
Face immobile,
Almost careless as they fell;
He, his mother, and his father,
And a stranger, next to him,
Tumbling above Montana
Prairie hills surging
Nearer
And nearer.
The stranger clenched the boy;
The tail dragger impacted a rising knoll.
The engine clanged and broke,
Dirt enveloped the shattered cabin.
Silence smothered cacophony.
Conscious of being dragged
Through a **** in the fuselage
Out into open air,
The boy saw little,
Couldn't make out the stranger's face.
His mother came through the side of the plane
A Cesarean section, reversed,
The boy's hope reborn
At the emergence of his mother.
She appeared dazed,
He thought, unruffled,
Dusty with a smearing of bright red lipstick
Stretching up from the corner of her mouth
To the edges of her right ear.
The boy knew it must be blood.
His father lay,
Crumpled oddly,
Head twisted between
Stick and dashboard;
Right arm somehow
Lolling through the fuselage.
Blood smeared the arm, the head.
Everything still,
Motion slow...
Echoes.
The stranger moved on hands and knees,
Inspected the boy
His mother,
Pulled them away
From wreckage,
Surveyed the scene.
Turning then to the man
Twisted and still,
Grotesque within the shell,
The stranger gazed.
Gasping, the boy jolted.
Saw,
Thought he saw,
His father’s hand ****
Move up and backward to his face.
The boy heard,
Thought he heard,
His father sigh.
Fear surging
The son,
Caught in a wave,
Realized his first response,
Horror,
A sense of ******* returning,
Having glimpsed,
If only for a few seconds,
Freedom.
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 1:26 PM UTC
Miserably morbid fault lines dwindled to an ending where leaves fall from the sky and off the earth. Spirit spaced out of panic with opalescent vapor. Tier built fuselage billowing smoke from broken windows. Mad man protecting sadness with a coat of contrived aloofness. Eager solar detection vanishes from cut long and dirt laden fingernails. Paint still drying from the recent attempt to write the letters of a name. Broken branch protruding from the impaled veteran fallen.
Now you will grieve for the time you wasted grieving that was meant for saying goodbye.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
To hold your heart, trained and influenced
On my trail, a silhouette
holding smoke,
mine to barter with
some item that is not yours.
A shadow of grain in the sticky
thorny roots.
Smoke from the barn's tantric fuselage,
below space, to think
or in gestures, recreate.
As to observation,
most of all is dark.
I'm spoken to.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
There were always words I could have said.
I could've danced right off your edge, World.
Instead,
I stared into the Star's direction (hypnotized) for nearly a decade,
and stumbled, blind, off your edge, World.
This aircraft is in flames.
The fuselage, broken.
My fingernails, bent.
My knuckles, white.
My parachute, missing.
My life,
flashing before my blind eyes.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
My synapses are misfiring-
this weight more than gravity.
Depravity’s disastrous grasp,
the exit is not escape.
Feel the world spinning,
churning on without.
remants, stationed
stagnant and static.
Buzzing in discomfort,
blistering heat
of combustible refuse
left only excuses.
Catatonic catastrophe,
blasphemous bile spews,
purposeless penitent sentiments,
drowning logic in mental mishap.
An exploding star,
Separating fuselage,
limbs detach from frame
Splintering out into space.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
Here comes Mr. Chemtrail--
Pretty jets
Stream across the sky
By day, at night
They're tucked into cushy
Launching pads;
To sleep like us
Underneath the stars,
Drooling like a baby;
The rains of which wash away
Our Happy Tomorrow sign,
Written in sand
Across a hiraeth seashore;
With bountiful aura,
Everything is smelling like roses
Kept in the fuselage,
Waiting for a turn
To shine, perhaps ignite,
In all the glamour of
A shooting star:
Great godless geyser;
A prism of colors
Rain-bowing
Electively over funeral flowers,
This death was always meant
To be a friend with benefits,
Allowing us one last
Glorious ride into the heavens,
Before overtaken
By the undertaker;
The sky's the limit,
Steely-eyed missile man;
We're terminal now
And on final approach,
Bleed for us once more...
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 2:34 PM UTC
*Maybe the dawn may someday cease to burn
maybe the moon might one day cease to glow
maybe my ulcer will someday cease to churn
Or bamboo might get too stunted to grow
maybe the stars may end up falling from space
maybe mountains will someday crumble and sink
maybe my footprints might fade and be hard to trace
maybe roses might someday lose their scent and rather stink
maybe donkeys and ***** might stop to bray
and chameleons surrender their camouflage
maybe the nuns and monks will cease to pray
maybe death may hesitate to collect my fuselage
But the love that boils in my heart will forever erupt
cause I'm quite certain even fate is too inspired to interrupt*
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
When isolated,
the imagination expands to fill space
until contact with reality
has been removed entirely.
It’s about faith in a way.
A man lost in the imprisonment
of false moments to the point
even in fevered visions
no supporting characters are particularly
scared or surprised.
In his mind he’s not lying,
for in his head it happened.
A dog chasing it’s own tail.
going faster and faster in an obsessive
and personal way
too primal to be defined.
In this way all things are ordained.
A superhero whose only
power is being able to see 40 seconds into the future,
unable to change a thing.
Notwithstanding,
he can still feel passion.
Genuine
and fierce as
any normal person would feel.
Toxic.
Delusional.
Choosing love
over people
rather than seeing love
in people.
An innate understanding
of what people want and
how to divert attention
from the possibility anything
could ever be wrong with his worldview,
simply because he’s fettered so tightly to
love as heavy work,
he truly believes a theoretical tomorrow
outweighs the trauma of today.
When he speaks
half his face
cracks away in a strange smile
like cinders
peeling from a fuselage
while flying over nighttime water.
Jun 27, 2021
Jun 27, 2021 at 4:31 AM UTC
We talked of fuselage
floating on top of
an ocean
waves consuming
us as we frantically
tried to reach
out
lingering onto
life as if it was
the same thing
as love
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC