Cope, hope, or catharsis, one
may be forced to choose one
during the bouts

of restraint against release,
of reach before the sigh,
of desire, to control instinct.

Of all inevitability,
daring to call itself proudly by name
on this mercilessly constant tread

of experiencing, each it seems
with a collapsing and rising unique,
Planck’s momentous, memoried,

voice-blanking frames, slightly
shifting and forming (together
we conjecture) the same blurred image

of light, of looking,
of a thought, of a chance,
that maybe,

whether it is instrumentalist hands
or a playerless orchestra bestowing
sound, of granules grinding

over each other, with each
a glance, a lift of a hand,
in disguise of louder music,

that I cannot say is wrenching, that I
cannot say is strident, or sweet or
harmonic or agreeable—just heard somehow,

resonant,
seemingly against silence,
at the seeming heart—

that the note might be
the only one to hope for,
as cope with, as cathect oneself in.

The only one channel to that which,
if heard, will really be heard.
Not a down, then in, then up,

and out, uncertain.
Not a fading with time
or a never heard at all

except for mere murmurings
of chance. Though don’t shrug them.
Be exposed, undeniably, wholly, to them.

These, musicless, can become
still air, still flesh—mystery’s shut mouth.
Something of a mouthless bird.

The future has no mouth,
No tongue,
No teeth.
The Earth speaks, but it's easy not to hear.

Easier still,
when drowned by the rising noise
of trucks and drills,
destruction and greed.

And you want more,
And you want convenience.
you don't want hassle,
you don't want consequences,
of what you choose.
That's inconvenient.
You're busy,
you've got things to do,
you've got a job and a family,
and you don't care about much more than that.
Excepting, most notably, yourself.

So you turn the other way.
We sit on the ground before you,
we sing songs of generations before us
who tried to help the Earth too.
We sing the words of those who protected our lands,
before the coming of this new age
of willful ignorance.
And you walk past us,
and on top of us.
And you blame us for being in the way.
You yell at us to move,
you've got things to do!
Things to ignore!

It's easier not to know,
easier still not to change,
but the teethless, tongueless, mouthless future
continues to approach.

Melting, heating and shaking.
We must hear it,
before there is no-one left to hear.
I carry these bruises with pride.
I carry knowledge of my actions with pride.
I will do my best for the future,
I will not regret my caring.

Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?

Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.

In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
'Thor is angry; boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!'
But those ladies broke the panes.

When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.

Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.

I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.

Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born.
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.

There once was a doll
But she couldn't speak

She knew all the words
"Hello" and "Goodbye"
As well as "Thank you"
"No, thank you." and "Please"

She was silent for ever
Someone had neglected
To sew on a mouth
And she just sat there
With words in her throat,
And no way out

I wept for the waste
of beauty kept secret
She wept for the taste
of words on her tongue

The first thing that disappeared
was your lips.
Not your voice;
That I still hear loud and clear.
I can’t seem to remember what your lips look like.
But I remember how they taste.

Next it was your nose;
it melted right off your face.
Sliding down your cheek and now
your mouthless lower half,
It fell to the ground below.

The image of your eyes is burned into my mind.
I fell into them the moment we first met,
sunk into the blue flecked with grey
submerged in a stormy sea.
I have yet to come up for air.

Your rosy cheeks have faded
over the years.
Now they just look like everyone else’s.

I hope this means that to me
You’re not as distinct as you used to be.
But I sometimes wonder if it’s far worse;
if it’s that everyone else
is now more like you.

Shadow cars and shadow feet hassle home
in the meagre rain advancing ****-
sapien slowly, blending the day through multiple holes
in tall buildings where the lights come on and the key turns in,
and mind comes to life and substance, more visceral,
than a thousand Eden’s that are now franchises and factories
counting themselves in back alley dice games
and the tears of glass buildings bayoneting the sky
with still fluorescent arms painting nothingness
in a morse code flashing red then black,
birthing in repent to open night; the automatic
hands of love firing faster than you can escape, antennas
orbiting the globe spitting from TV screens covered in paw marks
from the dust of hopeful, but forgotten salesmen,

the hallways accept you in, the machine clicks off
and the saints curl round a loop hole and a strippers pole
inching the shower on, sliding lava breathe
of uber spirit down your back exploding
heart-thought and no buzzing coming
from strange messages
or complex dream,

pull your reflection across the mirror and towel down,
fuels of organic loss drag perfection across the skyline
in peach rememberance(es) shouting out in mutual joy of the city,
like a mouthless crow diving across the landscape
into the jaw of itself, un
metronomed, as you take off your coat too,
and the crowds of harvesting fumes are blown out
by your silent smile,

and even from the rotting beauty outside,
we are the within the painted walls of our
home, a conjoined pulse that shatters each
season, with single shots of melody undoing
our forms like fog settling into hands of light,

– ahh,
so!
…
Even the thoughts of tired pages,
are mutilated by the balance of my wine
and your water, the burning smell reads
like an axe for our cheeks, combined with temperance
and taste of meat, spiced between pinch,
as we lay it out,
the style of our eating,
always more,
than the meal,

our race now nameless, the colours of our skin
lost from machine and time,
neither of our hearts can diminish the walls
of solid
liquidic song,
history moulded by a changing of clothes and shoulder
bones, moved down to mattress or road,

again the architecture is moved by our city
again the street lights bulk
fed by our voice,
down from hue, to repeated family chime
we rip open the odours of tar mac, replacing the rain
with burying fur into the one body of our spirited
field, arched mouth of coyote
and playful worker,
one,

our water plant eyes moan in the morning and wonder,
where the night sun has gone, migrating steps from the bed,
hang low in reflection of the past, one of us still sleeps
happily
and begins an hour later,

I take your mask from the white sheets where you lay,
with a glance, and a grin, and place it on, and look at the day
through mercy holes, cut through the holes,
where it fits like my face,

showing me the day as you

with no need to shave

or ever wash.




the image to go with this poem:
http://kerosenechronicle.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/thevalencianplayunit.png

i'll wear your braclet of cherry beads.

Draw me a pretty pink heart

on my wrist
                                                                            so i can wear him
                                                                            under my
                                                                            sleeve.

The steel
is warnest
in the water.

                                                                                         -mouthless-

You kiss me
with cherry lips

Spitting out
layers
and layers
of me.

                                                                                        -stiletto sliting substratums-

The air is foreign

                                                                             curious
                                                                             hypocritical
                                                                             treacherous

                                                                                         -animalistic conspiracies-

i'll remain in
the water

                                                                                          -solace-


where there
isn't
too much to
breathe.


My flesh is weeping
pale tears


                                                                                          -surrendering-



                                           as another basin of
                                          cherry beads blossom.

It feels like sand on my breath
Like dunes in my chest
They are silent
But they are not still
Heaving gross quarter
Leaking for most water
The unscratchable itch
Can it be denied, of which
I am left outside, neck twitch.
Hands force paint in from closed 4 seaters
Enough
Enough
It subsides
As do my words
Am i anything without my words
Would i choose words over feeling
He said, as all the dry paint dripped from the ceiling
And there was love.
Nestled in the corner
A concave attitude begged no less of what there was to offer.
And we gave and gave.
Stretched innards in closed fists
Adorned by salesman with neat.
With neat.
Withering, neat.
Forgiven heat.
Not much to give
But we must eat.
Die and let live
For the succession of wheat.
Basket bare more than their share.
While the humans are simply denied theirs.
When.
When does this part end.
Soon i hope.
As if there were something.
Something to be had.
After.
Besides the calm. When the calm let's us notice our own distaste in it.
Not that the tree trunk needed that.
That hug.
But it helped the armless. Armless.
Or was it a kiss.
The mouthless.
Something dark.
Force them to spit.
Ask them to sit.
Did that have to rhyme. Did any of this have to. Did it take away. From
Take away from.
Cultured eyed breast sore
Vultures hide crest something

Silver threads
strain to mend
the rips in time --
a shattered mind,
     pieces scattered,
falls witness
to guilt's campaign.
Voices invade
the natural silence:
discordant,
with mouthless
     screams.
Unnatural lyrics
****** the ears...
Dark figures
menace, just beyond
   clarity,
tricking the eye.
(Fear's morbid
fascination.)
Sight and sound
     betrayed...
The night is long
that has no hope
   for day...
(no escape nor reprieve).
The Rituals of
     madness
must be obeyed.

Blotched botched
word failures spewing forth
from defective machinery
subtracted from
popularity conquests
showing youngbloods
how to write up
this tragedy thing right
Mouthless voiceless
shapeless formless
avoidance and mockery
creeping like carbon monoxide admissions scrawled out
in digitized assault
and crying out
What kind of democracy is this?
What kind of freedom is this?
When torn from those clutched
analytical political land mines
I have to ask  
Before revolutionary words are mistaken and reduced
to stripped inspirational drivel
adorning office drone strike stationery
What makes you think
your
words can hurt someone
who wants to ******
themself
daily?

The wind tries to control our ribbons.
They blow across the dirt,
Not quite light enough to be lifted,
And they crawl at our feet,
Whispering of our potential
Trying to break our defenses
With their mouthless words.
The ribbons want to tie us together
In a pretty bow, on top of a big,
Materialistic present,
But we are only as vulnerable
As the expensive electronic inside.

Sometimes they don’t make a bow,
But weave around our ankles
And up our thighs,
Pressing our hips together,
A group hug of sorts.
We no longer know how to fight,
But we do the closer we get,
And we can’t decide whose
Fault this is.

We can blame metaphors or love,
But either way, we are just too
Knotted together,

Our only weapons blunt scissors.
We try to tear ourselves away
Whilst making out.
How many of us are there?
It’s hard for me to tell--
I push one away and begin kissing another,
But they are all just friends--
Or friendly acquaintances?

Maybe it’s just me the ribbons have *******
And everyone else just happened to be there
When they did.

i held way more love than he could ever
accept
embrace
live with, eat with,
sleep with
i held way more oceans in my chest
than he could ever swim trough.
really, i think i did love him
but often forgot my love is poisonous,
like acid
slowly burning holes and scars on the bare skin, melting away everything beautiful to the root
if you are not strong enough
for a hurricane,
cemetery of old wounds,
bundle of fears,
woman,
like me.

i say forgive me,
for i am only loving the same way my mother does
her words cutting like knifes
her love intensily and always too deeply.

we lay in bed that night as i share my dreams with him,
i count 217 stars and 94 new beginnings
before i pour out my soul
he looks at me like he does not understand
he looks at me like i am not a person
he talks to me like he is a helpless
bird of prey
asks me if i can shrink myself to the height
of his knees
and the size of zero
he is a whirlwind of all things i love and hate
and love.

i ask him
my dear, did you forgot?
not nearly a week ago you tried to split my head in half because there was too much of me.
haven't i warned you for the craters, cannonballs, swallowed cities
buried inside of me?
for the splinters at the end of my fingertips when i come closer and touch you?
my words; little explosions
building a home in my sweet mouth,
a danger behind each teeth
blackness hiding underneath
each breast
the raging storm that goes under the name of my love

he shakes his head, tries to shut me up
asks me how long i will be
setting houses on fire with that mouth
later on even hows me his fists.
i tell him if he like his women mouthless
he should've sewed my face.

it's in the morning when he leaves.

the snow flirts with you better than I can
when we walk back from the bookstore,
where books are discounted for one week only
and we passed recommendations
between the shelves and said
I heard this one’s good.

there’s discarded masks by the subway entrance
like malformed *****, mouthless and obsolete,
a whiff of Korean food that meanders
out from the takeaway
and I offload corny joke after corny joke not even worthy
for the back of a beermat
or graffiti-besieged toilet cubicle but you laugh
anyway out of pity I suspect,

the sack of books (Vonnegut, Glück, Didion) seesawing
by your side, our footprints a transitory
punchline behind us.

The wind
finds a tongue
in the hazel
below the
flaking air.

At seventeen
I was in
a Pontiac
at two in
the morning
& I saw it
moving
in a coat
of leaves,
awake
& sentinel.

It uses
elms
to sigh
east
& chimes
pinned to
the brick
by an old
plum nail
drip sprinkles
of its music
into the
amber eve.

With
mouthless
whisper,
it tells me
that spring
is here and
the long
acres
between us
are just
the wild
playing fields
of fireflies.

how do you stop them,
these pipette-fed ruby furies?
it is the escape that paints itself
in a shade of night,
a chain of palms away.
thinking makes it so,
   so right.
look how they stay silent,
mouthless ghosts,
floating
     and
   never
          fully
     formed.

is a broken rib—
the same sharp pain,
wooden-lung breathing.
I stand alone in an
ocean of bodies,
mouthless half-faces,
gaping holes beneath
strips of cloth.
Your assumptions
dissolve me only
gradually—
an un-bronchial
consumption,
though still,
I am left gasping.

Jittery, jittery,
My skin knows
When I don't know
Where I am.

Acting like I've been through this
Lands me between
Amateur and professional.
Pick your choice.

Round one...
Rules, regulations, and blood
Pin me on a cushion.
(Squeeze)
One pump of blood through a tube,
And squeeze again.
I can't shake the feeling,
The feeling shakes me.
There goes
Some of me to restore
Hope and vivacity.

Two...
I know how everyone
Has their own definition
For them...
But really?
Twirling the hairs on my chin
Just to remind myself of masculinity?
Puh-lease. It's gotta go.
I don't care if my razor is a manual,
My "beard" never looked right anyway.
(Strokes along shaving-cream spots)
Owwwwww!
I had to apply cream twice
To shave the hairs in the under-corners
Of my jaw
And to clot the blood
For just two figurative seconds.
Paper towel after paper towel after...
The trash is red,
The tile floor has blood circles
Forming a macaroni path
From my dorm room to the sink.

One could play connect the dots
On the sorry face of mine.
I looked like a quiet ******
With each rub and dab I ran
Along the blood eruptions,
Not slowing for me to catch them.
Blood gravitated
Toward the skin inside my shirt collar.
If life really is a game,
I hate this round, match, etc.
Bound by ethics
To clean the ruins from the battle of hygiene,
I had to at least see
If a paper towel could suction
To the blood tears on my face
So I could use my hands.
Catching my look in the sink mirror,
I looked like a desperado
Wounded along a tight bandana,
Around a mouthless casualty.

I guess the Anglican insert of "******"
Makes some sense,
Since most things come about
Through blood and words.
Sometimes for me
It can feel good not to feel good
Just to remind myself I can still feel
The world around me.

For all that blood does and for the many times
It leaves the body,
It's too bad it can't escape
It's own cells.

It was an explicit "I"―
deeply flawed.
You had started hitting
your peers, asking them
to hate you.

Psychopath?
Mea culpa, who would not say?
Kindles a tender feel―
when you love a pink rose,
not uttering a word.

Scared, my tremors
start like a leaf. Cannot hold
the pen. Very quietly
I print my tears.

Thirst, mouthless―
I drink from eyes.
Earth beware― the crop has failed.
Rancher was going―
to commit suicide.

I can measure time with blinking eyes.
Reading the lights behind my eyelids
Reaping benifits that **** the atrocious hazel gaze
I find
I seek three of everything my feet can squirm over to. Gluttonous smelly mouthless creeping toiling sleeping paranoia, held back within the reaches of my skin, a key needed and kept secret, yet released frequently for its servitude to these, our basest natures.

I can measure bliss in forgotten time.
Pupil dilation suspected slime boss
What the **** am I doing.

After you gave me a
split rupture,
there was a mirror pain.

The bruises get away
without mercy. A hand will
write reversely a poem.

You cannot erase
the stink, which comes from
the mouthless words.

And the triangle
will eat the floating bodies
of bloated dreams.

Who always chased
me with subtlety, when
hills were crumbling.

Moon becomes lunatic.

Luna moths flutter in the captive night light
of early December, strong, determined
to mate their way to the electric crackle
(invisible as a secret trapped in the soul)
emitting from the machine in the eaves.

Their disintegration illuminates the dark
with ultraviolet pulses and heavy musk
drifting to mouthless, abandoned mates,
antennae feeling their starvation, extinction,
the end of all their brief cycle of lust.

The creatures in rockers spend the night
brushing the remnants of their death
off their cheeks, cuffs and hair—
absorbed in their dark loneliness,
avoiding conversation with each other,

The widows miles away feel the tug
of a mouth and mandible forming,
a dream of a shout and tear evolving,
the rock, rock, rocking waves telling them that
they soon will feast on these creatures clothes.

Note;
    
Luna Moths have no mouths and thus cannot eat.  They exist for only a week, being born to mainly mate or die of starvation.

After you gave me a
split rupture,
there was a mirror pain.

The bruises get away
without mercy. A hand will
write reversely a poem.

You cannot erase
the stink, which comes from
the mouthless words.

And the triangle
will eat the floating bodies
of bloated dreams.

Who always chased
me with subtlety, when
hills were crumbling.

Moon becomes lunatic.

Before reading the poem I would like to note that this and most of my letters are meant to be read aloud as in a spoken word format.

Unfortunately this, our online format dilutes much of the raw force and energy of the words and the presentation, also I would temper this piece with this short excerpt by the mystic poet and Sufi master Rumi:

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase “each other”
doesn’t make any sense.” Enjoy.




Initiate, embodied—
Flesh-bound,
I am sheer transience.
A fatherless, sun-draped god,
An apple, fallen not far
From the old knotted roots.

Blank,
The disintegrate ego
Death grasp
On the Emergent
Now Condensed everywhere,
Yet untainted,
Yet Rare, authentic & self-contained,
The firstborn, unyielding, no-one.

The ragesmile cracks my lips and
Spins loosely in the countercurrent of my inner compass.

Ah, Passion—
Here you are again
On the tip of my tongue.
I remember well your taste—
Your metallic, rusted bloodstreamedge
Sharpened by long solitude,
Ferocity woven tightly with
Pristine attention.

My philosophical system
My metaphysical structure:
raindrops trickling from dying leaves.

My song
Is that of a mouthless ghost lost
In the temple complex of a ruthless intellect.

A sci-fi Christ,
Without home,
Without birthplace,
Without rest—
Look at me:
A lone, faceless dream.

I conform to no system,
Cannot.
A nihilist monk,
Spurred on by what cannot be named—
No frame of reference,
No reference to frame,
Wandering onward
Toward the never horizon.

A born deaf-mute ventriloquist,
Profane artisan,
Thrashing the poor narcissist at his own games—
I am that seductive emptiness whispering
LUST
Into each stringless puppet’s ear.

The unfiltered response,
The lone heathen mammal playing at the edge of The Deep Yearning
Struggling to break away
From the insubstantial.
Flirting with untamed transformation

Longing
dragged screaming ****** ******  into
Fleshbloodbonematter—
Torn in two by her scent-wet presence,
And the half-awake memory of her riflehot gaze.

How
Thunderous and resolute,
I stood,
Raw and naked beneath
The deep, blue-choked sunset dusk,
Beneath neon’s glow—
Sharp and lean against the coming gloom—
Just as it had once appeared
In my Kerouac dream.

I would have taken her in these arms then,
Tested her racing pulse against my  lips, tongue, canines
Had I known she was so close.