Tracks trembled, catering for my destination westward, field
alongside industry courted, dancing the miles ahead, celebrating
scenic mystery, roaving in splendour, hills pumping spellbinding
grassy greatness, devouring, readying for mountainous masterpieces

I am sun drenched in strobed springtime, relishing the thaw
of rivers running forever, snowy peaks holding onto winters
shivering tale, huddling cold coats like pashminas trailing....
unfinished,their needlework on pinpoint exercise

Inside I sit next to myself, folding minutes into moments of memory,
tracks decreasing inner city air, and I regard
evermore with special splendour, the developing rocks and craggy cliffs
arriving neatly at the foot of the sea waving white flags, receding, chasing....

ants crawl on
slowly


1.
left eye is hopping fast for days now
and time's but a fair damsel
of delightful illusion
how she taunts and teases you
into sweet oblivion
of wickedly sensual basking

she drugs you with deep charisma
and struts at the doorway of your senses
she clutches onto the tracks in your mind
and claws deep into your ragged psyche
that same old song playing
over and over...
........over


2.
see right through train's chassis
rail sleepers spin vigorously backward
in such frightful haste
to get nowhere
no-one knows the real speed of time
out there.....

but for mere mortals
it's leniently paced in adagio
and parceled in mellowed excruciation
as ants walk serene
alongside the tracks


3.
creep into chaotic patterns
fall into hell
through a secret back door
even satan knows not of
as perched as he is
on his *oh-so lofty pile of ordure
his blind heart
sees not
the strobed tracks
of your visiting soul


4.
take a syncopated shot up the arm
from the foul fang of a kind sinner

while saints bathe in fat glory
elsewhere

when you look again
you lie alone in a corner room
broken
yet untethered

tracks to heaven so obscured
by
your paradoxical attempts at levity
on the twisted playground of life's malady


5.
how badly you tripped
so many **** times
you ....got in the way
of your
own
remise


each time you fell
you looked UP
expecting help
when all the while
the answers lay
at your feet:

[your own mistakes are authentic and real;
you try to fox-tread out
but trying to turn your back on a *****
called destiny - equals catastrophe personified
oh, she WILL beckon you back
with her crooked finger
most kindly
to ensure no overdue lessons wait too long.....]



the ants crawl on
so
slowly



S T, Wed 10 July 2013

snaking through a modal-jazz fine-tuned evening
      this soft huddle of sweat and tender bodies
     it was purely girls strobed, fired upon by the oncoming *****

of a maddened hand;

     slowly becoming inured to this droning of the blameful balm
of evening, always when    ennui   starts
    to   wane I will     start    the   car
and take myself to the   edge of   everything

and all the  suddenness becomes    inept
  and I myself

a   shot   in the  total  dark
making    it   final

            somewhere in Quezon City
given a   levitation and    you
  
      are     somewhat veined to my wall of disgust
the same as
     finding    an   old,   forgotten   thing
you
     have no    use    for.

But then, in that instant of plastic smiles and disco rain, I strode away from my first cradle. The air was northern and sliced my lungs open into startling clarity sliced my brain open into startling clarity. And when I looked around, I saw, and when I felt around, I touched. My trunk was slapped into shape, and in a blazing radio tower of language it became un-unique. I fuzzed my skull and rejected the lull and became recognizably human.

And while school strobed by in a prosthetic ferris wheel, I jazzed to a different beat. 'Cause my friends were kids, but neon dashed through my veins; playing saxophone with irrational exuberance. I woke every sunrise with an occupation syncopation: they breathed air while I smelled bass guitar solos in the sultry breeze blowing by the office's oasis. And paper is a flimsy wall for desire, and I never could read a point twelve sized STOP. I spread my arms and heart-orchestrated yearnings in the moon-clouded evening in the mist-drenched night in the raindrop-fresh awakening, but grey can't do but see only grey. And neon doesn't come in that shade.

No food but life no air but life no life but life. That advertisement sky is still looking at me, but I can see with my off-beat eyes that it was never a smile, but a frown of grim satisfaction. I was just looking at it upside-around. But my hair is people-colored, and my breath is derby muted, and no one puts money in my can. And then I looked around and saw, and then I felt around and touched, and then I

Those glass windows melted and gaggled themselves across my tongue, spewing honeyed drops on my flaring trombone soliloquies! My vision spiraled into a black pond of bebop and my lids and lashed fainted: up up and away into the fading light of day.

pleasant-to-be duney minded    sediments of mood-blooming    yet to calcify          light wind and arbor    harbour from record heats          meat fed steaming sun    looming life    bawling upon the venue    hosted with joshing glee    but experimenting with confused bratty states          mottled and strobed    in the brushed shade          for now    a stood peace

She sits alone
rolling the ice cubes around
the bottom of her empty glass
at first I am filled with
the overwhelming desire to approach
but as I look harder
between the blades of strobed lights
I see her cracks
though she sits as still at the night owl
deafened by the cacophony of
foolish conversation and bad music
I see she is unstable
I see she has not come for company
yet neither does she wish to be alone
this is her
the night owl
an empty house
an empty bed
but what is not empty
is the inside of her head
she is truly magnificent
but know one will ever know

If I could be invisible
So when I ruffled your hair
And they fell on your eyes
You would know it’s the blowing wind.
If I could be invisible
So when I strobed in the dark
And it showed you the way
You would know it’s the firefly.
If I could be invisible
So when I planted a feathery kiss
And you felt the moistness
You would know it’s the morn dew.
If I could be invisible
So when I sat on your heart
And it felt heavy
You would know it is love.

Years’ worth in our days swirl in our thoughts of lovely hands clasped in ours with no resolve of ever letting go.

Though the fates and sanguine melancholy conspire to break the bonds nothing can keep this sight from being enthralled

shall he, happiness dancing waltz with the sea, ever forget?

The tempest-swept shore of unyielding grace remains true to the beacon, be it in the peaks or prairies; a promise,

no matter how trampled still blossoms without the acquiescence of seasons, be they winter or spring,

until the day a tombstone is offered and a coat rack for weariness to hang,

no smiles will eternally be wasted on a frown as is with fear will be on Pennywise the clown.

We are here, and we are now until we become yesterday, our hearts unbowed

And yet, long after light has left times eyes, and last fogging breath has been drawn,

the echoes resound, love, unyielding, seared into the skin of eternity.

Strands of flesh, a promise, binding lives that once strobed like starlight, the universe chants with shared joys, sorrows, and dreams.

For every stumble, every fracture, every tear that pelted our time, we rise, reforged in the fires of devotion’s heat.

Love is no fleeting gale but the tide that shapes continents, despite the world’s cruel dissonance, harmony prevails.

And when the final curtain falls on this fleeting stage, let it be known we did not merely survive but thrived, kindled.

I am the stickman you drew as a kid,
the one you flipbooked on the corners
of every Christmas catalogue that hogged
your time and pencil.

Oh how smooth you drew me - and thin.
And I remember when you gave me a bike,
rolled me right off the page, right there
at the hardwares - those Gifts For Dads.

I see you bought a sketchpad,
and some conte's and charcoal.
I suppose you draw much fuller men now.
No, I never spoke, just eyed you.

And you didn't see me that day at all,
that time I was jiggered on the steps
of Woolworth's, smoking a blunt
at the corner of Fifth and Deluded, watching you.

Why? Well, I didn't want you to see.
Or perhaps I wanted another go,
strobed and animate, not fat and gristle,
walking among the things you'll never buy.

At Irving and Sheridan, cabs, buses and cars bled with a scab of gray belch low in the gelid airs.  Above, a draught of light spilled out of the Redline, spilled lanky into the coffee of the night, filigree cream in the eye.  It was then that I saw her, strobed in amber as the train banged itself taut and fleeing.  I watched her decay, velvet down the platform stairs.  I stood gum on the sidewalk before ticked-out commands. Walk. Don't Walk. Walk. Stirring a light thick with the bitters of spent grease, she poured into the street and came toward me, longstriding.  It was then I saw her, tepid and far.  I no longer heard the flickering scrape of the El, nor did I smell the burnt hashbrowns of the New Crystal flickering day-old soup in neon and steam.  I heard only a vague exhausted wind, smelled only the lurid musk of Obsession and rot as she passed beyond the veil of my brim. It was there, at that moment, I walked Hopper for the first time. It was there, at Irving and Sheridan, I became an overcoat and a thin dime.

Cindy knelt at her bedstand, clutching a rosary.

She whispered a prayer for the downtrodden,
and for the Sisters of Mercy who'd raised her
in the Angel Guardian Orphanage.

Light flickered, the kitchenette's fluorescent tube,
bleeding through the gaps in her bedroom door.

She yanked a shade string, her eyes narrowing
as a patrol car's lamps strobed the window.

Outside the murk of her Greenwich Village flat,
neon reflected in rain puddles; a rat scurried
down a gutter drain.

Twenty years before, she'd slept with Artie Shaw.
She was a moll with a mouth full of pearls,
walking where she pleased, shopping 5th Avenue:
her flaming red hair, a smatter of freckles
on her porcelain broach complexion.

Cindy touched her face, reliving the horror
of the shotgun stock that ruined her looks.
She'd known better than to toy with a mob boss's son.
But she'd let him pursue her until a love triangle
ended his life and brought the father's revenge.

She brought the crucifix to her lips,
whispered goodbye, then reached for
the pistol in her bedstand's drawer.