Time is… Warped gargle,
nexus of the fallen,
calling from an older lyric smoldering.
Unto fixed heights, the weaponized
circumstance of this my heating…
We make the lines that lead
from marsh to grave. We could save one
for the fire. Gruff rebuff.
Flaxen heretics mix it up, mix it up.
Something strange reborn from cold.
The seaweed spilling from her eye
is a sign of great travail.
Our tired, tattered veil flutters in fog.
And it’s because of this we form a bog
filled with smart and flying things.
Bee stings on her lips, wrapped eagerly
around the blossom that is love.
So much depends
on how we comprehend the shadows
which surmount the white emptiness
we’ve long gazed at from a privileged distance,
and they gaze back, the shadows,
and beckon us, offering
the shattered beaks of vultures.
Around her, I created a culture of vice.
She’s icicles. And her fangs impress me nice.
Nowhere moves over the troubled mass
of leaves languishing in the yard.
The moonlight dripping
through the mist like lard.
We must press on into formlessness.
Be always on our guard.
Some call it a turn on, others
call it psychosis. Some find that prose
can be quite limiting. I’ve had it
with the sublimity of progress.
My stories were never interesting,
possessing a plot the way a lover
possesses the beloved.
Then something happened
on the way to the ticket office –
species memory seized and hugged the ground.
Effigies of all sorts lined the highway
outside of town, while the overzealous fucks
that people such places came
bearing bundles of burning thread,
the schemes of a shortchanged god
glimmering behind their angry eyes.
Well, that’s how it seemed at any rate.
All I wanted to do was take in a flick,
can you believe that?
Rewind to the present tense.
Here I am in the empty shopping mall
of my deepest fears, which unfortunately
are also my deepest longings.
Imagine that kind of dissonance for a minute.
You can only do it for a minute
before the tightly coiled wire
of your Reason begins to stretch
beyond its utility. You can only do it
for a minute and a minute is just too much,
cold to the touch, but who can refuse
such a fine figure? Such distractions
always get the better of me, moving
about the inner void in enticing arabesques.
Just look at the trails they leave…
As rusty bedsprings whine…
The viscous sun, longing…
Mind field. We shirk the shirtless
and cough on our hands,
demanding energy and listing names.
Listening for the ticking…
Eight blocks of culture.
Smoking blisters. Guts in rot
and thoughts haphazard blinking.
Get your beautiful face off of my wall.
Drink of whatever fountain
catches your attention.
In a past life, I was a didgeridoo.
I had all the latest nukes
and cucumber salad was more to-the-point
than any dish I’d savored.
My dream is to one day love you
to my heart’s content, but
the distance casts a rock-like shadow
between your point A and my point B.
Guess I’ll see you in the ether-ridden dawn,
in the awful prospect
Every principle rejected was replaced
with a pillar of colored sand.
You know exactly where I stand:
this land is mine, so sayeth the fine print.
In the end, it adds up to pocket lint.
A mandate straight from the mouths of moths.
So what if I’m soft?
held aloft by simple kite strings
and rings from archaic telephones?
The cronies have their bones to pick,
and the sickening texture of their moral “codes.”
In their frenzy, they’ve overloaded the wagons
with flagons of gut-rupturing wine.
Circumstances never align
the way they’re supposed to,
but with a closed fist and determination,
what compunction you’ll inspire!
It’s astonishing, really,
how easy it is to survive
the dive bomb logic of an apology.
One minute, you’re in it.
The next, you’re flexing.
Deviation dictates all.
I take this thunderclap for mine own.
So speaks… The coven, salacious.
The tone-deaf monarch breathing heavily.
Around the turn of a screw,
in lieu of hotboxing, these laborer’s fingers
twisting spliffs to engage thoughtfully.
Condescension with a smile.
The way these feminine eyes distress me
and even with a hangover.
I’d downed the wine, flipped the sacrament,
rendered praise unto husky mouths
rife with alphabetic tumors.
The way these feminine hands undress me…
Amid churning stars and specters.
Trees piling on trees. Limitless shadow.
Mine own hands steeped in the boiling nectar.
I only considered the proposal,
the desolate prospect of her windblown song.
We ate of the valley’s festering fruit
and fucked in the grass.
She said these lies were a burden.
More than… The future,
an approaching train, white light
intensifying until only heat.
A remainder, or a reminder.
We carry lethargically on
and summer shoots through every window.
Another lost weekend for the pyre.