By my muddled muddlings,
I am able to discern peculiar
particularities or particular
peculiarities, don’t matter which,
but all the same, I’m troubled
by the fringed sun’s rumblings
and the land’s heft and swell.
So much foreground
for but one mind to imbibe.
I’m least likely to consider
the consternation of time
as it moves inscrutably
and even less likely to be moved by it.
There’s a certain resonance
that barricades itself within
the inner ear, holding all
the other resonances hostage
in the meanwhile as they tremble
in their gaudy undergarments
and beg for whatever mercy’s
most in fashion. I call this passion,
Alternate theories need not apply.
We could probably stand
to de-stress a little, fuck off
to some gem-encrusted island
just beyond the Pacific sun,
dipping into the ocean
like it was a great blazing
punch bowl or something.
After all, this town full
of dust mites and fried blood
don’t care about us.
Me, I mean.
Tie me down so I stop jittering,
fidgeting with my keys.
One of which unlocks
the luminous door in back of my skull,
so you can see the hectic
inside business going on.
Yeah, that’s the stuff.
I don’t like how the scenery
is playing out. I don’t see the point.
Only the prodding.
Have I been absolutely clear?
And here I was only looking
to feel mildly astonished.
Through apricot-colored clouds,
a drizzle of whispers, unintelligible,
drives the out-of-style indoors.
Forecast this, ye cretins.
Those who can’t keep time
with the junkyard hustle
have no right to complain.
Favorable shock and duress
have their place in our improvised schema,
yet who’s listening?
I’ve got the old randomness itch it seems,
and I’m no longer afraid to use it.
So sick of these anodyne tropes
dotting the textual landscape.
Ditto the nostalgia circuit, its listless current.
I’ve got an ample supply of boiled blood
to last until the next doomsday,
and more than enough nerve heat
to curry fever with the corybantic muses
whose fury moves through me.
lionized disaster rabble.
Burn all the t-shirts.
Came crying forward, o meticulous.
Reap metabolic rapture, unspoken.
Fidget of worms aglow.
Bow penultimate. Necessity
scavenges. Love threatens,
facticity above all else.
sprung from crawling carcass,
wants the manager. Nevertheless,
on sex and magick.
I’m not sure how cautiously I can tread.
I’ve only just arisen as the de facto
head of state-sanctioned cognitive dissonance.
Behold the ghosts I tote
through the bleak euphoria of midwinter!
Frazzled phantoms composed of rose.
A bit on the nose,
but I’ve been accused of worse.
On the course laid bare before me,
I can find no room for divagation.
Only taut familiarity, drumming
emaciated fingers on each careful twist and turn.
Nostalgia’s withering embrace.
The thing that is no thing of note
is in fact a thing
of tremendous immensity,
a thing of intensity
that is of no small importance,
the thing that sets the standard
by which all things
may be measured.
Last night, god dropped
its hairnet on the valley of lesser note.
Not that I believe in gods or valleys,
but the effect holds true regardless.
I came in through egress point A
to find the moon a blue balloon,
squeaky surface and all,
by unfortunate chance obstructing
egress point B, thereby forcing me
to learn my place. I wore a weird
expression on my face
(Gotta keep up personae, you know),
and my face wore an even weirder
expression on me. Kind of knotty
and gnarled like a branch
torn from a centuries-old oak tree.
The garden grifted the people
my people for a shot
at getting in my pants.
Thus it was I learned to dance
as dire and as dour
as an early morning rain.
A severe tingling in the membrane
has made us prone to involuntary erotic spasms.
So we move on, move up, and move over
in order to make breathing room.
The Breathing Room refers
to that enclosed space
which respires through its lukewarm walls
and exhales various slightly sweetish odors.
Our reading of the situation
is not a close reading.
Our reading of the situation
is at best incomplete, incompetent at worst.
By morning the thirst traps have been sprung.
The morning is subsequently devoured
by a famished pack
of involuntary erotic spasms.
Hail! The gravy boat sets sail,
right on course for a next meal.
Say, what’s the deal with meals anyhow?
Meals that make the belly limp, not full,
that make woolly the gaze
and daze the eater to a state of Being?
Ah, the seeping, all-seeing hands of nourriture
lay heavy upon us, rubbing our rubbingly
rubbish flesh so tenderly-aggressive.
And with each successive chew,
the scenery grows duller and more ambiguous,
our mouths grow duller and more ambiguous,
and our brains grow sullen and more superfluous.
Therefore, let us languish here
and liquefy, as slowly and as certainly
as the nutriment that rules us.
Watch out, he’s going rogue
behind the eyes again.
He’s whipping his lips
into a frenzy again,
drawing obscenities from the air again.
And again, we watch on
as his laughter implodes again,
as his luster loses then finds itself again,
and the sun, in a goodbye-haste,
spills pink nectar o’er the sky again.
He whispers to the wisps
at play in the emergent dark
something lascivious, tongue-worthy,
and the little wisps, uplifted,
feast delighted fast again
upon the meat of his phrase.