It's that heretic rock and roll! The poison and rot
they flush into their veins, their spoilt-shriveled hearts,
their weed-addled brains!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Emerson
The transparent eyeball that through allowing
the emergence of these personalities with himself intertwined invites
the infinite possibility to the continually evolving.
the emergence of these personalities with himself intertwined invites
the infinite possibility to the continually evolving.
The Trinity
A fucking revolutionary
concept. Three selves in
one self, even more radical selves
in one self, one living, breathing
entity that meets itself in everything
it sees.
concept. Three selves in
one self, even more radical selves
in one self, one living, breathing
entity that meets itself in everything
it sees.
Deus Ex Machina
The woman on the platform
itches her calves white.
The train is late, but somehow she comes.
itches her calves white.
The train is late, but somehow she comes.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Gleaner's Cafe, October 5th, 2009
"I have a dream of acting once" like Branagh
knowing the punchline and stretching
the nylon web across the cafe eaves, spiders'
plastic cling and vine lashed gourds
peering at the sunmap of an asphalt yard, Sketches of Spain
leaking from a subwoofer and honey and tea stains on the door.
knowing the punchline and stretching
the nylon web across the cafe eaves, spiders'
plastic cling and vine lashed gourds
peering at the sunmap of an asphalt yard, Sketches of Spain
leaking from a subwoofer and honey and tea stains on the door.
The R5 Local to Thorndale, October 5, 2009
writing's not loud enough
I think I'll beat a hole in the wall
I'll smoke and quaver my
soul absence and I won't
care if it's bad, I'll just beat
until the paint flakes off
I'll percuss and wail my soul prism
in the dark world of rorschach fists
I'll crack warble and wail
I'll be a being beating machine
I think I'll beat a hole in the wall
I'll smoke and quaver my
soul absence and I won't
care if it's bad, I'll just beat
until the paint flakes off
I'll percuss and wail my soul prism
in the dark world of rorschach fists
I'll crack warble and wail
I'll be a being beating machine
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Julia Waits for the Bus, November 11, 1996
It's cold and Julia
has burnt toes,
rorschach apple
face. Joints where skin
flakes a red
pain. She doesn't
like it much, can't
muffle properly,
huffs air through
pillowed lungs, blisters
organs with frost.
So cold! She rubs
flesh to flesh, denim,
wool. Her feet are
mausoleums, white
winters where something
now petrified lived.
.
"I'm walking on
rocks," she thinks.
And watches the empty
dogwoods fondle each
other, tongues a freeze
crippled thumb. Her body
lemon-hued
like a breathing season
leans high action on the
stop sign. Pluck
her tendons right, they
echo like a rings of an
old age--harmonics
of the bus that never comes.
has burnt toes,
rorschach apple
face. Joints where skin
flakes a red
pain. She doesn't
like it much, can't
muffle properly,
huffs air through
pillowed lungs, blisters
organs with frost.
So cold! She rubs
flesh to flesh, denim,
wool. Her feet are
mausoleums, white
winters where something
now petrified lived.
.
"I'm walking on
rocks," she thinks.
And watches the empty
dogwoods fondle each
other, tongues a freeze
crippled thumb. Her body
lemon-hued
like a breathing season
leans high action on the
stop sign. Pluck
her tendons right, they
echo like a rings of an
old age--harmonics
of the bus that never comes.
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