Book 1
Prisms of The Drone Years
The Prism Wedge
Out,
on the periphery of some carnival
the tranquil din of casino song,
infinity carpets spiraling, unfurling out ~
High altitude and clearest air
A collector (of a sort) pseudo-hawking,
murmurs as if in trance
a spectacled oracle-automaton
a plainchant of finest end-times
“Welcome to my house of shards
Take a prism fragment
and wedge it in between whatever
Or cast this prism wedge to sea
in glass bottle floats refracting
roiling waves of mast debris
past the watchguards on the breakers
Or don't use these crystal slivers
that will only slice.
But array them and inlay them
in kaleidoscopes for seering
instead of resistant jeering
mundanity that shudders, shivers.
No. No.
What do I care
what you 'do'
with these prism wedges?"
And was then he self-vanquished
by some vague spectre of anguish
Years later, we regretted
not buying this strange
'prism wedge'.
But as we sifted through the rubble,
tuning our peripheries …
A shim faintly glimmer-teased
unbursting irridescent bubble,
a wavefield of serving dew
glistening with the greatest ease
…
Then suddenly and carelessly stomped dead by some gossiping oaf!
Apparition
He comes to you out of the mist
of fog screens latest mesmers
He emerges like a splinter
from forest's shade he charming shudders
Overgrown and self-maintained,
a rosy sylvan apparition
How strange that he has come at all!
This threnody of self-fruition
But have you ears to hear
the luring knocking, murmurs rapt
Does your eye adjust, perceive
brilliant diamonds lurid sieved?
He never lingers very long,
he didn't come to beg, but tickle
To sing a song of transience
stranger to the dopes of patience
So it's wise to keep alert!
and to crush all that's inert
and keep all your windows open!
lest through your reaping he elopes
Then indolent he freely drifts
down the river of your soul
And though you do not notice him
his presence undertows your “flow”
Sun of Indolence
To that everburning spewer
of insipid radiation
You laconic sun of indolence!
On spring's fertile bark
A capacity for evocation rings
And swooning effloresces
In unified tones of difference
In excited somnambulism
~ Dancing sine waves in the nude ~
And acutest continuity
On grounded evanescence
On effulgent conduction
A lover in search of an Echo, electric echoes searches
In sincerest perpetuities
In spiraling vertices of continuities
You idling and deserting dilater, You
Oscillating wide & free
Boundless introspection to exhibit
A vore’s consumption outward lights
Hymn 1 (Ahead Of)
Meet up? With who?
The patient missed?
Rescinded mist?
Turn back?
Me?!
Endowed, undone
An aura mirror misted on
All wilted billowed bastions wrapped
Ratchetstrapped with sad claptraps
O Un-me, ahead a new viscosity!
A holo operatic song
even seering active seas
Highest points, these vertices
The finest iridescent mists
upon auroral mirrored gongs
Rescinded and unrescued me
Listening with mistful ear
Glistening and ever trustful
Turn back now!?
Mast endowing
Fists mass gone!
Resignation willing bent
Rescinding and ascending me
Hymn 2 (Resign?)
Resign?
As streaking on
Mass shivering, designated
These glistening seas
Turns as on that silver side
Giving but so cutting off
But on!
Dessicated glistening on
curdled furling seas
Sorry and supposed to get
Even though,
Even chance
O .... exhilaration!
Even then, exhilaration!
An exile's or angel's last lost halation
Oh evanescence, ever slaking
A glistening, asking essence
Weakening your beautiful
Sueded and galloping, handsome,
Disjointed,
Dishonest,
Disappointed
unbridled ridings cease expiring
Oh dejected me!
My deja vu lips
Mismatched,
misjoined
Seizing for caesura's sake
Glimmering maligned seizing
Of pursued magnificence
Come and take
Necrotized beauty
as a disjointed
people's prospering
sighs sighingly
Then something taking,
doting to evaluate,
Sightless evanescing me!
Broken, disaffected
for my lost becoming
And cheerful expiring
relieved of gangrened unbecoming
This seizing beauty
Desperate with you, too,
This exasperated coming
Isthmus of us raving true
Beauty of extinct exiles
that flits as loring
Effloresces exhilation
Gone yet put, yet flitting more,
Doing ever enough, oh aspiring me!
Never ever ever slighted
Disject in shadow ...
Misconstrued and shattered beauty ...
Skull of shards and
Fading ahead
Forever fading long ahead!
Of evanescing and expiring
Resigning seizing fallen sand
The Apperceptor
The Apperceptor lay awake at night
Under cracked cold window
Below a spring or autumn wind
The Apperceptor
cares not which
(but notes them well!)
A magnolia scent of fuschia violent blown
in Senecio face
Teasing lungs, this quizzical hinting
irreverent pastorality
Murmurs of slaying the giant
who stalks above
Who snores into the hardwood ceiling:
A wretched structure-borne sound
Resonates a sedate hypnos
Sighing I — just dream about Varese
alarming songs in public square
concert for a faceless date,
painfully charming beyond all compare
The Secret of Music
Not in self-immiseration
Nor in joy or exultation
Not in you at all!
But music's in the slaying
of a warden: an awarded mystifier
As Perseus decapitated Medusa
As shrieks released serpentine-turmoil song
~ So sinuous & writhing strong ~
In that effulgent energy
Like a Singing Socrates
was music released into air …
Where it always wants to go
The God of Could
Don't admonish me!
Don't proffer some meme-lame advice
Your commonest nonsense pseudo-psych screes
… … { yawn } … …
I know better than you
that life … passes me by …
like watching a dull throng of redhead angels
watching their over-photographed unselves
You wannabe-cruel
Rubber-inner!
If every time I deign to sip
life reveals its parched self,
then why not just repose that lip,
relax, enjoy something other-than
the life-desert's spangling hack-mirages?
As if I don't know that life's endowed me
with every greatest faculty!
- The great electric god Potential
enveloped me with charged embrace +
When the cruelest ground retreated
with capacitous will to stand,
and connect the living circuit
⏚
So no advice today, or 'should'
You, too, are one circuit short!
To a most grounded man —ahem
— the God of Could
Ephemere's Tilt
Several years have passed
Since all hope extinguished
And colloquys of clarity
Vanished but with merest trace
And I, I-less drift as dust
Astride a ruinous mote
Encoiling free'd mortality
Timeless without site
But when a chance encounter
On Ephemere's tilt
Brings this point across a star
A light show evokes life
Projections from a life once lived
Dance with splendid radiance
Excite joyous spectacles
A speck for all lost spectre's bliss!
And then a solar wind blows this
Spiraling anew
On estranged trajectories
Again to blackest ruse
The Silentist
They teach you're not ‘sposed to ask
“What's the point & what's the promise?
Is there possibility?”
Questions damning to damn up
the freed mans creativity
Yet in a Silentist’s reflection
I highlight my own glowing fingers
For what appears as my own eyes
The faculties I've fabricated?
New colors stole from evolution?!
{ In empty decaying summer night
spotlit by three blazing streetlights
sits a solitary homeless man in repose
retrofit with blasting soul music }
For what does paying dues have to do
with poetry?
If poetry is — the poet-demagogues — say
a threshold or a gateway
It’s because the poets hold hands, make a fence
the awarded wardens
Shoveling an inch of sand, on extinct plateau
yokels chanting propaganda
Despite the ‘teachings’
I’ll continue to question everything
A splinter floating free
Gloria
To hell
or in wasted limbus dwell
the musical "artist"
enchained to a retro synth
and necrotized French theorist
My algo rhythms
liberated from the plinths
awake disrobed angels seizing
croon a chune so ruinous
ridded of all reference
bereft of all trite semblance
Not hell or heaven holds them
but oscillating, coeval and between them
criminal archangels praise mirrored side bands
For the twee musician
can paint a pretty constellation
~ But I'll scatter the stars before your eyes ~
The wardened composer
can wring a mediocre cloud shape
~ But I'll disperse the clouds through your senescent ether ~
A plucking of your heart string?
My oneiric angels irreverent
release seven pianos silver
plunging from artificial heavens
scream glorias of shadowbanned velocity
that burning crash around floodgates
and sympathetic resonate
all decomposing heartstrings!
Drive
Thriving in the ghettoized march
Driving on with emergent brake
How long will it grinding last?
The drunken girls smash into phone-poles
Low mosquito slowest night,
metal clangs against dead wood
And clay-men scream at cell towers
For the last time clocks annoyed affairs
How long will it go on?
Sputtering machine, ill-motion
Abandoned on the boiling tarmac
Abortion of a vague putrescence
Pulverized metal gods ablaze
Fetus-oil of epigone skulkers
Roadside lawn of weedy grasses
Crowds unaware of their crowded recursion
— The Recursed —
The lying chauffeur stumbles down greenblack street
Descension thudding, rebel yelling
to dissect the meaning
of bleeding driver’s tender meat
Away, for Us
Consigned to isolation
Romanticized solitude
Yet nerves resist isolation
With solitary plenitude
A part of me nocturnal murmurs
Come back, I did not mean it!
I'll do anything to have you back
But in the dark, you're shred to glimmers
As charmingly I tend night gardens
Stolen, hark!, to fill all lacks
Better still would be a bark
To sail confused longing's shards
As lovers still enmeshed in work
Concentric ringing out, then still
Or handfulls o' pebbles, slowly sunken
To the groundless dorm abyss
Is it ancient catholicity
That sends all the people off
So that they'll come back to me?
Not to us, but for Us?
To Whom Do I Yell?
From across mirrored abyss
Abysmal yawn that drowns all yells
All appeals return and gloss
Impels as conjuring amiss
Have comrades passed to clearer shores
Merely to receive dead pleas?
Would that they'd keep treading on
Ignoring spectres whispering
Or is it I that passed beyond
Whose silence clear and glistening
Transport of wispy resoundings
That lept over a meager pond?
I'm sorry if I've passed beyond
I know transcendence just insults
Or am I just some mercury rising
On the hill of some necrobiome?
When I Walk
When I walk
It's also a walking past
Past parked and demolished cars
past bick'ring couples' barking dogs
kicking over weeping willows,
last playground ruins, apery’s cast
… As if on a winded bark …
— Aimless and capable
Effortlessly alert —
A sickened spirit wafting through
as does blood ultraviolet throb
And even though I move so slow,
so languid & so loafingly
sewing tares across the runways
I feel my vaulted gait is vast
Trespassing over all of earth
If
But if a great book were written,
Would there be readers here to read it?
Were a masterpiece composed,
Would there be ears round here to hear it?
An audience of audiences
— of course — “propose”
(Echoing and miming quickly (yawn))
Do they know another word?
Another value at all?
Than wringing each other’s hands
to marching sounds of some slack drum?
It’s not that I don’t want one
But that there’s no sufficient one
Rather I’d see all that’s extant
draped with a billowing foil
and stamped by a child’s whim
— a son or daughter of indolence
Disenchanted Enchantment
When paintings become scaffoldings
for constipated prophets scrambling ladders
And profits celebrate glass cardhouse
built atop a rabble's trough
Over-seered by antisocial witches hacking covens
scree'ing, politessing larks
...
It's time to desert
And if your bark is then harassed
by the damned who ever-gnaw
in the middling swampy marshes
Feed them bread and beer and move
to a vortex further West
midst the hills of Silenus
Where phosphor mosses pad sunforests,
enchanted birches creaking sway
Was that an elk that silent passed,
near glowing amber fire-moon,
a disc of tiger’s eye, against cool midnight
waits mammoth, halved on closed horizon
and half asleep on metal roof
your silverered monotone awaits
to step you up & then ascend
into stargates of solitude?
As I Think of Convalescence
As I think of convalescence
The image that comes to mind
Is a person on the edge ...
Of life ...
At a cliff …
on verdant pasture,
in a wheelchair that's not really needed
Cheerfully overlooking a vast abyss
and bathed in sun at violet dusk
After having done everything
Exhausted all known paths
And with a deep euphoric sigh,
a replenished bastion of potential,
charming wonders to itself ...
Where to go from here?!
When We Hadn't Air Conditioning
And in hot summer eves were reveled
Sweaty dancing
dews embalmed on hardwood floor …
Laughing with Adam — the joyous man of music
Drinking wine from the shoe of a friend
Spectacles cast out the window
into the overgrown weeds
That enveloped us — weedy seedlings — in present's eternity
Lightning River Cinema
Hacking into heaven:
the counterfeiting of divine structures
Hacking vaginal cracks
in a dreamy mansion
Black hole culture fertilizes
Lost Gods of Negativity
Careening downhill past history
Exploding stars are projections
of pent-up libido
wanting to burst and radiate
Extremist persecution fantasies:
From six feet under
to six feet apart
The six foot peddlers
Dried-turned-flooded riverbed
washing horses fast downstream
in lightning storms beasts go a-rushing
Flickering cinema mud-river dread
Stonewall builders
in the desert of movement
Kaolin clay-men stonewalling reality
The end of the world slowly grows in a HiveMind
In seedling form it’s nurtured
by a pale symphony of compromises
Lit on fire by projections —
Projector fires consume blankest screens,
swallowed by middle-evening tarfights,
Slick with decay
Dreams of lost wandering through dark labyrinths
deep underneath unearthly temples;
Vague katabasis of lostest boys
Or is it fateful inhumation?
Convalescences in Winter
Pandemics in Spring
The Rise and Fall of stupefied each
Masked metabolisms;
Crescendos & decrescendos ad infinitum;
Peristaltic waves shatter dumbfound dawn;
Omnipresence and dead silence of fumbled friends.
Vagrant waiting in shadows for change
hooded with a fake pipe
The pendulum swings its cutting edges
desparate for entrail spillage
The avant-garde waits in a pit below
... alert ...
Arms outstretched with solar sails
ready to sweep away the broken pieces
to blow open every door
with an army of monkey philosophers
A Different Pulse
O but I don't want my hands
On the calloused pulse
of a zeitgeist’s clogged artery
But rather free in their activity
Tuning what may never be
Self Publishing
Beyond compromises 'poets' made
to get words recognized & validated
Not my silent glorias!
Unseeking petrified complacency
Unseeking decorum's armchair approval
When one learns the greenest leaves
sprung from grassy, effulgent roots
of One poets pressing self
A Rumination On Boundaries
Suddenly all stupefied dancers
Self-conscious stumble on their boundaries
Shuddered efforts to erect tresses
Substitute erections of the in-walled quiverers
Constrained, the stage entombs its boundary
A scar-line of officials protects the flaunterer
From parting follied masses
And so now forged, indolent crowd desires to flay its Face
Blackout noise defilement of objects
The shatter-din of boundaries broken
Glassy displays boarded with discarded faux-wood
Dull concealment of virgin, precious kitsch
Seething manipulator of fate
Give us — The Duplicitous — one last maddened swoon
Flame-topped charmed with ecstacy
Terrible collaboration in seizure night
Spectral Riders
I remember ... a painting
A watercolored bearded god
moving like a billowing cloud
over the face of unfinished earth
And as we ride across the plains,
ethereal in diffuse skies
Broken swarming mountain peaks
alongside eagles noble glide
Such a drifting nurturing are we
Spectral riders over dust
Effigy of roiling gas, our most saturn selves
tranquil in our restless ease
Evershifting and entropic
atmospheric ghostly gallops
Observing dispassionately our children
And our children's children
The decay, rot, & regrowth anew
cycling around the globe
A cloud-paean of blissful misfortune
electric in this glassy orb
A pantheon of defiled virginity
Such an ominous, untouchable love are we
Unwritten Rules
I was once fired from a job for "looking bored"
I was once asked to leave home because I "had a darkness around me"
- Don't look bored
- Don't accidentally carry darkness around you
And yet,
The ethereally fired burn with rising passions
Their black that nurtures nebulas
One is always the first to cancel Oneself
'Canceled' burned on shy-child heart's cave wall
A dank letter C sewn on work uniforms,
Work uniforms as cumrags
In touch with one’s own ediolon
who makes a ruin of one life
to freely live another
The Hackweed
Ringing round perimeters
of many blackest holes
Thrives a hackweed, Demeter's
Lush and cyclical
Bending but not snapping off,
breaking to be sucked away
To vortexed abyss it leans
thriving at the end of day
O hackweed why resist the current,
pursuing all that's light?
When all detritus like yourself
passes through now free of slight
In what are you rooted
a wispy vacuumed air?
A waif who's hacked eternity
free'd tendrils coiling in nowhere
Like a deepsea mythic squid
Undulates in black
Or penis worm forever potent
An orgy of its lonely hack
Resplendent with electric charge
radiant in easy drift
Excited dancing by the grave
cheerful witness to sorrows lift
Oceans
The origin of deepest oceans began with a lost boy
Who, terrored, wandered through horrid wilderness
Nerves alarming & electric,
pulsing peristaltic blood, expand swollen throbbing veins
Transformed into a large and gaping, unblinking eye
Drifting vagus perception of enslaved nature in all landscapes
Directly, peripherally, with crystal folly in every method of looking
And in his lone unblinking eye a salty tear glacial welled
And brimming held the surface tension of this desolate teardrop over eons
And in its turgored sorrowed glaze was refracted All of The World
Until stupid physics would hold it no more
And spilled loneliness across the desert globe
Rotation 1
Silent excitement at citations
Perspiring exciting rotations
Aspire to a spire
And a liar and a liar
On fire as a
Watchfire!
Hired and fired —
Wiring watchfires
on Great Walls retrofit with wheels
Released and detaching
recorded angels,
crazy bygone into
new wilderness
of history vertiginous
Watchfire
If the Kosmos had a prison
it could all be held on Earth
If its prisoners were asked:
What do you want, running on?
A hologram of unfree souls
overlapping for yoke’s efficiency …
Fate social they respond:
Take us back!
Rewiring watchfires
Shriveling and waiting
at the sight of Appearance’s entrance
From deathbed of Kosmos,
from watchfires blown
And fire! And fire!
Wildfire! Wildfire!
The spire is on fire!
Labyrinthitis and
scorched mind
On fire on fire!
Red metal roof on flaming coast
detached spirit on fire
and shaming desire’s contagious fire
Crowd Planter
Planting things in crowd?
- or -
A crowd of plants?
No jokes about death?
- or -
Only jokes about death?
Galvanizers consumed in dark
Sad alchemy of wrath-snort soldiers
Quarantined and hunger harassed
The sinks be clogged with dogs’ last bark!
O, they’re edited in cut-up halves
No, alchemy for claw-loose cellar wolves
Gnawed by blue-black pseudo-worry
In enclaves plants a faker gaffe
Diagnostics
What howled-on savage dares to hype the vulgar
quivering alone sans slave morals …
Feel in apocalypse first horizon?
Who wills to gaze through faceted eyes of decay,
eyes seering shut
When we'd be pushed out onto the edge of a giant knife
swinging out, rotating slow & massive
Sliding down that smooth silver side
cold & shiny
Like the wing of some perfect alien machine
capable of anything
What exhilaration!
Sometimes it would sudden turn, we'd see some new cosmos
blazing crystal on our tongues
And then it would slowly rotate
to reveal some scattering of wicked cherubs
While ensnared in reverie
some frenzy of anxiety
Refracting inwards unfurls new day
it's own strange birth as a tentacular alien?
Who wills glee for masquerades
gambling on myriad insane kings
Loosened onto potholed rearfronts
The last leaking moaning of their raids?
Who wills to organize disparate fronts,
as talented as they are lunatic,
Erection of a Supermother
birthing superhuman others?
An unlocatable itch burrowed through thickest skin
Or a doctor asking, Does this hurt?
as he feels you up?
To feel the itch yourself, so close,
but don't quite find it there within?
Have you found any phantom instincts
irradiated pleasure when
diagnosticians praise your limbs?
A Pastoral
Winter in the belly of a worm
The scream of the red passage
One thing’s belly is another’s bleeding highway
Cocoon falls
Past Oral derivations
Contractions dripping foul excretions
Vistas seen in pinholed mauls
Winter in the belly of the worm
Spectral screams of unborn monarchs
Stretched across past oral shame
Projections contracted out
Winter in a belly of the worm
Golden entrails left behind
A passage etched in shimmering slime
Sinewy ooze-sining waves
Ambience of hellsnaked terms
The way is through & not around
Contracting projections arrested
Projected contractions detested
Nurturer of Leftovers
As life mocks an aging Man
constantly missing his ship
On his raft: a burnt model
in an unlabeled bottle
Narcotized student of teeming life inside;
hacker of immortality
Hacking heaven, imp adrift
Undying, unliving, a ragged survivor
forever
Sea-bait,
an ocean pursed his ghostbait lips
The dying Man
On leaking bark without a plan
With crystal eye refracts felled stars
But not the hands to grasp gas stars
The Full-Grown Youth
Microcosmic wrinkles,
blasphemic beauty — face and mind,
Clay-encrusted, absorbed containing
disabled-longing cries of cankered youth
of mundane toiling mute refraining
Man, with your boundless music
immediately motheaten and composted
destined to obsolescence from the misconception
The freed expert of discarding
and nurturer of left-behinds
Mocking Herds
New Sacæa
A mock King elected
Wage slaves freed
Festivals of lust
Packed in a single sunburning cycle
Throngs of masked raiders
whimper in minor modes, rotate through coliseums
Relieved of sanity
Scintillating Spring pandemonia
For mocking herds
A mock King is unearthed
From under a prisoned rock
Extracted from the egg of a mythic squid
A dead man girdled in gold chains
Tumescent grows the mean tongue
Mass exoduses, frenzied on the run
of termites gone to rot dank wood
Mock King crucified
Election and sacrifice
Mocking herds
Mocking herds
Vorebow
White lies
Black lies
Dark green, lilac, vermilion lies
New lies
War lies peace lies
lies lies lies
A rainbow of deceit transfixing
A woman ironically grinds a man
And dances lyingly on him
Humiliating for discomfort
The insincerest dance
Why?
Ground man echoes
Grounds for something ...
Unborn lies
Lies lies perfecting lies
A rainbow of deceit
Iridescent claims your fancy
Birthed in black ice,
Polished plastic or
aflame in their beds
Or starved or corrupted
by greyest molehills
Somewhere on a mountain's mouth it lies
Buttons pressed, they’re deformed lies
An incidence of spectrum flies
Lost, driving with burnt engine
around all sides perceiving
fractured glimpses of the counterfeit full
All graves have been seen at once
crowded in cascading stone rows
What’s been seen, ground man echoes
Lies lies vorebow lies
Transparency
Tingling with the anticipation
of a zillion dead souls
I long to be transparency
incarnate and ethereal
Enervated, exacerbated
all that whispers wafting through
all that bickers blisters by
Refractive in my crystal skull
refracted by my crystal skull
a prism wedge or fledgling schism
that's pulsed alive with incidence
Aquiver with a process
of becoming less
of jettisoning, deprogramming
A looseness that is lightning fast!
Jaded Infants
Is all this bitterness,
scourge of resentment,
juvenilia full-grown to madness,
the will to see the worst in people,
medleys of defensiveness,
portfolios of confused actions,
elusive mysteries still each to their own,
A means to an end?
Or is it the end?
Before the beginning was ever imagined?
Do our infants jade in womb?
Submerged with Fists
Those masters of a handless art
Unbecoming limbs
Bent in and atrophied proclaiming
Clanging down the wooden halls
A game played without fun
Laughless …
Belated …
Spineless bundles, clanging nerves
Nettling together in dank-cold fisted night
— Hello? —
The dead man on the phone
hatches plans into your abstinence nest
Sleepless and yet sedate
a demented destruction-sonata
buries its hues into motheaten eardrums
Insidious, submerged with fists
burrowing in vacated dreams
to the din of a prison full of limbs
clattering empty cups on steel bars
Threnody frenzy at the millenium mists
Silenus’s Baby
When the helpless child’s belly is sliced in half
Where tumored organ was excised
And tumor gone it’s now sewn shut,
A fuchsia crack pasted with goo
Resting on her bed, feathers blackened down
Beneath stretched mirror, irradiated gut
Bored, not knowing what to do,
I hypnagogic sing my whisper
Cancered child of Humanity!
Behold your images in the
temporary respite of artifice!
Sedate, a strongest head on its detaching hair
Your doors are shutting down this season
These shortened days o’erflow with languid anal jokes
Furnished with a hole of reason
And living dances, improvisations tar-baked
Onto the mouldered platforms of closed bars
Malign the barricaded streets of smoke
I gaze in your eyes like statued Silenus nurturing a wild infant
Unwanted but bad-new-day embraced
In Fall’s shady nights under World’s Unfair pavilions
Wanting to go under with you, your ‘crack’ is closed to the outside
Beyond this fevered winter I will carry you, with strongest wretched arms
Riding out this toxic tide,
And foment this screaming cicada’s brew
Dinner Party
A sort of feast on the deepest underbelly
of an ungrowing city
Mold-silver diner on a festered marsh
centered roses burgundy block cross-gazes
smoking pylons spew a world’s-worth of black heat
The flame-headed boywoman
with psycho teeth and glass-shocked eyes upturnt
says that we are not living
may once have been living, but no more
probably an afterimage we dine in
A blemish of a hellcamp
worth nothing, words soon end
an effusive communal laugh bellies out before
it is quickly swallowed
and indigestable goes to a history snake-gut
cancering around infinity
a tumor on eternity
How Long Will It Go On?
How long will it go on?
How long will it go on?
How long to keep the foody down?
Burning esophagus, a hearth
Burning sarcophagus, billboarded town
How long will it go on?
How long will it go on?
The same old tired redressed song
That just won’t play playful along
How long to turn that old song off?
How long will it go on?
Insidiously planted
Deep rooted fantasy of dust
How long will it go on?
How long must it must it must?
The Indolent Physician
As writhes over ivory
and with an Ionian languor
The poet-physician plays
the sinuous heartstrings
and nervous palpitations
~ not the crowd ~
but the masked individuals in crowds
As an evanescent tuning fork
taps on the resonant pelvic floors
of abstract men,
a solemn guttural ring
As fragile in their enervation,
o-so delicate bony compositions
threaded by symptoms
convulse in effulgent glory
Hellmouth
When children begin asking questions
about magic and death
any life is possible
inconsequential breath
Infinity of pre-impossible;
Smirking bunkered stormland;
Arcades closed to children;
Traffic light refracts by glass;
Acid drops on steaming metal roof;
A vehicle hurdles in the rain
guided by disembodied hand
trauma-bonded til the end
The wards they all are shut
“policed, industrialized…” : smut
parses out in duty’s rows
and columns rationing out blows
The gates: they are all opened
barricade of despair loosened
heading into melee scramble
mute cries of yelling rabble babble
Hand-to-hand and mouth-to-mouth
hallowed whinging dry heaves up
that fallow, mellower despair
that folks across the radio air
a toxic brew, don’t feed your pup
red hallowed hand in hallowed mouth
Seams So
Seam rippers on the prowl
Challenging the seamless
The latest slicing open mess
A moaning pleasure sends an owl
Through gaping head he lessens less
Scissors meet the owl’s loom
But trying hard cannot undress!
Someone
Melee man without a plan
exit tribal caravan
He has no club, no axe to grind
and yet there’s little else to find
A caravan recursed reroutes
dissenting melee man chased out
Reciting harvested folklore
what a bore and stiff with gout
The rappers rap resenting moar
don’t they get sick of their mouthsores?
Resentful man & dumbed: A Paean
god rekindled to a snore
A song: confused, tongue-lashed and mean
what could this tired tirade mean?
But no, they’ve sorely misjudged
not melee man but dissonant man
who upturned spikes the caravan
Overruled: the motley and begrudged
Alarms
Unrelenting beeping
Messages
convoluted, crossed
Living imp
life, peevishly glossed
Civil War steeping
The children are all burnt
But that’s OK,
Ancient Greece is turnt today!
A finger-pointing masquerade
Never again will you get paid
So just drink your Lemonade(tm)
And say you’ll never be afraid
But pacing you may never yearn
Shrill
alarms neglecting turns
Drowning Man
A drowning man
surfaces periodically
Random bobbing
head on the horizon
Looks erratic to other man
Vaguely erotically
Over the eternal brine
But he’s drowning!
Inhaling stuff into his body
that he should not be downing
And tries to get above it all
And to prevent his own downfall
An irreverie at the threshold quavers …
Is it really necessary to prove innocence?
Before and after every thing done,
not even done, but vaguest thoughts
the thought of a thought becoming thought?
Cringing hatred!
Human relations overvoiced!
The Human Voice: entertainment
Expression or exhibition: tabooed
More yes! More yes!
Is it on the drowning man to prove he’s drowning,
Is it on the drowning man to prove he’s worthy of rescue,
(Which is not to say actually capable of being rescued),
From the vertigoing
sinkhole of history?
One cycle after the next
Entrancing around a devil’s zoetrope
Or perhaps he finds an island, a foothold
and fishes some people out.
Those few who overcame despair
Don’t pull him in
Out of resentment
And on precarious ledge, around vertiginous sinkhole
Then what?
Wait?
Or maybe to give in … what lay upon the other side of gravity?
The resistance false?
Light-stuffed shirt of novelty?
Acid Preachers
There are herds of preachers
escaped from the zoo
On the dismayed streets
choruses are taboo
Who stage a bickering over age-old shit
Looking for a newer zoo
Acid icewater drips
On spotlights aimed at stars
There are spiderwebs in a mother's drink
by a fake stove that overheats the radiated child
Who plays with a doll house
virtually full of worms
Untitled
The tired benediction hurting
soil and dissaray total
armies red and black and white
Moaning wretching
Disarraying boring
Total benediction coiling
Malediction total tries
The vented malady in leaking skies
But no sighting and no mulling
Army of chaos gone befuddling
Always spreading always growing
Routers rotting, fertilizing
Everyone is talking
Shouting and abouting
But everyone not hears them
On culture trash they all go snouting
Snap a self in two
Not existing who knows who
It’s all so vague a goblin’s crew
Abouting to go routing do
A raven’s skull, refracted alley
Reveling but merely droning
Droning but less than mere moaning
Never make it to the valley
Fall
A cancerous sore on the pin-holed absentee
“Why is their hair like that?”
“The only reason they leave their woodwork
is to collect deformed data”
Cold evidence, so uncharming!
Documents dripping rancid sweat
Sawed-off fiends,
shuttering doors
clang randomly
Or do they just crawl out to die in a courtyard,
finding perfect centerspace
to shrewdly prove perfection lives only in death?
Urinating in frozen rose bush
steams up concrete courtyard,
brittle bones in tar-scarlet autumn night
Frankincense and myrrh yellow clouded,
whorish wafts through the bricked
labyrinth of laboring post-industrial doom
Burn-stains dead eyes hoary ochre
fire tears refract and weeping premonition
vague, the origin of civil war
On the city's smoldering fringes
a one-eyed boy nurses a hologram
Distant cousin of providence
The Bubble Makers
Ephemeral cascades fragile bubbles
Shaped by virgin lung, the origin of Wind
From the child’s pink-vore mouth
Each bubble a coherent world
Bounded, duplicitous & soon dirempted
To expire into oppressive atmosphere
Each followed by another, and formed by the former
Residual soapy film of dagger wands
Translucent film from escaped bubble to escaping bubble
The game of Inflation:
bubbles coexist, sharing a mutual drift and refracting the other's light
and gassy luring,
affecting each other’s drifting fits
If they collide they sudden burst, their unstable integrity exploding
becoming putrid One with the dead-same atmosphere
Noxious ether of everything and nothing
Losing that iridescent fragility which makes them so
magically articulate
The closer one gets the less they exist
Eventually, the bottle empties
The child scrapes the bottom
Avid student of delusion, asks for more
There are no more bottles today
Strange new soaps are invented
as the children muse over alien bubbles
as the children muse inside alien bubbles
affecting each other’s iridescence
Inchworm
By nature’s condescending permission,
The groveling inchworm only knows two dimensions,
Flatness’s special surveyor
Between the second and third dimension
Inching along the cold-dark steel table, and onto another plane,
Azure rectangular card, then lifted and suspended in thinnest air
Peristaltic inchworm draped over the edge, head and ass on opposing planes
Each end expansive into contradiction, dirempted trains
As cosmos mocking flips the plane
With inchworm listless at precipice
It can only suspect something beyond the flat
Slender raging for morrow’s discard
A suspect in its middling skin
Suspicion its ephemeral gift
Otoacoustics
Two tones alarming do persist
droning radiant in gaseous air,
So close in pitch, nearly indistinct!
no one would be able to tell the difference,
But there is no No One
The ear is not a No One
it is tricked, and tickled
feedback errors, the two tones beat the aural
An ear's sculpted mimicry, a micro-harping windchime
Like a snail shell protecting
Anenomes inhumed in skulls
Imperfect imitation of aeolian chaos
All those imperfectly perfect cilia of aural hells
And so the vertigoing ear hears nearly identical tones
not as two,
not as one,
Fabricates an entirely new, illusory tone
to refract through the crystal skull
Or through a bird-brain’s model of a deadman’s bone
Far away inside, spiraling the din, and
lucid, terribly new and wrong
The new, the fake!
Screaming distortion
Screaming from the cochlea
Peripheral in all directions
Emissions released!
19
Plank on the floor amongst settled planks
Halved by vitriol
Bookshelves littered with books hovering above,
always about falling
Flaccid moth flits
Parabolic and pre-dead
Frenetic by amnesia's robe
The Amnesia Moth
No.
Just the planks armed inside itself
Bent over and sulking, anti-hovering
An amnesiac shielding
a collection's hieroglyph
The neck without memory,
and memory unarched
persistently itches
Zillions, sans mass
Catholics: ‘mass’ means to ‘send away’
skittering 'cross transparent globe,
draping over edge of history
Mother misfired, baby goes a sailing into orbit
Infant a distortion seen through opposite’s glass eye
Ceremonial eyes of the future watching to discern
Where one’s now disappearing after books they've hardly earned
That same one did appear,
as a plank amongst planks
The leg twitches and the words react like rubber
to kill what they depart from
17
Injunctions to imitate a trapezoid reified
Limbs mime angles awkwardly,
but did not want to mean to want to want
And stacked, but pasted too
Not wanting to mean, but to pivot undeified
Quantities quantitating ...
Kinetics jerk from out the void
to take a gulp of vice,
and slither back to invisibility
Imitating the trapezoid in private
from a non-distance
Paper-walled and leaning backwards
Or is it forwards? The jerks have no words
to say: Manipulating? — or — Manipulated?
Phosphorescent bundles slowly bound
Barbaric sinew in tedious groupings
Translucent across untimely eras
Under stairs, numbered imitations
Always stacked, variegated
Their meanings
mere leanings
Of Worms and Elephants
Said the stupefied scientist:
“The worms used to digest cardboard
to crawl glacially
across the sundried dirt,
chasing an elephant,
before they, too, baked alive and
encrusted into the desert ground.
And the elephant, once itself encrusted
by many hands despaired to touch it, and
secretly to bury it,
vanished to a distant point.”
Heart Course
Training horse to push cart
Poor training relentless,
and so it keeps pulling rightly
Hating its own voice, and chasing after it,
trying unsuccessfully to swallow its own gaseous emission,
And so pushing the cart wrongly, and so also re-emitting
But pushing it still, directionless in all still ways
The heart goes beating before its course
Concert
Another pebble ripples
Beige, another punched key
Harvesting scales with hammers,
Unwed and sinking fast
Mating with plastic lights
Wanting desiring: double-negatives pile-driven
From the perspective of an impossible efflorescence,
Projectors fire ahead of its extinguishment
Trapped in the extinguished,
Shields oriented inward
Worm-loops repeat the muttering distancing
As a propeller does do a stream breaking
Spinal Condensers
Hexa-frown, flat limpid,
pillars fragmented
Manufactured scatterings
Imagine a leader with a cinderblock
strung to his head,
gravity’s accessory,
then there is an image of deformation.
So long as he has no idea it is there,
So long and naturally placed,
though the weight stays same the neck grows more prostrate
Prostrater and prostrater contracts the spine
Not spineless but a condensation of spine
Spinal concentrate
A muttering foam of words
at walls and into anechoic air
Like a hand-soap pump, pumping its last dregs
Remember when you sat on my chest and the air
drained from my lungs?’
Lapdog
Yapping ‘help-help!’
Sending away from its preservation
A little spill-over-self from an eternal petting
And roiling around in the whitesea of neutered unbirth
Fear of terror ~ love of terror
Seat it on a stolen chair
Loving the stolen chair and groveling
Saturated in its own urine
This little servant flickering it’s pseudo-doing
Servant undoing the never-done
Pleaser of pleasers
Pleasantries bronzed and etched in urine
A drawing of a head, sliver-planed and bisected,
Faces no one in a drawer, within a rich office unsexed
Fast feelings metabolized as hints forgotten
Holes of pleasantries drilled all-over and all through a filmy nerve-bundle
a singing bowl sings its gauzy song
The matrix of a lapdog's discontent
Still
Blackened relevance
Repeated, as all carpets make them do the repeating ‘thing’
And child with a boombox in a corner on golden sunlit rug
And sociopath child hating the pat on the head —
‘Very pretty drawing’ —
No innocence to be lost
by the hunter of kamikazes to be led
Go back and uncapitalize the capitals,
Go back and change the water's flow
Here it went back and here it is back
— for now —
A diversion diverted into itself
Sailing the black tar night of the deadsilent Midwest,
A hermetically sealed car, with a friend and a disintegrated music,
breathing and intimately pulsating
Into an icy present nearly touched!
All the pictures are crooked and all the nails are jagged
And all the poisoned quills are unused
And all the saints still sulk over their melancholic desks, imitating gravity,
sucking into and at them.
Wind Sucks
Someone once said that wind doesn't blow
— it sucks —
A revelation!
A director says that wind equals mystery.
And it is mystery that has blown the community away
There is no process, it's just wherever the sticks
fall onto the wind
And the herds reek of doppler
The fire has to be blamed for the illusions it generates
For its complicity
And there is no depth were it not for the pile of rotting leaves
Piling up ceaselessly, masses attracting other stray bits,
For every yearning to get to the bottom of things there is a heaper of useless things
A gestation prolonged until death
Incuriosity intensified into a vague mood,
An epochal project burns beyond your striving
The epoch has also been heaped onto the fire
Smoldering activity of the unreaped brood
Ghostbaiting
The lust-leech on a ghost,
thinking that by sucking hard it can bring
out the blood, and make it run,
like it once did.
If so, it would still suck it dry
and kill it into a ghost again.
The ghost's eternal killer.
A ghost comes out for its lover
A leech slithers over it
And a ghost disappears
The love agony of the leech
Acid Gut Ballad
The final spells come howling forth
The last gasp of enchantment
the most putrid
Rising from the deepest bowels
Rotting in the acid gut
So hanging on its own puzzlement
Thinking deeply of how to draw its ears, and
ballad-mongering a lil spittle
A lil sticky acid goo
For who?
Wherever the nails stick
in the mumbling
Mumbling its own type of spell,
Mumbling the impossibility
of its own spell-forging capacity,
Where are the mumble collectors?
And the interpreters?
Nonexistence
A record of nonexistence
left behind.
Drop anchor with a ballad?
Such anchors are tiny, though their swingings send
one erratically careering,
and of their course not very well!
Record
How to interpret blinking signals, and beeping sounds,
and schematic mathy puzzles?
Sent out, away, in the middle of human night
where they go ignored, veering past the bedridden stars,
Signals signaling every feeling felt ...
So far!
It remains to be seen if the record can be produced,
or if the records sent into space for eternity are
readied with accidental ignorance,
to signal their accidental ignorance,
desperation etched in gold,
and occluding any truth
A most ambitious apathy
of appealing tales told
But if the record of non-existence cannot be written,
that does not mean that we had lived
Womb
When scratching the walls of the womb,
don’t claw too hard!
For it would wound, prevent one's birth
Stillborn in the thrashwomb's mirth
But not clawing does not mean
that birth does not retard
The unborn scribble panoramas,
chalk-drawn windowed prison walls,
if imprisoned, forever wilting, ceaseless burbling,
Or the head gets caught on an unrocking pelvis
To a threnodic vacuum-song
Baby Scorpion
Baby scorpions are the most dangerous
as they discharge all their venom
in the first most liberal sting.
Only later does the baby
learn how to conserve its venom
And when reflecting in the mirror
in venomous old age,
still sees the image of it’s youth
projected back on tired face
And its memory clenches,
straining to release this venom,
because it's truly the venom itself
that wants to be released
extinguished of itself
To this: the aging baby's a slave
Mind Bottled
talk of 'message in bottle' down by beach
the same recently cast out, returned
ocean won’t do its job
but dont know where beach is
ears hear
The babbling, eyes bleared
looks bad, looks for hands in dark wind
fumble to read
found wrong
should have been sent farther through time, and then more far repeat,
ocean cast, found by same night-stalkers, bottle kicked
dry up in sad sand, must re-cast
not found, babbling of the ocean
makes the illusion-words
and who could find a thing, in all these things?
plead for flood. sit on drift-log
forge no damn'd thing
bottle meant not to return so soon
Abstraction A
Problems to be for those without a chasm:
in case of sans, be considered a number or otherwise await.
Approaching, still, strength enjoys the freedom to start strength
looping, decide and maximize.
The enjoyment of skills, label the port that feeds the baby heart
Enhancement grows the moth, controls time-managing estimations
And lines for deliverables,
ever a mountain system edict, the syndication meta edict,
shall benefit from plants, short-circuit the tickles of art
Integrate, release, draft, tag-wield arcs,
wielding first and last efforts
Lyrically low-key. Minorly efforted.
Fabricate installation or lay down feet,
calculate the number of stares born numb,
the shoulder able to lead with teeming triads.
Weld a certificate for speaking for sounds.
Know the porch code, for areas to vehicularize backgrounds
Unask the necessary questions,
dogsbody for owners above the museums closed until next civilization
Be able to get in and out of cars often,
throughout the day sense one’s character, exclamate over making real things!
Quiptificate-cleanse power of its sealed rivers ran under
Approximate nothings all over the region and make clouds
Overwrought / Broken
Right focus of attention,
intensest desire, hardened muscles,
work: forced
face: steel
Rigidity of disposition
Constricts the falling of the drunken,
misdirecting path of gunshot.
“I’ve seen them fall like drunken trees in scores.”
“Who doesn’t shoot something in some way from time to time?”
In hands intention-tensed, mind flooded with righteousness,
spirit-saddled-zealousness, pious altruisticness
ride the blind mules of care
Missing the mark
and falling broken in pieces
The Overwrought are The Broken
Unbred
They have uttered, on the goings past
that a position will rot
behind some piles, a window
unhidden.
Decaying or dessicated,
But, atop tables, unhidden behind endless piles,
windows behind tables, littered with clear spindles,
plane lines, black torpors,
hidden behind piles,
ruled marks and windows piled on tables
of almost atomized spindles
silvered decay, ornamental poverty
— Ghostbaiters in the dirt-present unceasing —
If time is a river, then littered with timeless stuff
All colorful rainbow spectrum until
flat no-color
“Try & name one thing in this room.
(You can’t.)”
Tree stumps pre-existent, wed to parched riverbed,
but even the like are not, nor the recursed,
or spindled, or planar, but maybe something thunken
else unshapen in pre-shapely tinsel-land
as yet unmade, unbred.
Misguided, judgments bought, piles scattered thunkenly
and constantly judged, gray torpor, deemed 'If possible',
but an impish spindle in the ceaseless pre...
Piles, piles, endless after rot.
And still the pre-position pseudo-poises
stillborn preformed poises not.
Imprint of some thing littered, transparent
else inside the plastic preformed.
no relief, transparencies past transparencies past
Dustbin
Born into a dustbin
Destined for obsolescence from the misconception
A linty lil ill infant
Saturated in disappearance,
reeks of zillions of whispy suggestions
dirty in the unformed nebula
Wants cloak, needs everything for cloak,
aspires to saturation cloak for respite,
but less than one thing and lessening fast
No learnings in vulgar dustbin
hoarded together by those filaments
that the clump whole and fake despises
Conjureless
The crowd gets up to leave
All contours beige themselves again
Odorless wisps of voice
Willingly unable to will return,
Ghosts unintentionally malinger
Unable to conjure new listeners,
Endless zoetrope days of the conjure-less
The Smarted
Jagged on all edges,
sharpened by practical misuses
Smarted citizens, grey-toothed tools
A toolbox of animals littered
on the jungle lawn,
Waiting in collaboration
Ah, but when a territory's breached,
then the sharpened discourse-hunt!
‘Peace’ is a means of building tension
Moire Defense
Three cardinals stream past window
Beyond a smudged window pane,
Beyond a locked metal diamond grate,
A meager spire-scaffold
insipid juts in pale sky
Black wires diagonal occlude a view
The moire-defense of a limpid malaise,
uncured of three-dimensions
Creates illusions of bird-life
Dressed for War
Desperates dressed as wars unwaged
Mosaic'd people yet arrayed ..
Symmetrized pre-bludgeoning ..
ManBabies drive tiny wheels with big heads
Insufferably relevant
Insufferably coordinated
Precision: determinate
Hygiene: precise
Becoming posed as amber pours
All dressed up but won’t make the trenches,
A people unsexed so-slow clenches
Prepared to exile … faking rapt
Abstraction B
Murder in the infinity pool
Caesura of life
Waiting for plagues to end
Fuck must wait
What must be done in dreams
Hieroglyphs in transformation
Incoherence of theory
What drugs are the angel kids on?
Sinewy runners getting ascetic, fast
Tunnels under the city, storage of artifacts
Salvage yards edging the city
Margaritas on weeknights
Glass cases, zeroes
The sighs of managers
Invasive jumping worms
False Modesty
All the “innocents” shrilling shriek:
"Just harmless lil me. What could I do, to harm you?"
Echoes yelling, purity droning like a siren calling
to do active lil go-getting
to collect each other in squares
Recycling fake helplessness
— And with it? Their projected “oppressors”
To serve themselves mousy little pinholes
furtive gazing into lives not lived
Strains to look good to the past
Faking meek, these kings of rats
And on their virgin hill
no standard can be raised
As yet no backgrounds or foregrounds
As yet no contrast or low-contrast
As yet no figure or anti-figure
As yet no needs to be met or unmet
Abstraction C
Last night immense vault
An arc spoked with concrete
Flags planted on baited breaths
Flags ungrown, skyscrapers of salt
A vault for children to hurl from,
Plunging to their lawsuit deaths
Tiny splinter,
big round vault
Zillions, lights were orgies up high
Orgie is short for organization
Stiff lil splinter
Ill lil splinter
Glom of many faceless things tacked a-wall
Brown-occluded blue planes: right
Melted bells, automated sighs,
Faint mauve splints
Cylinders: fine
Spokes the paragon of cutting-out
curbs: pastels
Skulking goes the revel rout
Pigeons
Two pigeons wobble on the burning asphalt,
warbling and bouncing in the road at the intersection of two city streets.
Pecking at fallen bread, two throbbing stray points in a grid.
Suddenly and expectedly a car turns the corner and squashes one, drives on.
Reduced to a stain in the road.
The other pigeon grayly pecks along the bend,
Its share of bread has just been doubled,
And it can also eat its pancaked friend
In a distant world an automaton learns to shrug
The Future
Sitting alone in solemn room
Listening to fakest music
Waiting to be dragged to prison
For something that you didn’t do
Decades ago
A premonition
Not to be seen until
The day I die
Pedestal Life
Life has emigrated to the gallery
Life can no longer support life
Life must be crowdsourced
Hauled into the clinical viewing rooms of the galleries,
the living have no interest in analysis — but rather want to be The Analyzed
Performance art is entertainment
and that not very good
ever justified, ever dull
More interested in watching or mere witnessing experience.
Entertaining how life behaves — init —
when brought into the realm of dead reflection?
The Aztecs may have sacrificed
children on their highest altars
but we collect the blood in troughs
from base hearts aspiring to falter
Exaction
To write the vaguest of sentiments with rational precision
Rich gradations of inexactness
If they must be inexact,
intensively inexact
Nothing wants to be exactly what it is!
Peerless Care
The poets friend: Do you know anyone who writes poetry?
The poets partner: No
The limbless poets peck trash fed through moire prison bars
the limbs of the feeders expressively contort for them
and regurgitate to themselves in landfills of prisons
'Momentum'
The so-called momentum of a century
can’t bear the weight of ‘progress’
because it is just a dumb number
All bow before the big-number idols!
If the numbers count higher
the progress grows higher
It's where the idiots build their spire
The Litterers
Soon the process will be complete
the transformation into a statue
What will be the final pose?
or have all the decades and centuries been the long pose?
It will not be pretty, graceful, or tortured
the inward awareness of the process will make it ugly
The current is littered with ugly life poses
A People: litterers of themselves
Mass Psychologists
The need to disappear before one ever appeared
Mass psychology mutters, ‘leave me alone to my corner’
But all the curators have removed the corners
To remain unformed for as long as possible
Delayed Appointment
An appointment with the sublime later this fall
When all things wither and die
It is fall all year,
preventing fall’s wishes
to hasten death
Even Fall dysfunctions
To look forward to something
bred in an environment which dreams backwards
A vent for the undead,
blocked with tarbrains
A thesis gestates: To unblock the dread!
To let fall what may
Abortion at the Millennium
Wait harder
deformed heads crawl out of basements
deformed but oh-so over-formed!
Big baby heads advance and ready
trawling streets, grafted upon
kinetic limbs so stolen
Drifting over the landscape
Scratching parched land,
barnacled with hope
— Quilled with positivity —
— Covered in the ash of their making —
Snouting out all the colors in the grey din
that if denatured and isolated would effloresce
as its always wanted to
Aborters of the unformed
The Missing
An entire army has gone missing!
It's not that people are needed
(ain’t no shortage of people)
people are a nuisance to The People
Alarms and search crews are exhausted,
cannot look any further
compelled by some listless drive
or curiosity weeping
The means to train new expeditions are not sought.
Besides, the only ones who could have taught such an expedition
are the missing!
Play
Quarantined to hacking play
A wolves’ rehearsal with teeth and nails
From out the den it moaning-mocks
their right to play, they seethe and flail
Self-persecution unignored
austerity of herding flocks
Always playing flaunted infant
with worn joints they search the shore
Bitter fanging for the instant
But also the plaything galore!
Transfusion 1
Reenactments seizing footage,
designed for scarred elements
Vague news of squatters and cardboard,
exclusive artworks revealed daily!
Seizures on the runway platform,
every citizen looks good while stupefied they look
Celebrations when people get new limbs,
vaguer tears strung still and waver!
Transfusion 2
Ponies shiver beds of carrots
Clocks wrapped around exiles
An ancient symbol organizing
and disorganizing the masses
Photos of crushed bicycles
People sneaking around
Hatching plans
to vacate premises
To relocate
unsure where to
Baited Baiter
On violet days it mouths notes to itself
ensnared in ashy boxes
On high porches from the distance
Weeping in the waning sun: the heretics’s mock king
is spilling out, the wasps are on patrol beneath
The loudness wars continue
in mirrors drunk, who agonizes loudest
Who can be the most bombastic
mouthing persecution’s cankers
Odd whims leaking inmates thoughts
But yelling doesn't kill the eagles
though their wings are mottled, bruised
In silent repose kept and regal
ever watchful for an opening,
analyze its warden's, it's actor's ruse
Glass Eye
There is only one glass eye
A point that absorbs the total, incinerated carnival
— The autonomous owner of it’s own point —
And refracts carousels into its own somber emptiness
This glass point doesn't just receive light
But emits it in the process of reception
And freely throws the carnival’s
abyssal image out
Program of Deletion
The curator’s office is where the master archive is kept
Stripped of food, the swarms try to get in there,
to scrawl their name in scrolling books
And they will do anything to just put their name in there, anything at all!
Orphaned names are etched in granite,
girdled by mute eons glazed
A name confirms complicity
A name affirms
Rather the One who sneaks
into the office late at night,
to erase their given name
from the recursed archive's game
For when future ancestral
redeemers glance this ugly book
with pity but also disdain
The legend of the lame bedridden
Ribbons breadth of written "history",
Scratched with mocking, confused names
Lint
Disappeared,
Reduced to filaments by
Abrading winds from all sides
Stray particles accumulate, elide
Enervated — and — singular glide
Unnatural filaments of
wind-wizened subjects
Allies of history?
We really love its lint:
Pilled in the pockets of barbarians
scenting something beyond
— Maybe spun: things, homes, new words, elevators to space —
A mockery of people fond
The scent of lint itself coveted.
Its look is fit in glossed vitrines,
dissected, arrested and studied
Dissevered is lint, everywhere.
Synthetic fibers produced, yields
in virtualist factories
In the glass minds of men it is caught
In the lungs choked and incinerated
Oh volatility!
Only to pill up again in the coat pockets of the young
And no one knows what to do with it,
so everything is tried, lacking criteria,
yearning for criteria,
The Judge is appealed to in sultry, intimate tones
But he stays home
Or wanderers are choked by the pluming dust
of possibility unperishable, surceasing excretions
malingering in the infrastructure of experience
A pestilence of reminding:
Brittly remains the gordian knot
tongue-tied in the pockets by
anxiously fidgeting, talky fingers,
smudged and canceled heretics
Untitled
With discussion and mental erections
The ejaculation of critical people spilled upon the streets
An abyss where mocking genitals gloam
But discussion was ghostbaited by a virus
A thought experiment mouthing insufficient necklaces
Blue yokes on barking dogs
Insane staring in false light
A panoply of white noise eyes
Diamonds sedimented into pockmarked skulls
Drunkenly and dormant sigh
Arco
A volunteer in the desert
Dipped in thousands of bronze bells
Maddened by years of violent wind
Slicing through the glassy
Trauma minds of sun-dried men
Genre of Silence
For some, society deserves the Silent treatment
To be stonewalled to death
For life!
~ The first writers in the Genre of Silence ~
The primal scream was a scream of silence:
Realists terrified and gawking in a ring around
the accidental reconstruction of Dionysus;
Protesting against inessential life;
Quietism was heretical to the Catholic church;
A painter said “Silence is so accurate"
~ Strike of quiescence ~
Unnatural Hesychia:
A lamed beast which must be fought for
A public task of caesura;
Burdened by necessity, an anxiousness acute and mute:
The opposite of tranquil reflection
Puputan
There is one of us that makes no sense
but we can’t help loving him!
He is a player of games …
but that is where the similarity ends,
for he plays only to lose, not win
He merrily joins gambling tournaments
with the explicit drive to lose
He is an artist of loss
And everyone hates him for spoiling the game
And the game has never been more popular
There was once a King who
led his army to mass suicide
He knew when to die
And everyone around him stood
under the drive to perish true
Though they walk, true leaders are dead leaders
Ship of Theseus
Insert them into whatever systems
A little tweaking
Nothing substantial
Minor ruminations on strange techniques
After a decade of incremental changes
The iterative adding of new elements, like
The Ship of Theseus
Constructive distortion, or
An example of self-cancelation
Recreations from memory of files lost amidst the expiration and transferring of computers, moving etc.
Approximated with abstract interpretations
Interpretive practice contingent upon the precarity of memory
Fixated on an aesthetic of porosity
Untitled
Atomic vapor ...
Blackhole watchparties ...
Neuro-vapor ...
Pulsar borings ...
In your attic runs the Thanat.osx
Cascading permutations ...
Bitter self-righteous grunge ...
Emptying or self-canceling:
"Your brain is a computer “: a fried circuit
Bleached zips ring around
No one vapes modular mind
Transmission deadstocking, behind
Vaping Void in brittle winter
Windchapped deadstock piling up
Shadowy country folk
autotuning their pulsars,
confined to their shadows,
An alterego yawns
and inhales eternity
Anomaly in science has the ocean sitting
in a fragment of upper right of brain
Sponge babies cry in the
circuit basement of modular jungle mazes
Curators curating:
Alarm decays,
Pulse sexes,
Time trolls,
Chaos inflations,
Slot machine mazes,
Models of custom drones,
How long will it go on?
Emergencies
Movements etched in silicon
A thing embodying pattern matching
Or backtracking
Mind parser of discretion
SPEED!
A Chronoplex
Faster than The West
Chaos or entropy:
The beholder’s choice
Stochastic limbo,
Post-oscillation,
Redo zero crossings
Stochastic resonance
Open to all
Signing up in retrospect,
with your spectral fingerprint
Calculations,
trigger warnings,
tersity,
algorithmic mazes,
strung out discretion
…
Fizzing effervescence
It was, once
Floating in sound, moving thru time
Alarms added to
warm digital distortion
Delete = Return - Delete
Info scatology
{
Polytopical Byzantium,
Synaptic River
Entropic Paradise
Listener:talker
Parallel processes
}
~ The Ancient Lyricist of Exformation ~
Switching between hundreds of processes
with a metaboliser's blink of playful immolation
Exuberant expressions
in iridescent colors ...
that contain no color at all!
Fibrations in exile.
Elevator music in glib apocalypse.
Unsynced dancers spidering in the atmosphere
The birth of Aerial Arts
There is a programming language called Oracle!
Novagems fibrate in exile
Polytopes of dotted diamonds
Rot in desert basements
For another time perhaps
Resume
People's resumes are convoluted
because their lives are convoluted
Their Curriculum Vitae’s are unformed heaps of activity
Because their lives are unformed heaps of activity
You're gonna die someday soon.
Then what will you do?
Flee
I promised when we fled the city
that we would be reborn
rising to confront the wilderness
I know what rise up means
but there is still so much to burn
I transfix the storm of immolation
And not everything is ash yet
Do babies have to deliver themselves?
Visualization
Something unimaginable
from the present standards of imagination
An infant image of a wanderer dismantling standards
Performances of trailblazing into the fogscreen of life
Clearing away a path for
Campsites of possibility
New standards beyond the hip
and deeper than the hip, buried in the pelvis
The sorts of visions incurred from a deathbed
To make the feeling of apocalypse palpable,
In blazing ruins run the frightful
And those who sing campfire songs to it
Eschewer of rations
Blind father of new humans
Cataract bard crossing the desert
An insane spectre dances on the sharp tongue of the species
Threshing into the ruined evenings
Neigh Said
Remember the visit
We didn't fuck
Under the trains
No guns in truck
No truck in hand
A room to blue
A pale shoulder just for you
Cold, with strep
Nearly fun
Hypnagogic
And on the run
With feral friends
Blind man with glasses
For me and you
Naysaying heaven
Neighing who?
Inhume
When the walls are closing in on you,
you don't feel the walls directly,
instead they push in all the stuff around you,
so you are smashed by all the things you've collected
The Holonomic Brain
Theories projected in night skies
...
Holograms and memory
Interference patterns
Rebounding
Fogscreens:
Millions invested in vapor
Eera Essamenoi
Zoetropic revolutions
Brute spectral tools
Glass ball kaleidoscope projections
Borealis kids projectors
Decrepit marble factory in a small town in West Virginia
Holonomia rebounds
Stolen Out
Who cares about the origin of the universe?
The Clocksmith is an obsolete profession
reeking on Gravity's Floor,
Or Non-Gaussianities?
The Unitarians suspect the universe is built on triangles
What a time to imagine life!
And quote, corkscrew-like particles popped up in the gravitational field
Became stretched and permanently frozen into the shape of the universe
With higher-spin states, strings vibrating at an infinitely rising sequence of pitches
Toiling for more unquote
Lazy stretching for everything, I stretch out evermore!
Short bursts of synchronized neural activity
Complex, cascading electrical patterns that, when recorded
Sound like an explosion
Stolen words
Put them back?
Never, I stretching stretch for more
Then out.
Spoken Words
Reverberant
As if coming from a well
Deep under your bed
To be lifted
Buoyant
By your own voice
A feedback loop
Pelvic reign
Is that the smell of spring wafting through the windows
Mingling with the stench of rotting mothers guts?
On his deathbed he was writing a masterpiece about the vagus nerve
To the vagus nerve
With the vagus nerve
The day there are words in my music
Is the day I die
Sound Bathing
Pro Me Thesis: Thief-God of Vibration
Strikes the harp, slowly
Spectral orgae ...
Lyre explosion ...
An oceanic substance for revelers to revel in
A viscous substance for dreamers to dream in
Holy cheater ..
River of ecstasy ..
Prophecy: wellsprung.
Nerve River ...
Learning to hear
From beyond the grave does triumph
to use the herd like a crude tool
on the dusty staid surface of nature
Pent Up:
A leathery renderer
synapses firing endarkenment
into numbed isolation chambers
Phosphor parties of a few revolutionaries
begin anew again, new dream houses for new perceptions
Oedipus
It is little discussed, but when Oedipus was left for dead in the cornfields, he was also eviscerated. This was to ensure his death. But the farmer who found him was a secret engineer of humans as well, & redesigned Oedipus into a cyborg god. A Cygod. Oedipus retired the Sphinx, & ruled humanity in total boredom for eons. The Farmer would check in on him periodically, as a parent does, having visited the future, knowing the familiar Oedipus story. He decided to tell him how eons would pass with his story influencing myriads of fucked up tiny oedipussies.
Escape
… Beyond but still bound …
Escape from the ward
still straight-jacketed, the freed inmate
is dependent on others to cut him loose
just as he was put there by others
The doors are open
and the inmates have no plan
Outmates life-bound
roaming in the polluted flood plains
~ writhing on the dank riverbanks ~
Bound and beyond
Sisyphus
The physical form that Sisyphus' torment ultimately took was not pushing a singular boulder up a mountain with his defiant musculature. After time the boulder disintegrated into countless lesser rocks, so Sisyphus' physique had to adapt to scrambling rapidly about the mountain side cobbling together all the fragments. Each time the boulder tumbled, it crumbled a bit. With each iteration it disintegrated a little bit more. With each iteration it lessened and it dispersed. It finally proved to be Time who was Sisyphus' tormentor, and who would not let him perfect his craft , but rather kept him on his toes, requiring reconceptalization of his practice, and transformation of his physique into an agile and spritely nervous system with tentacles sprawled over the hills. In the end he was an unrecognizable octopoid type creature who was also a critical historian of rocks.
Borer
Boring through the soil
Violent rotations
Boring and jerking to bore
Toiling, spiraling into red clay Earth
Boring and engorged for more
Displacing moar and moar
A man bores with his tool
In desolate green pasture
Into cicada underground
A tunnel of dispossession
Boring boring boring
Javelina
At a party in the riparian desert
in the Octagon,
a German begged the party
to hike up a mesa
past the parched riverbeds
beyond the mesquite forests
Desert meditation
He said it was very important
These were his departing words
With an apple and some water
a wanderer
past the parched riverbeds
beyond the mesquite forests
to the mesa
Radiant red rocks
tufted with phosphorescent lichen
scurrying Upwards
Naked atop
absorption of eons of radiation
spewed from the Sun onto rocks
up the wanderer’s fragile asshole
the din of snorting, pawing, and rustling,
A herd of Javelina slowly trampling its way through brush
unaware of the wanderer
ivory tusks with human eyes
sunbaked hides
impeccable noses for the hunt
Savage when in pursuit
blind hoofing forwards
snorting and clamoring to each other
The wanderer hurls an apple
it thuds a javelina on the belly
rolls into the center of the herd
all snorting ceases
all pounce on it with a will to hunger
all except one, who looks up to see where this fruit comes from
The wanderer is seen.
History
Opening yawn
A bored god bores
Foragers and the birth of music out of
campfire fear
Monologues of psychotic insomniacs paranoid of death
Fear & boredom sagging low from primeval trees
Campfires blown away
The world ablaze
Flooded
Formation of rivers
Brown god of peristalsis
Horses rush in a hellsnake's belly
Dried up Worms
chasing Elephants
Wild neural nets
draped over the world
The melancolia of tethered beasts
clinging to their node with quivering limbs
and clanging chains payed for with life
Beasts born in the neural zoo
Phantom instincts
The creation of myths about infections and viruses
Hysteria mimesis
An acceleration of pattern making
to be studied
Fodder for the social scientists
Giantess
"Don't let it get to their head"
One of the great thought taboos
The symbolism of a compliment penetrating someone's thick skull
Furtively burrowing around inside
Things aren't supposed to get into the head!
The Head is where impressions are transformed!
Fear festers in ascetic fantasy
Keeping things away from heads:
Maintenance of the small and powerless
herds lamed and in pallid shreds
A race of giants lurks in the powerless
like dehydrated foam soldiers
waiting in fairy tales to be
immersed in the water of an idea
Drone Years
As in entropic trendclouds
Standing armies of The Resigned
And wavy cliques of The Resigned-To-Be
Open silly drone boxes towards empty ambience
Whirring they patrol a starless sky
Slicing light from the straining Eye
Holes of wordsmith-ministered frontality
Vitals beeping into the present blown-off
The Drone Years of Human still with every word
Carried out from unpregnant herdsman
Packaged in manufactured tumors of solemn resonance
Carrying droneword, stacking monoliths of evanescence
Mask
The exhibition opens tomorrow
Frantic she runs around a vaulted studio,
quiptificating bitterness in the dark
There was a sprawling museum in a mall,
a mile high
where diamond encrusted African masks shimmered
on stretched pedestals
Last minute an artist arrives, opens a living book
and she is coated in a thick cake of green paint
and a long green nose, writhing
Another opens a book, animation of creatures
pouring out of a traintrack mouth, sewn to the track
an ornament of popular people spill out onto the hilly lawn
swinging from threads