often implode in silence absolutely, destroying foundations; but, what can also be found are gentle explosions giving way to violent orgasms of whisper’s tenderness: musical intimacy—harmony of piece arrangement—stirring energy into mixed-up battered exhaustion; curled-up frightened and fragile in a corner of a waffle crevice. Our nutrition is found where there are magical harmonies of pies and their pieces arranged musically so as to be taken in through our ears without hearing.
I walk by the older folks of whom a fullness seems present without pretending; there is a grounded sense of structure—momentum in what seems an honest direction: all of which to me is mysterious. I question my place in things and question my questioning of it. This, because I am deeply troubled from the pain of my struggles and losses while all else that is happening somehow troubles me much less—the struggle to live and the struggle of life for so very many. And nearly all that I am able to think and feel is my own blessed tragedy.
Desert pinon. Dried needles from forest trees. Ferns. Fear. Rosemary and fragrant lilies gazing into the stars. Lost—when time shows opportunities. Panic. Fallen trees across forest. Nectar of desert cactus. A deep clean inhale of fog. Not knowing.
Smell fertile loss—love, the morning after death— decay’s possibilities.
Expressions Of Illness
I heard the sunshine…then seeing that it had begun to set. I knew there were birds, beautiful birds, though unknown.
The childish taste of hell, satiable in youth’s reverie, finds itself speeding forward with its back turned in a continual stage of de-re-composition after each perceived contact, resulting in splattering dissection, with a real and massive wall.
Blue light…yellow…green-neon—translucence. Liquid lens. Lackadaisical—life in lifeless lighting. Synergism. Eclectic. Organic-electric.
Broken glass.
The unleashed dog, not being led, runs wild in dangerous directions; yet the leashed dog has little say in the direction gone: Pray–how should a dog get around?
I am your creation. I am your damnation.
Song sing, along sing, sing anew.
Jolted-focus, meditation-sprint.
What do you do? Everything around you has been torn down, and you find yourself in an unfamiliar environment, even though it is the same place that you have spent a considerable amount of time. You have to start from nothing, find something, and move on from there.
Shriek. Curdle. Gasp. Fingerless grasp. Unholy.
Empty echoes scream obscenities into deaf ears; war-torn feet give in to dead weight. A state of bliss is unobtainable.
It is strange being in love for the first time in years.
Sand sits still; a body lies sleeping; the ocean waves crash closely by; the tide will come in.
The irrelevance of history when there is no time. Time gives us no time at all.
It is the only constant—it that isn’t constant.
Stained-glass sheen and shining likeness; every day just try not to die. Stained-glass dreams.
Lost winds in the open air. Nothing. All. Fear and scare. Never know. Never here. Never hear.
Pretty pictures in an altered reality. The old and the dead are the only ones with vitality.
The language is lost in words. The silence is heard by all. Green grass grows but also fades and dies.
Water lilies rest in the desert sand. The haves hold out their empty hands.
Time changes. The world sings. Bleak. Bright. Again. Again
Weren’t you here a long time ago; weren’t you here when here was before? Ask someone, and be told the truth in the form of a lie.
It absorbs me, and I am momentarily free.
I heard the sound of distant noise close to my ears.
I have not yet made the flowers of my songs the songs of my flowers.
I sing the song of myself without words!
I embody that which I hate.
I walk the fire-road barefoot!
I have slept with the world yet never felt rested.
Lines blur in hydraulic masturbatory stabs. Nothing satisfies.
And sometimes it’s harsh. And sometimes it’s cruel. And sometimes I forget the rules without rules.
Who is I anyway?
The whiplash, the thrash, the bloodless gash.
Lipless laughing lady lies longing, luridly. Look.
The street floats above the sun with sidewalk shadows below lucid-glass-vision, nameless flowers with labial folds; concentration is without thought.
The heat leaves a wet glaze on the snow. The sun shines upon it, and it glows.
Many are the times that we have eaten our last meal: many are the times that we have accepted and shut our eyes never expecting them to open again.
The deaf composer violent—furious—without violence, banging the hollow instrument of unjust salvation, battered eccentricity, isolated, grand, loving misanthropy.
Fleeting atonal. Fleeting, animate, exquisite, elegant. Fleeting, solace solstice. Fleeting flight. Fleeting flirt. Fleeting, serenity sacrificial. Fleeting, arduous images.
Pop. Pop. Convulse. Convulsion. I can feel my heart beat in my nose. There is a cold hole inside the hole inside my nose; it goes through bone.
Accepting from afar in others what is rejected in oneself and those around.
Accepting all in others and all in self.
Accepting nothing in others and nothing in self.
Embracing oneself through push and pull—push away then pull closer.
It is the nature of those that don’t know to not know.
The pointless point is that all is pointless: the point is that there is no point when pointlessness is pointless itself.
If we knew we would have to know.
Gradual caprice: stutter; stupor; start again.
Goose-bumped skin aside a cold mind.
The martyrs of the unseen hope…tempered alluringly.
Singing the song of apathy in the vacuum void of selfless, selfish minds.
Simple is difficult too sometimes.
It has sucked out the marrow of our souls.
The spilling bowels from side splits.
The truth of the world is told through symbols and the music of being—invisible symbols—silent music.
The wild wailing veins of madness, constricted.
Redemption.
Ejaculate.
Have you? What have you? Have you? What have you? You have, have you?
I broke my legs in three places three days straight; I’m not sure how many pieces that makes my legs make.
The spring blood rain of infantile madness—greatness—deceived. Naked. Stark. Phantasmal.
Sharp teeth—but not of shape, of pain. Continual firing. Shattering blasts. The trees, uprooted, strangle the soldiers, released from a field of bland grazing upon potentless opiates; the jolts accelerate until only faint and not close together: vibrating skulls shield bystanders, stiffness mixed with misery, observing what seems out of reach until its incalculable end—ceasing in restraints.
Teeth push through lip flesh, euphoric masochism, lonely intoxication—I am like the girlfriend that doesn’t love you…menacing…breathless…streaks….insanity…try not to hurt you more than you like it. Live in torture or die. Capital—capitaless—capitalist kink. Lips—allergic, that cannot kiss. Perfect, acceptable in all the ways that it isn’t. Perfectly understandable in all the ways that it isn’t. Nonsense continued. Give it a lot of credit but little credence. Drugs calm what drugs cause. Regress—progress. Intangible tangible. Tinged tinted, tinted tinge.
Temperamental downpour, torrid, obscene.
In the traditionless tradition of today and tomorrow….Do you remember Abigail? It is not whenever—where—the month she was born; it is a bitter, cruel month.
Abigail. Abigail. Abigail. —disturbing beauty— Such a lovely. Abby. Abby-Abby. —Earthy, musky smells of bodies primal— Abigail-Abby girl, l
ovely. Abby-Abigail what a lovely girl.
I lost my virginity to the sounds of genius.
The bloodless virgin…spitting, sulfuric nipples nursing.
Abigail? Abigail-Abigail. What? Abigail —antagonizing…the good and bad— Abigail…such a lovely…such, girl, Abby. —Violent garden— who…was… she…was.
walking through the world
walking through the wakeless world
walking in the world
walking in the wake of world
—broken by the broken world
Watching him go—The men roll him out—sterile uniforms that match their faces—a cough deep within—desperation between gasps; in a lone man’s eyes is seen a shallow pond in which he’ll drown.
A cool artificial air of life inside a crying crib moving quickly through the streets, the dim-lit consciousness is startling; the arrival short-lived.
Doors open to white walls. Pandemonium. Masked men and women. Tools of trade. Time for one is paused while workers work to give what will be a breath to take a man to his grandeurless finale.
Life sized doll house…: portrait of time...: inanimate animators…; group plays cards; TV is heard; small talk large; smiles polite; attendants attend; man dies.
Emergency room…shared—curtain-separation. Woman had a pleasant…but mostly having to do with sickness—conversation with a second woman a few hidden feet from her. Despite the first woman’s illness, she felt calmed and partially happy; intimacy, unexpected, revealed, lacking in areas supposed full, was discovered.
—But the crash cart creaked in premature voltage. And then the clears and the beeps. And the clears and the beeps. —Beeps and clears—till the clear beep: