This cockamamie pandering of upholstery is not what I asked for. Can't you feel the butter squish between your toes? The pink balderberries fly into my ears. Stark raving lunatic, pistola in the sky. Rise beneath the quicksand you, that brandy isn't mine. Don't you think that piercing blue flash singles us out through the rearing crops of time? I can't hear the bullet rain drops fire upon the hilltops singing doo-wop songs.
Arching of the shoulders I release the trigger from the holster up upon the bee hive. Think critically about the mute thunders and the green mug filled with machines. Pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse. It stops!
It costs $10.78 to hear the myths that the thieves keep beneath their showels. It's the meta-prima role we play off the stage in the moonlight that keeps your lungs filled with air. So brush away the hair off that brow and bellow out before the worms...You are not my master.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
On a Sunday.
I'm sick of your sass. Who cares if I've drowned myself in my bubbly sorrows swimming ten miles to reach the cusp of your lips so that I can have a chance at stroking the plush fur of a woman gone long time ago. Who care if mine eyes are no longer yours and I'm just running on and on in a memory so that you can no longer shout that you once knew me. I don't know where these scripts go or where my fingers trail, all I know is that today I spent five hours in the library poring over the remnants of a past far gone and it felt good. Your judgments have no traces on me, you ridiculous fog. I know I once walked the trail of the beaches that spread themselves wide and generous. I know I once had friends who cared, who spoke words that I heard before they were uttered. I know that this is temporary, so. temporary. that it hurts me to even think about what things may be a year two years five seven from now on. And if you want to remain close, to hug my words till they are squeezed till their drops limit then I don't frankly care because once they are released they're not really my pets, are they now? You knew this yet you are no longer known to me because you've changed and I expected as much but it's still unwelcome news arriving on the lips of a crow now estranged because in some small part, I expected to find the you that I once possessed. How is it that we are the focus of our own obsessions yet others are living their own roles with such fervor that we can no longer use building blocks, we're constantly taken by surprise, taken by the gasp, taken by the tail?
My fingers may tingle till they fall and my toes may wiggle till they jive but in the end it's the same old me that you never managed to know despite the best efforts of your limited reach. I wish I could've opened myself up to you but it was never meant to fit so and I assumed it was foolish to try because the sofa hugs me so well it was like the lover that I dreamed I'd have one day. I'm sick of your words, sick of your inane sufferings, sick of your total bullshit that you shove down me every day every second until I don't know which way is down and if only I could kill you I would relish the opportunity to do so with my own flesh clamping down on your veins like a fiery delivery of a play that once was written by a man, maybe a woman.
Don't say that I'm too vengeful because you know it's not true.
My fingers may tingle till they fall and my toes may wiggle till they jive but in the end it's the same old me that you never managed to know despite the best efforts of your limited reach. I wish I could've opened myself up to you but it was never meant to fit so and I assumed it was foolish to try because the sofa hugs me so well it was like the lover that I dreamed I'd have one day. I'm sick of your words, sick of your inane sufferings, sick of your total bullshit that you shove down me every day every second until I don't know which way is down and if only I could kill you I would relish the opportunity to do so with my own flesh clamping down on your veins like a fiery delivery of a play that once was written by a man, maybe a woman.
Don't say that I'm too vengeful because you know it's not true.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Twelve is the Name of Everything We've Never Loved
I took your hand in my small confused mind and cupped your cherry face in my hands but could never look into your eyes and see that you could still hear the flights of the terrors of the future. We gripped the side of the talons of fear and held on for dear death in hopes that the fall would be beautiful. The crashing burn of life and the fire of the inhabitants of each fickle hour we spend. Tired orgasms that rang over and over inside the television man's tilted screen. Gasping for life and a longing for a beautiful way to spill over into the furthest dimension. The crackle of bones and the smile of the saddest man wounded each creature that conquered what they had feared the most. Each movement of the bowing ferns turned the next new birth into plummet into the darkest chasm.
While the world slept in the tiniest thimble, the scientists fell victim to the woes of the mind and cowered underneath the veil of smoke and exhaustion. Beakers and vials to cure the hunger of the window's sadness and kill the disease of each shattered glass window. The mathematician fought against the fallen trees but only used the constants of their own realities to solve the bottled emotions that plagued the tired houses. The rain slid its fingernails down the side of her face and took her happiness and sold each piece back to the ocean. But her limbs knew her better than she thought had kept the pace of the tracks as they skipped and babbled on the record player. Collapsing onto the white hospital floor, her head struck open with the calls of reality and the crickets and frogs sprung from her. The fragments of love hovered through her being and touched every lonely man so that he, for a brief moment, knew the feeling of a punch from the wars of the past. She lay on the white floor and smiled at the mirrors and bandages that got her here. The warm lick of fire grazed the soul of the lost socks in the washer that no longer wanted someone to find them. Screaming from every rooftop, she knew that the loss and magic of death were kept in a tiny vial on the kitchen counter. White walls, white house, white clothes, white wine. Wrapped in the securities of knowing her own father, she lifted every pine needle inside her and felt her way to the glass. The tapping of her woodpecker hand on the opaque eyes of every onlooker rustled the time frame under which she understood reality. All the scientists saw was a dead body with the answer to the half life of love.
--
I was gonna do another but I'll do it later. Pickled fish lips.
While the world slept in the tiniest thimble, the scientists fell victim to the woes of the mind and cowered underneath the veil of smoke and exhaustion. Beakers and vials to cure the hunger of the window's sadness and kill the disease of each shattered glass window. The mathematician fought against the fallen trees but only used the constants of their own realities to solve the bottled emotions that plagued the tired houses. The rain slid its fingernails down the side of her face and took her happiness and sold each piece back to the ocean. But her limbs knew her better than she thought had kept the pace of the tracks as they skipped and babbled on the record player. Collapsing onto the white hospital floor, her head struck open with the calls of reality and the crickets and frogs sprung from her. The fragments of love hovered through her being and touched every lonely man so that he, for a brief moment, knew the feeling of a punch from the wars of the past. She lay on the white floor and smiled at the mirrors and bandages that got her here. The warm lick of fire grazed the soul of the lost socks in the washer that no longer wanted someone to find them. Screaming from every rooftop, she knew that the loss and magic of death were kept in a tiny vial on the kitchen counter. White walls, white house, white clothes, white wine. Wrapped in the securities of knowing her own father, she lifted every pine needle inside her and felt her way to the glass. The tapping of her woodpecker hand on the opaque eyes of every onlooker rustled the time frame under which she understood reality. All the scientists saw was a dead body with the answer to the half life of love.
--
I was gonna do another but I'll do it later. Pickled fish lips.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
It Tastes Like Fish
Clickety Clack! You hear those platonic footsteps come nearer. You turn those things called eyes up and view the bland afternoon from your throne. No feet to be seen or tasted. White shadows slip off the ceilings and smack the floor with a silent sound that jolts a fiery sensation down your spine. Your eyes sucked into your mind like a black hole. Flurry of rage, doves explode out from the asphault. We take our socks and wring out the saliva of the dillbratopators.
Fall through the screen you've been fucking with your eyes. See that it's all just a series of zeroes and ones.
I keep falling through this spectrum of fate that the hordes have forsaken me to. See that warp there, don't touch it! Gunslingers take the bait a war breaks loose the demons frolic. I don't care that you've fallen, grow your own hands to pick yourself up.
Her blonde hair sparks the thunderous roars of the saints. Take me with you away from this infested slaughterhouse. Rip the creators lies out of your brian and bang the mice against the pole. Eat it I tell you! Jump with them and we can chain ourselves to this mirage.
Fall through the screen you've been fucking with your eyes. See that it's all just a series of zeroes and ones.
I keep falling through this spectrum of fate that the hordes have forsaken me to. See that warp there, don't touch it! Gunslingers take the bait a war breaks loose the demons frolic. I don't care that you've fallen, grow your own hands to pick yourself up.
Her blonde hair sparks the thunderous roars of the saints. Take me with you away from this infested slaughterhouse. Rip the creators lies out of your brian and bang the mice against the pole. Eat it I tell you! Jump with them and we can chain ourselves to this mirage.
White Elephant in the Room.
The eyes are pretty important for your status in the line, waiting with certain nameless others bound by the silent volumes screaming to be heard through the curtains of time that have been tightly drawn shut like that time you took her and she closed herself to you, on you, over you again and again until there was nothing but your shut eyes, open mouth and the floating darkness that was filled but not quite because afterall, you were just a boy, not a boulder.
We're building around ourselves a thesis cobbled together with sheets of stained paper cuts in the flesh. So if you'll call this clean and take it to the movies then i guess I'll come along because I once looked like the sun that you used to moon over like a silly bird, singing songs about a future history that you never had. Dust rolls through your town but your can already left so you're stranded with your lists and boxes; the delivery will be delayed indefinitely. Oops.
Glamorized, idolized white image expands in the mirror and I am the spectator hovering above the deep beginning waiting for you to finish its end. He got my nose and never gave it back but I try not to think about the truth that I never cared enough to start with. Line up, why don't you?, at my door with your upturned feet, fists, fists, and slightly used hands, I never knew you weren't happy to see me go. Now that that's returned, we can be literal with each other, unlike when we were young but that was only a little ago, I even almost remember it.
A rusty nail can be two years old. Two years without even a hello on a birthday card that overstays its welcome until conditions change for the worse. At least I brought a song for us to sleep on even if I never waited for a reply you didn't have to carry that monkey up the river. Now that I stole your verse from the secondhand store I'm frankly quite upset with you for not a lot of reasons but still we knew the tree didn't have to burn quite so crisply in the middle of three, didn't we? Shame on us. Shame floats like a brick held down by the balloon I tentatively anchored my arms on with your green pen. Let it sit uncomfortably with them while I ascend down the stairs with with my basket of worries, freshly hatched by the corner. Sharp, she whispered for hours while somewhere I laughed and the parade passed us through skin, kinda clammy but not alltogether unpleasant. Sometime. Smile at me through the crack in the door, the dim is there for a purpose of power attentive.
Close it.
-
The boundaries are not clear. Let's start at 73. And then. Pause, pause, pause like a line of elephants rounding the corner of Regret and Laughter rings through the crown of my head. Back up a little if you want to find out where it'll all end up I'm pretty sure somebody planned for all this ugliness at some pointed edge. I'm sick with fever at the messages of need I threw out just to see what would catch when you're dropped from that high perch simultaneously with the enforced bottom, who hits fully first? Anybody hear read from the red chipped particulars, we might need you but nobody can be sure yet. Eyedealize the relative because deadlines are rising and the vigilance would've paid off if I had enough rules to scatter around the bay.
We're building around ourselves a thesis cobbled together with sheets of stained paper cuts in the flesh. So if you'll call this clean and take it to the movies then i guess I'll come along because I once looked like the sun that you used to moon over like a silly bird, singing songs about a future history that you never had. Dust rolls through your town but your can already left so you're stranded with your lists and boxes; the delivery will be delayed indefinitely. Oops.
Glamorized, idolized white image expands in the mirror and I am the spectator hovering above the deep beginning waiting for you to finish its end. He got my nose and never gave it back but I try not to think about the truth that I never cared enough to start with. Line up, why don't you?, at my door with your upturned feet, fists, fists, and slightly used hands, I never knew you weren't happy to see me go. Now that that's returned, we can be literal with each other, unlike when we were young but that was only a little ago, I even almost remember it.
A rusty nail can be two years old. Two years without even a hello on a birthday card that overstays its welcome until conditions change for the worse. At least I brought a song for us to sleep on even if I never waited for a reply you didn't have to carry that monkey up the river. Now that I stole your verse from the secondhand store I'm frankly quite upset with you for not a lot of reasons but still we knew the tree didn't have to burn quite so crisply in the middle of three, didn't we? Shame on us. Shame floats like a brick held down by the balloon I tentatively anchored my arms on with your green pen. Let it sit uncomfortably with them while I ascend down the stairs with with my basket of worries, freshly hatched by the corner. Sharp, she whispered for hours while somewhere I laughed and the parade passed us through skin, kinda clammy but not alltogether unpleasant. Sometime. Smile at me through the crack in the door, the dim is there for a purpose of power attentive.
Close it.
-
The boundaries are not clear. Let's start at 73. And then. Pause, pause, pause like a line of elephants rounding the corner of Regret and Laughter rings through the crown of my head. Back up a little if you want to find out where it'll all end up I'm pretty sure somebody planned for all this ugliness at some pointed edge. I'm sick with fever at the messages of need I threw out just to see what would catch when you're dropped from that high perch simultaneously with the enforced bottom, who hits fully first? Anybody hear read from the red chipped particulars, we might need you but nobody can be sure yet. Eyedealize the relative because deadlines are rising and the vigilance would've paid off if I had enough rules to scatter around the bay.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Too Many Fingers Inside the Dimension
The ramifications of these thoughts protrude out from under a car that's speeding through space on a lemon pie. I see the stars whizzing by in the bathroom where the floor is wet and dank. Dank like a joint where you take a long drag and carry the dead body out behind the Taco Bell. I stand at the gates of the fiery disco and get electrocuted by the great Zeus himself. He stands up and drinks the juice from the flower that the hummingbird flew over the pot of gold. The dragons sit on the kitchen and I eat bacon from the chalice made from coke and proceed to shoot the bitch up with a scythe. I really have to pee now that I've assimilated the jello.
--
Poopdeck farcy cracker pants. I don't know what that was. It's going to be wonderful when the stick men fly down the fires with trench coats made from corn. Is this really how things will turn left? It stinks like mug dipped in owl eyes. The hairs from the underwood I see prickle and sing the afternoon delight on a way that I could taste.
ICE! Can I have some apples to throw at the crows in the supermarket. He looks at the pancakes and screams in for the crimson dynamo that is a statue. It saunters across the river three days from the sunlight bouncing off the chrome ladder in the garage.
I try to see how one could start inside out of the pickles that one puts on a burger. I hate sliced pickles like they hate God. Mangos on the other hand are pretty pink ponies that need wings to follow the stick men just above the monkeys throwing acorns.
--
Poopdeck farcy cracker pants. I don't know what that was. It's going to be wonderful when the stick men fly down the fires with trench coats made from corn. Is this really how things will turn left? It stinks like mug dipped in owl eyes. The hairs from the underwood I see prickle and sing the afternoon delight on a way that I could taste.
ICE! Can I have some apples to throw at the crows in the supermarket. He looks at the pancakes and screams in for the crimson dynamo that is a statue. It saunters across the river three days from the sunlight bouncing off the chrome ladder in the garage.
I try to see how one could start inside out of the pickles that one puts on a burger. I hate sliced pickles like they hate God. Mangos on the other hand are pretty pink ponies that need wings to follow the stick men just above the monkeys throwing acorns.
Vagina Lead Line Easter
So I thought to be scared of what I didn't know and what I had never seen but she knew that I could fly and I smiled. The door dropped open and the flocks of scarves I had never acknowledged sprung from the starting gate for flowers and tigers. Nodding from the grapefruit man, I tilted the pitcher and drooping language splattered from the depths of another subconscious. I still didn't know if I could or if the colors of my legs knew how to gallop along with the footage. My jaw dropped back into the second kaleidoscope as the sprouting feathers draped across the riverside. The underbrush writhed under the rising emotion and tears spewed from the gates of what we had come to see as a man's crooked mind. Dancing through woes and put into perspective, we saw that we could walk along with the promotion of everything including the tracks of bones laid by those we had never seen. Invisible bodies dragged across the mountains making rows of teacups as they toppled into the birds of the future. 'Okay, okay, okay' words shattered out of hidden windows of our relationship. 'Please don't take any care of the children' I had said to you before we flew the coop from all of the responsibility our creators had forgotten to give us. You turned your opinion to face my tears and said 'He told me to live a life with love and loss and never think of the day you never knew.' My sorrow blushed as his honesty and the tiny creases made new worlds at the points where they met.
--
Dropped kicked into a future of tears and fires, the trees ebbed back to the shore of the melting twelves and nines. A metamorphosis of the communal mind twisted through what we saw through the eyes of the flickering owls. I never made time to see myself anymore and I knew that everyone had seen the weathered lies we tried to show the rest of the world. Through the yellowed film strips I took everything I had and threw my mind into the ocean. Like magnets we lived the thrills and died in the fires we created in the widow's old home. We killed the phantoms of the baked bread and filled our heads with empty notes and packaged tampons. The sadness of our limbs ate through the tires of the rolling police cars firing down the lane like bottles of- FIRE FIRE FIRE. Now the towers fell near the homeless shouts that I sent to your brother with a postage stamp. Running past the emptied trees the sky blanketed the flowers like a melted chocolate chip. I saw your face in the water of the canopy and the- FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE. I didn't know how to run anymore and the crippled stumps and branches hobbled beside the fallen birds. They cried for the magic and the death of all things that could know their tired secrets. We wanted to love in mystery and figure the pieces of our limbs into a broken bicycle that no one rode. The lashes of the celestial shadows trembled into the darkened people of our own golden city. They were quiet and knew we had finished the future.
--
Dropped kicked into a future of tears and fires, the trees ebbed back to the shore of the melting twelves and nines. A metamorphosis of the communal mind twisted through what we saw through the eyes of the flickering owls. I never made time to see myself anymore and I knew that everyone had seen the weathered lies we tried to show the rest of the world. Through the yellowed film strips I took everything I had and threw my mind into the ocean. Like magnets we lived the thrills and died in the fires we created in the widow's old home. We killed the phantoms of the baked bread and filled our heads with empty notes and packaged tampons. The sadness of our limbs ate through the tires of the rolling police cars firing down the lane like bottles of- FIRE FIRE FIRE. Now the towers fell near the homeless shouts that I sent to your brother with a postage stamp. Running past the emptied trees the sky blanketed the flowers like a melted chocolate chip. I saw your face in the water of the canopy and the- FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE. I didn't know how to run anymore and the crippled stumps and branches hobbled beside the fallen birds. They cried for the magic and the death of all things that could know their tired secrets. We wanted to love in mystery and figure the pieces of our limbs into a broken bicycle that no one rode. The lashes of the celestial shadows trembled into the darkened people of our own golden city. They were quiet and knew we had finished the future.
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