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 Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:36 pm
Never read the whole book. But is an expert nonetheless.
Talking man, was my Indian name (Newspeak, when
Lemon lime addictions soured up the throat gears,
was a common drinking game)
Venomous scissor romps on your best friends name,
De-Oh-Gee
Referring to him to clear up twilight murders with
thought police squads
(My small town snail shell eyed
citizens are famous for contracting
blood from mummified wounds)
Am I overre acting a bit?
Chernobyl is a big mess; my speech is a nuclear waste site,
Of Seinfeld regulars, half-a** cults for lullabies
I’ve grown too close to the red phone for,
Invisible movies with Winston smith and Julia always starring,
Every damn time, which is 1983,
and I would be a standing marble statue on a steel pedestal
Ringed with polished brass memories.
I wish I were. I am though,
A, mercury cardboard cutout,
bent easily at the ears and leaking the facts.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:37 pm
Metronome Sped-up
A mouthful of butterflies,
don’t swallow.
Lovely angels, full of pleasure,
their gifts blind me.
People at a rainbow steady pace,
While I'm solid black.
Bloody ape hands of tragic survivors marked all over all their skins,
see me nude of those calluses.
Born dead, my shadow came to life.
Friendly Conversations at night as I sleep,
Cold nonsense in the morning as I wake.
The machine means are lost to me,
I’m the metronome sped up in your kaleidoscope industry.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:38 pm
Starvation, USA
Insomnia veined lemur eyes,
on soul spiraling chins,
witnessing the documentary through blood and plasma screen TV’s.
Ribs for faces, candlestick arms,
pupils being shrunk away by wide whiteness,
the only alternative life style,
they call it a sad sack of suck for the children.
The diseases enjoying the cannibal potluck inside bloated bellies,
moving along to the medusa eyecandy of a donut shop,
their memories are starved to death.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:39 pm
Giving Birth to Death
She and he,
in times of pigeon surplus and dove depression.
A place of Easter egg demon seeds,
It’s a world where baby’s last breath is a reasonably priced perfume.
Underneath a reapers cowl, I won’t touch my Pandora. Says he wisely.
Over hypothermia steel, careless congratulations thrown around
by filtered faces and apprentice tool boxes. Not for me. Says she wisely.
Don’t bring lambs into a slaughterhouse; don’t show angels into a whorehouse,
It’s a deal.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:40 pm
Lonely Personals
Scar lying inside diamond.
Warning: Emerges spasmodically.
Looks like
outer crispy shell made of cauterized optimism.
Seeks universal twin living upstairs above conspiracy theory newspaper wrapped Cuckoo clock.
Caution: May be a hollowed out crucifix...
Requirements:
Must be able to sift sleeping sands away of soul-skinned snakes,
must feel like a mountain of blankets with ice cubes between its silken layers,
must have voice that shatters approaching barbarian kneecaps,
Yet
is a timeless whisper, moves Fall's blood soaked leaves, edges around knife-edge corners
To remind me of you.
Looks not important.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:41 pm
Moon Walking on Planet Earth
Part I.
Will Try,
cockroach farming to rid ourselves of rats
but the latter will have soft wind smoothed carapace, beloved toy store window charisma, and haunting japanese trading card eyes.
Gray Cityscape mice fur everywhere, falling off their receding hairlines.
Or is that mine?
They would've grown better with natural radiation from steam pipe trees and exhaust burning rivers. Wrinkling your nose at the sunshine cracking the dirty glass dome, I'd rather have the body fluid scent of fresh hot metal.
Part II
Will try,
to turn coal into a candied chocolate,
christmas will never be the same, catching ash flakes on your tongue from the genocide crematory, their burning the world up to replace with new pavement.
Saturated paper cows get replenished on our fuel turned fudge. Maybe it was poison to humanity, unlike most things processed and stamped, going through rigorous bribery courses, and tax form filled punching bags being thrown in the way of approaching saints.
Part III
Will try,
moonwalking on planet earth
assisted by anti-gravity wires, hooked into you like puppet strings, cheap thrills to put another jack-o-lantern smile for the daily halloween drive
the nights sublety enhanced by plastic globed strobe satellite lanterns, put there just so
staring from the balcony above whining wine vultures, it'll be just like romeo and juliet before fate intervened
course they'll drink our clock breaking weed killer instead
available now at a store near you.
Epilogue
In the end, when bald eagles blood is the caviar of the rich, the fish are given walking tanks to buzz around in, and we'll succeed at faking our victory, just so our superior won't think us lazy, I will be looking out the window of the 99th story talking to my wife about coaxing the man upstairs into leaving.
Boring. Like a cranium drill.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:42 pm
Cycle men
Chalk splashed Grizzled grass, impatience with the world reaching out through sprouts hiding his specially prepared Picasso demeanor.
I, shadow, silently splurge with inked sin, one of horrors he will avoid.
Observing my prism colored predecessor (in umbrella fit tans and shades he wears), while I indulge in two-sided reflective influence (A 2 dimensional bucket of sound) something else that won’t fishhook him. I think, I remember, I envy, I (strangely enough) become the Wiseman.
He’s stepping around on his chessboard favorite tiles (white plastic pope goes first). Outside he try’s to bypass his heart and take the plunge into the lined ladder road leading to salvation.
Beyond this paranoid prophecy pixilated avenue, is a collection of wheels.
His ticket home, his hat for balding, his s**t sundered blanket that he still loves is there.
I don’t know if I was he. Memories like the red hued psycho thriller in front of me.
People like me broke the cycle (Sane or vacuum commercial conformist?), people like him live it still. (Broke down, or genius of the next cult classic?)
Should he survive the street to his societal sickle cycle? (Death of life by inattention) Or hover past grounded salesmen like the hawk he is? (Death of hope by continuity)
I don’t know what would be worse.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:43 pm
Born Victim Vs. Bullshit Hero
Peeling off Sacrificial petals,
They Bombard pretty brass walls, tarnished easily by tollbooth riddles.
(You all have barbwire baited polygonal hearts)
Narrow-minded numbness.
Here for Gods charity, talking around pitfalls, your logical licked mezzanines fall before truth.
But standing unabated, a pigeon graced graveyard angel, frozen by trust that this is
the unreal real.
(The black suited billionaires helping the withered woman escape traffic, only for her to find that her purse is missing.)
You, green armored leech, with snap on legs gathered from your victims,
Me, a tossed around fishbowl, my eyes seeing through warped glass.
After all, survival of the greediest.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:44 pm
Walking Home at Night
I took a walk on the evening side, and now I shall begin this
My Drapery
Blackened by
Original Style
But still,
No cultural uniform but
Blind mans
Target
Scatter Puff
Sly sky lit up
By Coagulated
Blood
Beat the clock with rapid boot
Swings
Hidden folks
Singing while drowning in dark
Step
By
Leap
I am not a Lazy Machine
But a
Trying wagon wheel with DRUDGERY written on frame, but nonetheless
The rolling rag doll patched rubber is smooth
Your collision would be comfortable
Smoky Wine barrels, booming towards me on a slick linoleum floor,
My happy weirdness collapses like
Half-a** architecture
Beams shooting through channels, bouncing around,
Like a
Slapstick hero, with a shouldered plank, in a crowd of clowns
Make it across the solid river
Instead of being a windshield sliver
Breath like the fog throwing itself around,
It burrows into my lungs,
My illogical travels, the solid gold key
Too soft for locks
Cross the crossroad, no fear of being Jesus’ brother, beside him, hands slightly touching but too stiff to feel.
I took a walk on the night side, and now I shall finish this.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:45 pm
Scientists get drunk often
Pleasure
Is
A
Step
Down
The evolutionary ladder
I pass a note with a carnation stamped down in between red heart letters to the far away paradise, the schoolmaster stabs out an extendable arm (Through possession of his familiar), catching my hand.
Holding up the letter to my Eden’s ladder, he chants,
“La le la, love is a batch of muffins baking in your silly mitochondria. La lee lee, godless wonder is the bucket of bolts before me, spitting and raving about some predisposed condition of tradition."
GOD MADE A MAID, WHO CLEANED UP HIS COLORS, SWEPT UP HIS SINS, BUFFED HIS BLESSINGS, AND THEN TURNED AROUND AND shot HIM/HER/IT.
No time like the (There) past, boy do I wish I lived-
At least, back when flowers grew devoid of nuclear mustard gas weapons of mass destructions
(look at all the pretty colors, sitting under the SUV after the rain storm),
you could kiss a lady free of bill gates suggesting that you get with the times and move a continent away than email each other
(horizon looks dimmer everyday, maybe cause I’m going color blind),
and all was good-all was pure- all was
Menageries of self sold lies about what tomorrow would never be.
Gray tomb lit up by Christmas lights, to aid depression caused by a chemical imbalance brought on by lying to your newfound gods.
Picking, pricking, poking, choking, rats behind masks. Who wear lab coats and pretend they know the cure.
A cure to
What?
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:46 pm
Razor Ice Shoulder
Wiping the coffee grounds off of my filtering forehead,
sliding my feet,trying to ease through today's rain forest life
with a serpentine style.
Hawk beak curve-set to stub
my toes on= little shelled red alerts.
Blasting my mind with its cold ice-nine fluids freezing my flesh.
This oceans gonna burst with heavy water, trickle out into the dirty cement...
Only a drop’a’ koolade
Slip that razor’a’fossilized arrowhead, that ice veined hot curve that leapt up
To snatch my tender roots back down into the earth.
I run through the jungle of my neighbors lawn,
Remembering refrigerated pea seeds of wisdom,
That might learn the spilling nether brains,
So realized-so awoken.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:49 pm
The wasteland of love
Watching dust blow around from a Lovers window,
honey glaze on my baking eyes.
Photos of you in my cowhide wallet,
Memories of you making up my patchy but lovingly threaded self-strength.
Scabby celibacy oozing trust and rotting at the neck
Its springtime in winter,
I can see the white walls of purity behind decomposing slush
even in the pools I slip in.
Your beauty has no description but is made of all pretty things; your personality is freedom incarnate-
you amalgam brat you.
My dreams are filled with echoing hands colliding as you pull me up from a piss soaked perma-freeze purgatory pool,
Illusions of a grander grandeur are no place here,
only a world with a paper heart, folded and crushed easily, but always bending back to normal.
He fell in love with death when she took his soul, but yet he still lives.
I can move, because of you.
Through lawyers with razor blade hands shaking with pup paws ,
through the hammers of gravity hitting me on pressure points at random times,
through the burning betrayals I will feel from all those who think they are my friends.
If only he was stubborn (realize that the bluebirds are mocking you and the crows are your friends) but instead he is full of hope (dangerous tragic broken egg shell).
Nothing compares to your eyes, full of souls you have taken, just to give them a home.
This is how I feel, rivers of adrenaline push on the walls of drowsy acceptance because of you.
I don’t care if your gone, if you’re a memory, if you don’t even exist.
For this man will wait right here, forever if he has too.
The way he smiles now...
a parchment grin of one who see’s a flicker of light of in the distance,
walks toward it,
ignoring the fact that he’s walking into a deep dark wasteland.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:51 pm
The invincible
Each hacking footfall, deluging the ground with swayed roses,
oily feet, slick shined and steel grinded to being little spear points.
Thinking you’re the invincible? Thinking you’re the citadel?
(Old weeping willow weeps for fallen friends and falls over)
Grounding him, breaking legs, pulls out from underneath with snickety snap.
His ends are black banners, whispering and billowing, nothing holding them down.
Two Tidbits of him, getting’ picked up by Lincoln wheels, throwing themselves around in an industrial sized dryer.
He murmurs, mutters, swears, and is sore with god, world and reason.
Fallen flowers mock him, tiny green fingers pointed at him in death.
Lobbing his body forward and back, he’s the handbag on that deliveryman you didn’t tip.
Sounds come from his throat (Are they speech?), cooling, heating, conditions blowing out of an obviously unventilated hell burnt face.
They sound like pain, they sound like cries for help, stuck in the middle of the sidewalk,
People passing you by, gristle and guts painting stripes along, while you crawl,
You plead, you ask, you’re courteous.
And in a long moment of recollection, the willow branches splayed around reminding him of his loss, he rubs his hands together so hard, they break and turn to bony claws.
Swiping out a bitter switch, his palm being the stick, his fingers being the catch…
He grabs onto the nearest pavement participant,
Once his hooks are in him,
(Right size fits all)
He bashes him against the tree till his appendages go snickety snap.
Sticks them into sockets, and than with the smile of man
About to be blown up by mortar in a foxhole
Stands up and walks away.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:51 pm
Ambitions corpse
Wrinkled Paper sack, its wayward melting,
leaving behind tightened up dollar bill sinew.
Crags of covers, slick sweat conquers silken sweet.
Eyes flashing gold, bouncing around, paranoid.
“The light is too bright. I need friends to block it.”
Wheezy gasp, silver chains spiraling into an outstretched hand.
Uniformed Dolls and puppets, with strings hooked into you
but now its mosquito maws, sucking you dry.
Shaking n’ baking bedsprings,
rings rattling on a coffee table during an earthquake.
“Calm down sir, please keep calming down. More and more….”
Trains full of folks flashing by, headlights tearing you down to size.
Forgiving and forgetting, giving you back your life, but all you can hear is
pennies exploding out of you, popping out like flies caught in your skin
Shrinking and shrinking, while the bed gets bigger and bigger.
“The light! Its too bright!!” than a glass egg breaks off in the distance.
And the windows to the old mans room, closed for the night.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:54 pm
And thats the Fats
My days are all scented of smoked jerky and livers hooked so tender,
Biting down on carcass clay,
mishapen meat going further into cacophony.
So loud, so screaming, so like the alarm buzz-buzzing trying to lift your lifeless fleshy cliffs out of the sheeted ocean.
Every second succeeds to be a year, and I'm breaking through stools, impaling my already stitched stigmata wrists on oak legs.
Routine breakdown, at all meal hours,
while I work the stick shift (shifting the stuck voids in peoples hearts and bellies)
The hardhat friends are turning into shoulder plank suits, while I grab another sit-down and weigh-up (way up in the chimney clouds), throwing oil soaked lanterns
of sizzle and sausage patty down my swelling throat.
Someone nearby, or perhaps far away (Godly intervention done on short notice) says,
"Maybe you should slow down, you'll kill yourself that way."
Bingeing on blandness, and Singeing my sadness,
sweat rolling down chopping chipper jaws,
former apollo physique gone fresh kidney pie says to all the questions
(And silent vomiting looks),
"Some people choose cocaine, some people choose to shove thier 12 gauge up down thier throats, some go slow, some go fast, I just want
to go out with a bang, whether watery or screamin' "
Whoever was there, talking through thier ears since they didn't care to stare, stopped their questions, and I felt a bubbly champagne cork drive through the lining of my brain,
I went diggin' for aspirin, and found a bible, its pages flew with wind like necromancy booming around.
No migraine mulch stinking up my cranium, this was the real deal, all the half eaten 5th helpings grew wings and fluttered
out of my soul.
Chains wrapped through all of them carrying me away, no one saw me, and none helped, sitting about I peered through ink blot piggy eyes, seeing the ingredients in all the foods that dominated their gullets, ruling with a fatty fist, turning them all into sad little mouths beggin' for more.
'like chattering teeth that run on infinite batteries.
As for me? Thrown in with the meat, and grinded up into butchers backwash.
To finish the next bridge in this trainrail to the nearest open scab.
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