Welcome to Gaia! ::

Attica

The upper wooden lip,
had swelled shut with the morning drizzle.
Leaking between the light beams.

(Angels guide me home)
(Devils trap me here)

A little reconstruction, on littered avenues, uptown.
Turn me from nail pulling, to pulling my cuticles out
making lips edge across the cellar door
(is the crow, a top or bottom of the haystack animal?)

I'm in Attica, with little stained glass bloody Marys,
weeping into me,
as I throw the broken bones of ape tools away.
The lippy mouths are nibbling on me.


My relatives are gone on lack of relativity,
my escape hatch is jammed with drought cracked peanut butter,
and I hear John Lennon whispering to me in the corner,
accusing me of murder.

The bleeding hearts of the virgin, stays in this side of the pill capsule,
but darkness eases itself in for a long creaking sit over on the far corner.

I know son of Sam wants me to pet the dog
with the crocodile glazed eyes and
fur dripping laces of spider web beads.

Mouths of killers chewing on a silk fabric curtain
I try to pull myself up on.

Maybe I'll grasp at a lip in my torn camo,
for a bottle of shake and bake, thats never there,

when Attica's shadows are bleeding along the 2-d bloodlines of the floor.
Easing towards me, slug slime.

(Sleepy), sleeping in slug slime.


By midday the next tomorrow, a jab rings out,

and a mans voice calls out thief in a shout,

a cellar door is broken with a lip being torn to a smile.

Eyes view an ancient burial ground, full of denial.


And I'm sitting in Attica,
on the far
other side of the room.

The evening (With nothing missed)

The wall of jade of was chipping
Into leaves.
That flowed with every brush stroke of
Stable breath
Out here,
the printed and pressed silicon hills,
Were patted nonchalantly by crisp aware curly tailed vaudevillians
Out here,
the evening soaked the headless chapel in blood,
A mortician would flap its yammering black wings,
agreeing,
Huge hills
(With an ivy mount Rushmore staring back at you)
broken up to chocolate chunks,
and a gurgling nostalgia soaked roar would sound out,
From Theodore Roosevelt, the old line had been drawn to bed,
And wanted the foot traffic to cease for a while.
(No lights turn off anymore, the moon always showing off its speckled smile, grim and oddly lonely for visitors)

Bookbinder

Every ink splatter,
Is a question mark hook
Opening yowling red complaining mouths
In my solidified ctulhu soul

Paint peeling scribble-
0000000000000000000Syllable
0000000000000000000000000000-Scrabble
In a focused jaundice ichor light called
My study
I found a stitched up back bone, and a tin can flesh
All in
Smoothing out the wrinkles.

Entertainer Entrance/Exit

Dual amputee tarantism,
Floral floor columns, shooting up rainbow spikes
I jitterbug on the shaking scene-by-scene salad, a jello shot Mona Lisa could be god-seen.
I jitterbug on the warbling microphone impaler, a starry sky without wind and noise,
All floating on the heads of plastic girls and robo-boys.
Striking a match in a darkened field, inciting a flurry of flares to scoop up the oxygen.

When we left, light headed and giggle hardened, when we homesteaded,

Heavyhearted and lonesome.

Scarecrow made of crows

So I went home one day,
through moleskin night,
too be with my memories (ice cold and lemon sour?).
For a game of poker, in which I dealt, lost, winning, losing,
marbles.

I fixed my eyelids open,
insomniac toothpicks—
didn’t keep the hollow bones away.

Falling down the spiral slide well,
which conveniently sits on the edge;
common cold and tissue paper bed sheets--
didn’t keep the hollow bones inside,

Home and cawing thought, flapping their blustery blackness.
Somewhere on the other side; the picture of dawns birth,
is a scarecrow made of crows, which brings them in.
Compact vehicle, driving its dark lights towards your old child's bed.


The morning comes with a switch of light bashed
upon your scar tissue face,of course all our pasts,
are burning hells in which stepping back is--
in the furnace once again.

I locked the door firmly behind me.

The selfish b*****d is built, stagnant.

Did I give a damn about how you built the dam, as long as the
job was finished underneath flower drowning skies and games of
dice were rolled on the battlements?

Take a gamble with your humble-
Berry pie falling into the rotor-tiller gossip drain

(Stop talking about who I used to be, and more about my
Da Vinci marble left uprooted in the soil and) That’s it.

I ate the whole pie, surveying the damn
“ Selfish b*****d”
was christened, is this some sort of voodoo Jenga?

It eats up its own surprise, and supplies,
during sudden weathers of stormy frights
lasting longer than a horror movie night,

Creates energy enough for itself to bargain with
devils who seem to always appear
Whenever it has something to gain.

Or lose.

All I know, is my duties are over,
and as I flush my dreamy designs of guard turrets,
sultan pepper shaker spires, all for the Selfish little ‘un.

The dam dries up on both sides,
and seagulls come to peck at my eyes.

Flea-bitten Fanatic

The reverend didn’t show up today,
Instead we got the orange peel of the apple.

The messiah didn’t show up today, sunshine was clouded by volcanic smoke,
He probably won’t show up tomorrow either.

When the sermon became chopped up,
Like the lawnmowers running outside, folding up grass patterns in the soil,

We thought our reverend was lost somewhere in a deep black hole,
Trying to crawl up slippery walls, but the light was always out of reach.

Considering, his clothes were water test strips,
which found positive for distracting elements;
his beard was full of black dots which seemed like stars
gone cold in a cluster galaxy losing the battle with gray withering.

His hunched spine, the path of time circling up for a short instant that was
Forgettable?

In our joining of the gospel, singing mournfully for the grass clippings lost to a cosmos
Mower.

The reverend walked in, a bit rough on the face saying he was late
again.


True story


When the poem was scribed by
Choreographed hands,
The body part (probably the heart)
Where God won’t show up, was corrected by my
Electric Avenue, as being
Will show up.

I erased the snap of thought,
And continued.

Than, in the afternoon of my
Traveling circus,
The lion growled, and the whole thing erased itself.

Lifelines carved, Mountains, Old.

And in the distance there was nothing,
but swells of breathe
caught everlasting
Arcing through tectonic plates

I was at the back of a automobile magazine,
shooting through a concrete chamber.

All day, through which the exploding sun had
displayed snow capped generosity
Far

in a wound filled with blue blood,
I was told a story of long ago
when the stones of the mountain could fall on our human bones,
anytime they wanted too

And we could go their every day in wild-eyed journeys
Where our visions filled with the air, always circling around,
Trapped in a cold cage.

But a curse lay on the birthed silicon souls and soles,
and steel sewer holes and voices, which echoed out.

Which dragged us away into a hot smoke filled wagon.

I, sitting at the back of the hollow shell, saw density
but no gunpowder in those eyes,
As if we have never gone to the mountain.

As if the lifelines had steered us to a dead trail.