Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Fire and Brimstone

Thor's hammer carved the leaf,
thick hands stabbing at the piano generate rhythm
the burning of the sun produces soft delirium
the iciness of the idea of the universe soothes.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

inches away from your face

Standing and stopping,
stooping and retching,
the sickness that pales,
the frown of confusion.
Where did it start?

belief:
in the financial scramble and scrabble
in keeping up with the rabble,
in bondage with blinders,
the ever-omniscient-with-hindsight-ers.

in having to soak in the sweat of air-conditioned offices,
of stuffing our faces with well-toned sauces,
of being denied the waterfalls and mosses
that grow in a land that's wet with regret.

we fit so neatly into a jigsaw puzzle
early childhood till midnight and december,
I can't breathe for all my persistence.
Demonic for a day is all I ask.

Why do i have to be trapped in society,
instead of wrapped in human company,
rapt in songs of synchrony
instead of sapped in my sofa, typing at white keys?

there is always a story at the tip of my tongue,
but my feet just don't know it's time to run.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Splendid Veins

I raise the stakes
and pound the heart
of the grey old vampire
and the golden upstart.

It was as always
unheard of before,
tasted of novelty
in an antique store.

I spent the day
grazing the lanes
hot in the neck
gazing through window panes.

And came across
some Egyptian dental floss,
and Bob fosse's hands,
in a Spanish hovel of mendicants.

I stepped out of the sun,
into the incense smoke,
I took stock of my bearings,
before she spoke.

"You're the first one here",
in a language I only then understood,
"Browse around,
I'll get you some food."

I only squinted in the dark,
and stared at the walls,
bedecked in masks,
for those full-moon balls.

The March hare on two feet,
the hands that formed a seat,
the snake with the big teat
the sand that kept the desert's heat,

the sarcophagus with one eye,
the eight-ball that would only lie,
the conch shell that could sigh,
a bottle of whiskey from Martian rye,

A book of tales about the stewardship of trees,
and picture of a man that ate with his knees,
For the third eye is the only one that sees,
Thus, is the balm for those inner mountainous lees.

I reached behind a mound of sparkling ash,
whose greenish tinge spoke of Theran origin,
and reached for a vial of a crimson stash
asked of the newly-arrived lady: "For what? Wherein?"

And she crossed herself slowly with a grey sly smile,
"That's for the initiated and high-born,
not for those who only stay a while."
I noted her scorn,

And my ego was piqued,
and when she turned away,
skipped off with her bottle,
strangely hazy in its sway.

And stepped out onto the moors
and rolled down the alleys
and in a confusion of eras
rode the Roman galleys

For Time didn't stop for me to catch my breath
in a rush of millenia
beyond the reach of linear death
I touched a distant shore and

was pulled back to the other end
of an upside down town,
around the corner and over the bend,
and I forgot how to take in air.

And thus I slid down a tree
on to the concrete seat underneath
in a quiet grove I could only see
the black serpents of this world

slither down the branches (from the branches, of the branches)
and make their way to the hollow
pith, where the still fountain
kept its inner glow.

And so here I write,
red ampule in hand,
a warm eternity to spend,
in this quaint end of neitherland.

Monday, July 06, 2009

Solid Bison

kjag72://

trite. for trippers
yes, most of the mest
of the motor mound bound arrested
lift eclipse crispily crossed out
about town abound bundantly

for flash fur fashioning
fresh awards fingering a
sanger sung skillfully scathing
racing rust scare escape case
by crazed castle school
came to crane cost

got lifted of test dream
from half knee
numbed it up
has to be that way
eneemerent deemed to dusk
duck under omelet anomaly

never the lest
taveterass sock wipe
lens quite walkwards
white awkward
like locks
where embarrassed esteem intuit

crumb tumbler
under service nest
guessing
at gasp lines
safely sequestered

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

and then there was

In the gray mist of the first morning
the dim light clung close
to their hunched praying mantis figures
slick like the floor of a cave
lean black eyes,
white whiskers sweeping,
frail pale long fingers
they moved as one to the rhythm of their drumbeats,
pulsing through in ripples
out into the surrounding empty space
the shifting light
couldn't linger for long on their feverish faces,
but the spotlight broadened
with every crescendo
every breath
every strike
the world brightened
the ferns transpired
the creepers stretched their vines
slow at first
then gaining ground
life was drawn into the world.

The sweat of its birth still clings to the inhabitants of this universe.
In our rages,
in the burning of our minds
in our passions beyond the keep of culture
we still remember the warm breath of the early world.