Saturday, July 31, 2010

Cloud Shadows And Paper Sails.

This isn't working! Never enough. Up our dose. No time to toast.

We shouldn't have done this. Man. Never should have taken you under my little wing.

The day we met she swore it'd be fate for me to fall.

Locked in her crow's nest with no ladder all that could be offered was the solace that the impact would involve liquid, but no telling how far to the floor. You caught my eye. Timelessly awaiting our predisposed future, undeniably reminiscant of the lost encounters of starting what was already set in motion.


A noticeable change in the light spectrum, all hues fail to saturate the ever squirming grass and us few coliding into the same thought every time we know to press on. Undeniably this situation creates the never impossibly removed association of imprinted land along with a distinct twinge of understanding that there will be no unseeing, only reprinting. Birds fly past the sun and we all scream for a lightning in the heat soaked day that never has its roar. We're stuck here. Never getting out of this alive. Swear to me you'll never leave, aside to blaise a trail thick with nostalgia given the pretense that we can remember.


Drift off into the scorching loss of light with tightly sealed eye slits. We may wake up here. One day we swear we'll wake up here. We have to wake up here. The next association is that we have all gone and we are surely not together. Catch up to the pack endlessly repeating a distance only tangibly noticable by distance and the constant inability to find our bodies.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Conscience Mirror.

I've become positive the only thing that sets off my soul are those resounding uncontrollable nearly dove song frequency's so few and far between. Maybe you caught one today, maybe two yesterday. It screams when you hear a sound that reminds you of that kid you met two years prior that endowed all their faith and comprehension of the world on your vacuous ear drums, but too stoned to even remember to exchange addresses had forgotten entirely what he uttered until the mundanely sympathetic redundancies stir a distant imprint that unwind and recollect. Maybe you remember... Undeniably you have heard. Don't care if you do. My objective stresses the mental cue and how close it sits to your vibration box. The sounds of remembering.

I am by no means specific. I'd like to call this weed but there need not be a name for merely aware. Be it your own bodies connection re-firing in relation to the mind reverberating your brain drum stick, having allowed this thought to occur by being kind enough to station ones body at this new person, or the solemn unintellectual misfortune of having been plagued by the noise pollution that is all too reminiscent of being telepathic. Don't move, don't speak. The ability of the world to spin will swallow any sanctity your holy temple to life sustains by reminding you of how few steps it takes to tell the person in front of you, you're behind and given the craving refuses to accept your cadence for fear of reference to standing erect as a "Catcher.". Keep what you believe, deny the rest.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

We Kiss Goodnight.

Snow on the frosting. Cool reds beneath. Burnt sugars turn all sorts of funny shades. Watching the cook with no oven. Lightning strikes the cigarette rested on one lip, so gently held by a polka-dot of spit. Flint for the torch. Baking with the accuracy between thousands of degrees. Blood from mascara caress flower and yeast trailing behind warm milk from a suctioned teat. Enough time had to admire the soft conscience lulling through a distant recollection of melody, pentameter, and rhythm. Mothers voice or the silence of a dead angel. All things holy in this room.

You will not find any crystal in this square kitchen. At best, a well kept plastic hand size receptical from a birthday party of a friend in youth, of course not ones own. Men would be found setting a spell on the floor next to the open fire. A warmth all dignified souls can muster the courage to admire. Ask not for any pleasantries from the camera behind those glass slipped eyes. Rest comes for its claim to the weary and our polite body falls forward into a sweet watery goodnight.

Each breath a crumb may slide down a cavernous trail to the entrails consumed by bile and acids. She knows where her fat will lay while we dream of the light.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Charcoal Chakra.

And I built this home from marshmallow goo and ginger beer residue. Strapped a roof of cards using cherry licorice rope and i only fill my stove with the finest of dope. "They're all too fucking kind, and fail to realize that we'll turn on you faster than a wolf in heat." No rhyme or reason, this jolly sing-along season. You can't spell and it doesn't look good without a period... ellipses. I don't pause for these god damn plug paisleys and they do the work of a sexclamation mark much more than any counter positive solution. This is no more a journal than a diarrhetic consumption of my bleeding girl parts... but there's puddles all around the floor. I can here the dripping down the pipes while i stutter not to feel. Everything exists and dies, what will we remember this time and who will recall our names. GAY MARTIANS!

Friday, February 26, 2010

People Say You're Strange.

Unbenounced to my own understanding of the common formula of fire, a conductive surface and a holding apparatus for a fluid, i had managed to boil a pot of catsup with a 9v battery and a thimble filled with baking soda. Not realizing that the liquid had not been bubbling due to a current but had actually managed to heat itself in a matter of seconds allowed for a building complex fire. In my solo attempt to pass on the relentless clock ticking off a Duracell AA removed from a lime green Game Boy containing my only resembling memory of the casket plastic box the bones red bearings were neatly packaged in for my tech deck after the second random implosion of home goods from my traveling car home. Nobody had tapped on the floor for what should have been hours. But rather, my neighbor spent a solid 40 minutes adjusting the light fixtures on his ceiling and that every 1000 bulb rule, about the random explosion upon installation, apparently applies to boxes of batches and not just single coils, one can only assume due to factory settings on the day of creation, because he kept cursing with a solemn side of gratitude for the random occurrence. The rats may be working for us as i listen to them learn from the ants on how to fortify a tunnel system through the walls and outside the bars... which we are sure were meant to keep us in and not others out. On a monday canned peas souffle to do list my day off consisted of an hour to boast (before topping the afternoons creation with my famous broiled oven toast garnish of ground filth and may contain real tomato flavoring) spent building a house of cards... while we preheat. Not noticing that fumes had been building in the closed oven face and were slowly building in the comfy first floor where i had conveniently placed the diamond kings studio sparked a match for my first cold turkey cigarette i hadn't touched since the last time i thought about buying a pack. Puff... In Flames.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Back When I Was Eight,

Every Halloween they would hummm a million rubber skeletons across the ave. The ecco' (eko) echo would reverberate across the cobble stone archways and the dead would plot their late night escape through broken earth and shattered leaves. Portals if not a doorways from the unconscious rest of the weary and needy coalesce the scars of sacred souls. Collectors items had to be taken from the shelves and worn like a Christmas elf's pleats. No holiday should have been quite so substantiated, though the pleasant Pagans chanted an exagerated hymn for the children in need of a brief reprieve from those unfortunate soon to be triangulated cans in need of lips to hold. We rise! Not yet dead but a certain loss of life flushed through the rivers and spilled through our plants and into the ever expanding canal fucked daily by bottom feeders sustained on filth and PCB's. You're warming a steady cadence in the heart beat of first snare drop mutant karp and herring pickled and salted to perfection. Kids packed like shards in plastic receptacles swaying the bodily oils necessary for a front row hog of rear end discipline. If not for the pumpkin king, for every lost boy in search of an escape from pages left on shabby filth shelves in cellars stinking of old plum vinegar and honey jar sediment, my lisp pressed against the brown glass oxidation free cup. Nothing to say for our day. Any-day but the day before the day of the dead. Us kids know.