Thursday, September 26, 2013

a rain cloud plea

nicholas, in your omnibus of prejudice and barcarole, may you devour the sanctity of self. may you dance like a peacock, ruffle your titter dregs, smuggle your soul -like pendulums in bottle trade, whispering a manuscript of ginger queens, and ruby plumes, coquettish and violent, slovenly and chicoried, in marinade of literature, ash and saxophones. in the tonicity of your brain vapors, this is a cry of song, to the anonymity of monsoons, rain metronomes clicking in acid, clouds sputtering and spinning in the cerebral of galaxies, in the dance of vacuum, in the blackness of atoms, ringing and jittering, clicking and muttering, breaking and sticking in the outcry of piccolos, in the ritual of heavens, in frailties of garden weeds, in virulence of phantasm and meter and rhythm of ballet death and swans.

this is an orchestra of carbon and iodine, whimper in the coo-coo of bubble tongue saliva drools, in the religion of nature, in the puppetry of juveniles, in heaves of leaves, and chamomile of wind lamps, tender lips on watercress, like the wishing moth, and polyglots of paragraphs, poetry and statistics. for the Cartesian, nicholas, draw checkers on your tongue and bleed till you rain in serenade and lullabies, chiming to the sway of dandelions, swooshing to the crease of dilly gusts and cripple knots, woven in a cadaver of solipsism, mechanics and automation. the naturalness of self-aureole, grayed in the winds, rumbling in a voice of anxiety, ribbing in surgicals and the intensity of vernaculars, this rain, a lease of homicide and flood knives, apathy in destruction, conspiracy of tears, joyous in paradox, excess in parasites, gnawing at bones and setting free -parapets of synonyms, whipping of rogue maniacs, and agrarians, bellowing in tragedy. in your claw spectacle, in histrionics of a gore libretto, sail back to the soul of darkness and dreams, unaroused, diseased and free.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

forgetful rendering 3

you raced past the the pulley discs and wire mesh to knock at the door. thump. thud. smash. i did not look at you, focusing on the trans-sexual couple fondling each other across the street. occasionally glancing at the tan asian man, waving at a lamp post, muttering, snorting, and giggling, i developed a minute impatience. adjusted my sleeves, drank a bond, some helium gin and gestured to the pink column, a quiescence of fall. pointing to an ex-catholic, wriggling in sin, i thought of Smetana, burlesques and oil. michael is your parent name. short, crisp and befitting the square of your jaws. you glanced at me, walked through the studio doors, and sat by my yoga mat. your legs spread in acute angles, your boots shaven and polished, your mustache in perm, yourself in a cocoon of shiny canine leather. a characteristic droop of your white eyelids, fidgety by the edge, rotund in the sink, bury in obsolete an oceanic eye. so achingly blue, longingly gazed, pulsatile in the flip-reality of dilation, contraction and a numbness. the reflection of my face in the concavity of your lens, made me dizzy inside. projecting to the limbic, the imagery of days i cried with lust, dissatisfaction and powerlessness.

when we walked to the diner, after an awkward paranoia, like a mistaken phenomenology gyrating in the laminate of your dead venules, you sat by the wall, cushioned in a corner, hidden from your ex-fucker. you flirted a little, then became silent. did it remind you of something? did you feel numb? you stared at your glass for forty seven seconds and said what helped me live at the time of suicide was the story of Alexander the Great. an amateur historian with a past of prostitution, journalism and the ivy league, you sounded confident and nervous. reminiscing your lay off, a latent escort and your love for harnesses, you peered into my thoughts and said it's an evolutionary fuck-up. you seemed unclear, eating pasta, and i asked to elaborate. at 47, to feel young, you find your draw. you dread the passage of age, i figure, and to re-live your loss you engage in a volley of words, in a secrecy of act and benefit of lust. manipulation of desire to the extraordinary, moral bends, self-lulled and political in the lability of a compass. is there a cap on desire? no, i cried. it feels liberating to love, like Alexander the Great, War soldiers and broken rivulets. 

what resonated in my mind, after you swung aside, was your interpolation. what is the worst of outcomes? you die. death from a heartache, wrapped in the blossom of pan-celestials and hormones, in a brown paper suicide, is a misery of time, evolution of man, begetting of communication. rattled with pixels and voxels, appetite and vogue, conundrum and cretinism, this world of yearning, this love of yarns, explained in the socialism of Darwin, paradox and genetics. before you left, you said to me, Alexander always showed gratitude. 

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

my. inert.

the antidote to the melanin blossom is a bleach bouquet. allowing the diffusion of a self-doubt, perplexity, cowardice and agitation, a blow to the canvas of portraiture. in the clasp of asphalt finger lakes, poetry of milk, lacuna of roselyn, your paper flake epidermis, your melody crease, in resonance of a refrigerant, of your snow vase and blunt blade, bearing in the patriotism of your mimicry, socialism and gaze.

the moon in polyps. semi-pregnant and anti-lunar, trickling and melting in the chime of september. in the rustle of a gas gauze, asphyxiated, hypoxic and arched. shedding a verse of the Genesis, a genocide and a genotype. spurting to the rain cloud, a vocalise of numbers. of planetary geometries, fetal-pain legislation, and violence.

reading to myself, the truth of truths. a logical whim, cold-blooded and obsolete, shaving to my bone a ring couple -an edema, anti-analgesia, and hyperactivity. of a prayer of whispers, bellowing to a screen, passionate and confused, hurtled and vibrated, sedated in the basicality of temperature, of humility and deconstruction. querying and quarreling, hyphenating a nation of radicals and bell jars, in delusion of eleanor and betty lee, of womanhood and paradox, of rain drops and rain. rain. rain. patter pit. rain beats and rain songs. ink rain and frisk soaps in sand chorus, mutilated and ripened with agony and morality. turned around in the hundreds, this art of the melanin blossom. narrowed, expected and sublime.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Berlioz 72

i was listening to Berlioz when you called me. saying, mournfully, i miss eating pebbles. but Eda, why you ever ate pebbles, i never quite understood. you used to say, Lola, i love the spasm of a gag. the writhing, sliminess of pink saliva, empathy and arrogance contributing to the necessity of your sadism. you would run naked across the stretch of a wind fascia, crashing at the tip of a wave break. in the summertime of '72. in poppy fields and sunflowers. a legendary opiate-addict. a farm prostitute. pregnant with a sagging ovary, deckled and trimmed in a practical life. Eda, when you called, your face was frail, your voice was numb. pulsating tender. a monotonic whistle crying in the circularity of an auto-tumor, in a loop of thermostatic acidosis. i wanted to crawl through the burnt aluminum and biopsy a bass treble, immortalize in a jar of spring cotton, gelatin and pacifism. you sounded melancholy. maybe a mild depressed. or maybe you ate a candle, and shot LSD in your blood. and screamed at a stencil sketch of your van Gogh, you stole from the pawn shop by the MoMA. you used to tell stories to orphans about jellyfish and puppets, about sex and money, about the personality continuum and the Depression. and flirt with the Navy men; one you married, one you stabbed, and one you mutilated with unreal violence. on Saturday nights, and tuesday mornings, you would tie your hair in delicate braids and light them on fire. listening to recordings of Dickinson and Plath, you would inhale the smell in long effortless breaths and bleed from your chin. in a confusion of your experimental living, your drug poetry, vitriolic personality, cabaret of peace and reality, Eda, you have inspired my soul.

a few days ago, Eda, we stared at a water drop. to the image, a little shy, you yelled a name. Ethna, a voyeur and a child masochist. an entrepreneur, you sold orchids at the museum of bagatelles and serenades, for nineteen pennies and three shillings. but today, you are limbless. washed by the sonnet of the peculiar monsoons, the leverage of spring lilies, chanting to yourself a deviant Genesis, imagining, in silence, the lattices of topaz, table salt and MSG. you used to be a War slave; an abused organ, emphatic in frills, galleried and sold in the market of economics, contested with boots, persona and bullets. they forced upon you a feminine humility, a scholar of spice, a treacle of praise -to misuse and abuse your stern integrity. but you escaped the skinning, the hanging and the suffocation of science. Evelyn and Dorimer, are asleep.

in the course of your neuro-degeneration, you will smile at the air. thoughtless and excused. demented and enraged with the tutus of syllables. your speech will slur and fade to a dim. you will remember, i hope, the modularity of entropy, the caravan of spiel, the redolence of chains and hypothesis of the universe. i said to you, Eda, if the universe expands, and gives rise to chaos, who is to predict with certainty that our physical laws will remain stationary, unchanged and untouched. on which theory of induction can you prove to me, two times seven shall always remain the ripe product of teen fours. the concept of chaos, theorized and analyzed, applied and implemented. Eda, you see, the paradox of concepts? formality of a chaos, analysis of screams, citations of strings, elastics and aromas, making up the posterity of your remnant.

i was listening to Berlioz when you called me. saying, mournfully, i miss eating pebbles.

Friday, September 6, 2013

the queer Cadillac

little bit of love
little agency of barium harmony
in the titillate, the magnificent, quiet
discordant, communicate
on the water tables of Maryland,
the granulation, anti-acidity
of rain, topaz and pearl. 
ever-ready
my arrogance, your you sympathies,
the tremendous teeth crackle
the roar of my social suicide, my psychosis
and metalloids. 
for exhibitionism, my village voyeur
is offending a sheep. 
in the broader sexuality, the spectrum
of your queer Cadillacs, 
the atomics of diesel, 
bloom fairies
canvas of bipolar cervices, 
ornaments of a tablet jew, pill-skilled
hype-tentacled in bleach. 

my pericardium in rags
of wool threads 
and periwinkles
bigoted. browned in fear
the eruption of tear
tremor dyes, fluoresce
in the fashion of stripes. 
in oval Ovid opioid, herculean
activated in the fundamentals 
of quotients, metaphysics of Achilles.
history of cell, 
biology of gays, and chemistry of pills
geometry of sex, 
for your geriatrics, pardoned and crystallized
in an evolution of the spatio-temporals 
the paralyzed feminism, angered 
in a vaudeville, in 
your prayer and kiss.

e leaf, my song bird,
my wish, you fly.   
 

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

the beat trilogy 32

reading Kerouac put me in a mood. blue beats and trumpets and monographs, somehow, knotting around the diameter of a personal phrenology. got tangled up in words, and songs, and footprints of your senseless politics. of a creativity, personalized and rhapsodized like the clitoral, the littoral, graphic, Austen-esque, or explosive imagery of blood burlesques reeling and streaming in the cadence of hymns. observing a pedophile, loving a boy, telling him spread your legs for daddy. in a quiescent submission, in a lust-hungry energy, he squeals in delight to charm daddy. saying to a wood wall, and a cloud of steam, and the straight-acting band, i love you daddy. salivating and craving the voyeurism, the exhibit of naked age, the harmony of breaths on genteel glass, the crackle of lubricant, the network of rims, the duets of soap, the ballet dolls of dead chemicals, hormonally operatic, chaotic in shuffles, disheveled and liberating to the dead sexual, swollen in the tingle of orgasm, lust and tear. son, i love your cunt, your boy vagina. this inter-mixing of gender, biology and chemical nurture, this lullaby of verse and cross-contradictions, gave you the pleasure of a ripped marriage. your wife away, the child you sought. re-living the fantasy in the confines of amber, hissing in dissonance, hiding in smiles. tomorrow, you will go back to work, son. and no one will ever know. 

to remind myself, the mythology of the anonymous. the manner of deceit, dubiousness and playmate of curtain falls, of red lies and accountability. to re-think the truth of my relational, i am grateful for the war songs, to historicize and preserve, to immortalize and re-flesh the skeleton of dandelions, the sway of bliss, the dramatics of loss, the aroma of splits, the bible of trust, the discourse of tears, the parable of proofs, the miseries and joys of loveliness. to your anatomy, i shiver in the spasm of time warps, and extra-spatials. in the charm of honeycombs, and the vagary of your boyhoods, the topography of lust, you are the primary primal, the tertiary pedigree, the parallax of numbers.