link stain 12

 

elusive and evasive, i want to crawl underneath the blanket of my pleaching unconsciousness. my harem boats and river tales are adrift. aloft on clouds of a powdery petal work. staining patterns of honey rings on blood velvet. exchange promises to the sub-terrain of promise and guilt and lust and resolve. a folding pitch of closure, enclosed within a year of days and seconds. parroted and cretinized. revised and rehearsed. broken into pieces of water crystals. when you say, in the year anew, there is a new resolve. you fool yourself. you imagine a transcendence of your identity without a transcendence. an illusion of time and a watercress dam. ringing bells and fractures of plangent celluloids. those ignitions of sprint, those sparkles of whim, those glints of the stochastic mutability of your evolving identity will remain the same. an excuse to revel, indeed. who need not exhilarate at the stroke of a dozen quarters, weeping behind the passage of mechanical flumes? in a transitional rhetoric, there is faith and confidence. there is dividend to the effort conscience preciousness of self-worth. the humanizing is a dainty awning of the mind parody. a synaptic chemistry of the dopamines, the catecholamines, the arduous pleats of time and effort and favoritism of the in-house. what is in this house of self-evolution is a remonstrance from the microcosm of the convention web-lock. the moment of a dozen is not your hour. your proceedings bleach every second of every minute of every milli-hour. for the pessimism of my self, it is not a gray muffle-band of an indigent whisperer. it is a retort to the entrepreneur. of catechism, lust and truth.

the monopoly of sentiments at the turn of a night. renew. rebuild. you say of the crass perspective of your immaturity. an inchoate framework. you look back at an empty trail. you want to build the brick continuum. a spectral fantasy of rainbows and the real. the tangible and the bizarre. you figurine of bronze -my honey ring. the interface of change is a linger. 

poppy monroe #0

poppy bean. it's christmas time. the red and ash. and green and mist. and truffle bake and merry mix are laced and curled in whirls of swirls. the fairy tales of snow and gin. on table tops and mistletoes. you kiss the ice. uncurl your smell. a delicate aroma wafts through the rooms of bleeding alabaster. you loosen your grip of the conscious hegemony of mind chronicles. engaged in piercings, chelates and stars of brandings. your modified body: a missing breast, a missing flood of bouncing testicles. i want you to come over and sit by me. and tell me your motivations for eating hair, combing your brows, and painting elevators. tell me why you add red pepper flakes to your cappuccino cups. why you photograph yourself, pissing on art and old vinyl records. and wear a pendant of blades and a strip of brown varnished leather. why you sit by the stairwell and count your tear drops. your normalcy and muse on existentialism horrify my bones. they make me cringe and cry and scratch my nipples with long sticks of wax crayons. i want to talk to you about the gossip aunt on the alleyway, who died last week of pneumonia. and her paintings of Eros, she dedicated to the birds.

you should consider the anarchist, poppy bean. the rebel new yorker. who fought to strive and play, with delicacy a home-building phenomenon. to migrate and stall. move a few feet, and pause. and then you learn to whisper first. and then to alphabetize and then to fetishize and then to revolt. to vociferate and explicate to the highest authority your value and worth. your bastard roots mean nothing in this whirlwind of the cut throat. no one cares your handicap or the slanders of your oddities. no one believes in the circuitry of your pleas and intentions if you cannot weigh your worth, in value and assets and paper seals. if you say, ballacave, i am a happy soul... they will question your happiness. what have you done to display this happiness? why will i believe, you are at peace. why will i believe you are happy. at which juncture of this living spiral do you intersect a satiety with happiness? is it the seed of vitality, your continuum of genomic integrity that brings you partial joy? or a make-believe philanthropy; this is what i should? on your emotionality compass, you tell yourself, baby pea, others are happy...come on be happy yourself...come on. and yet, what makes you think the others are happy, i do not know. what makes you contend is an allegory you will answer yourself. but the answer each time, will be a different one. you know why? here's the simple premise. time is a variable. not a constant. if life depends on time, can you deduce that life is variable? and if life is variable, can you go back and find the same answer each time? happiness differs, baby pea. for the second, tell yourself, the firmness of my anatomy is real. the mind is a dot, a flicker.

the kiss avenue

 

derrida.

remember the sleazy sassy kiss by the window mall last saturday afternoon? felt perky. and cheery. and fluttery. and feeble. and windowed. and so so sexual. that moisture on your elegance, your double lips and drummer goods. the touch of saliva flare. my tongue. your tongue. speaking gibberish in sonnets. in song and rhythm. a violent outburst of your falsetto strings. your squirm. your almond pear eyes. and your dizzying melody of jungle tunes. the wild preachers of the parish caves. and your hands. so firm and confident. butter soft. the odor of honey margarine oozing from your sweat spectacle. a crystallinity to your brow play and choral jingle. the bells of your pivoting dailies. they strike in chord. accord. like blueberry blossoms and cherry flowers. a photographic smile that drives me wild. folding refolding stroking in hormones. layer on layer. biting the hair frame of a tender anatomy. the water songs and moon enclaves. grouching and slouching in the girth of saccharin blue pupils. dilate and contract in the clutch of a serpentine slenderness. you blow off the candles on the bronze candle stands. and lick the scales off the molten wax puppets, creaming in layers of affinity and incongruity. and back to the kiss. in my face and through my eyes. my paraffin front melts in the abyss of a wild romantic pallor. so wild and ferocious. your aggression, you solder on the hinge of your bones. unseen by day, exposed by dusk. i love this plenitude of varnish on the stave-art atheist relic of your ossified identity. beyond mold, derrida. beyond mold. what did i say by the river? beware of water. in the fluid and atoms of thirst frenzy orgasm. what quenches. and pleases. and teases. and wets. can kill the bob of your transient living. what frills. and evokes and darts and swings. this water bed of water cress and lotus leaves. crenulate and pacific. i dwell on your tongue. before it rains and sieves a cacophony of pleasure-pain continuum. rapidly mystifying. and rising and humming. and pacing in cycles of androgen steroids. an acquiescence of the bawdy flavor of adrenaline topography. derrida. we kissed. and screamed. and cremated the tempest of swirl novels and pepper. and rented a pledge of foe pivots in flesh. and pander to the servitude of unlearned instincts. this need. this desire. this deed. derrida, you made me burst.

cloud #27

let's talk about the time it hurt. playing mandolins in a wine bar. i am the esoteric. but i want you. i don't even know who you are. come to me. please. please. i'm begging of you. come to me and hold my finger tops and sing a rhyme of confidence. into this empty soul of dispense. this shoebox matchbox cradle of failure. only loving son of cherish desire. of the trinkets of your tears. frozen on the canvas of the water sketch life you and i were supposed to live.

we have hallucinated the beauty of your soul. taken into the awkwardness of lust. i am a whore catcher whore picker, writing stories of sex on my skin. one by one. to belong. to believe. to lust. to escape the oppression of a tendril frailty. to ascertain the beauty of the physical mold. that's all you ask. and that's all you give. a whore in disguise, this pearl of mine. and from this discrepancy of the personalities of man. you look at me from a far. and kick me aside. and talk about the urgency of your deliberation and penetrative wonder kind. for here and now, then evaporate to the back door alleyway. in pretense of the unknown knowledge. of this multiple utility of sexual decor. it's all about the physicality of fracture. the physicality of the appeal and appearance. hey there handsome...you looking? blank. maybe? what for? to fuck. want to come? the ascent. alright. walk away. the display was enough. this momentary praise of the woolcotts. the cotton of your lubrication. so light. so feverishly light and warm and moist. strip your shame. your embarrassment. and say, i am the wall street-er. i am the accountant of the fund frolic finance tycoon. but who cares? your subversive banality. your dispensable trove of lies and annoyances, we have learned to accept.

warhol. your floating clouds. and silver spoon. and soup, babe. what were you thinking? could your imagination come floating lies. hold my hand. and whisper to the soap bubbles by the mandolins?

.

miss jane and the dover petals. tell me why, you lather your groin with hysteria and magnesium. scrub and scrub. till your flesh bleeds a spasm of bees. a swarm of the festive crawls beneath the fundamental xylophone menage. you despise god. you were right. tell me more. from where do you milk the ketchup? this is a prologue to the third layer anatomy of principles and music. lace-lover and the sexism, hand in hand. give me three and a half gallons of blood.

black fingers butter

mary jo. at a table top. peer over the black of your coupling coffee cups. floral and ripe. the aroma of incest. nauseating on the crevice fringe. the ripple of your reflection. on the pitch of vacuum. makes my mind magenta. 

foto: cris l-a

gossip

tall and high. the hair and smell and sweat of the virgin. alias pregnant man-woman. the tire and joy of this spectrum of drums. beating bass. live liana creme menage. this gossip of breasts.

muel

salt

let's go barbarine. dive into a cool, violent pool. and cry into the ocean. as if it mattered. water boats. spirit dust. this is a carousel of twilights.