Saturday, February 23, 2013

acquiline

someday, aquiline, we will change the world. with scissors, and smells, and simple smiles. with photographs and tunes and quills and rhymes. and voice the secrets of a compulsion -you and i built seventeen years ago. breaking melodies and losing lives. yet singing beyond mountains, a country way down to the oceans. to poverty, you say. i have seen, and read in painful caricature. of the tin man and the dead. struggling and fighting. defeating the defeated. in a chromosome. embrace and willfulness. in a cosmic turbulence of the pens. scribbling a song in cherish and love. your cancer death. your sheepish, dull vanity. a tarnished smile. in loving love. and hating the pang of poor, phenomenal rejections. in the bar by the bottles, we ran to the edge. you smiled, sheepish. developing an agency of the maniacal hysterical demented. to say, my strings are torn. my heart is broke. rolling your face in the green, cool color-dome.

marilyn, marilyn. i obsess. at the carnage of the rapist. the artistry of the dead girl. the alabaster breast. the sexual squeal of norma jean, where is your myth of lust? to your orphaned frock. and prongs of devilish ridicule. the symbolism of your triumph. in song, so lyrical. so poetic. so simple. in your goggle bills, and panty hose. in a parallax of the phallic monstrosity, a kingdom of sorts. you rose to bail. you queen of songs. your sequined sex. your rouge of bliss. your lips of wax. your curls of oil. your hands and legs and string of eyes, in the polylogue of the humanoid, the paranoid, the junk-setter trend-bite. what it is, to hide behind. the diaspora of your sensibilities. ill-treated, mis-treated, unheard and unpainted, while you lived in the shantytown of shame. for in the posthumous, they gloat and lionize the chiffonade of your hungry symbolic. untold, retold, forever signed. undulating with time, the eye of warhol. the playboys and bunnies. the '40s of drugs. and cigarettes. and drugs. and cigarettes. and druggoids and cigarettes. and men. and whores. and lust. and sex. and in the paparazzi of your beauty, the cheer glow golden globes. broken, within your loneliness. it never cured. it never sailed. you died. lonely.

in the human crystal canvas of my city, you lovely man. your wife had asked. dear moe, darling love. how will i live without you? and you said. dying. take the love you have for me, and spread it round the world. you smiled, and slipped. and fell and died. remained your wife, retained your words. and clicked your cold embracing rigorous death, to return to the ashes. in memory of love. in memory of happiness. in memory of bliss. you wrote in your will, after i die, blow me a kiss. paint my lips with the tenderness of your touch. and bury me in remembrance of our love.

Sunday, February 17, 2013

the vaudeville kiss



dear valentine. on the fury of a tongue parody. your sex workshops. bottles and bottles. cans and cans of your orgasm aromas. and the traditional rattle songs. of burlesque and the vaudeville plays of monologues and shepherd tongues and dicks and slaps of whim and curly flakes of tongue shrill lilt bangs. deaconess moon. you fuck the sun. and the gay gods of plague. the saint of rome -the lesbian booze-maker. she is my coffee cousin of the whore house. the alcoholic night mare of the pears on bleecker. the cars on the pink honey crisps and chrome whistles. and wax chimes on lollipops. the candle lips. i have glazed with honey from the dead doves. the bees of dali. the delicacy of the selfish whir of the pike tornadoes. and the intransigent. the reckless irresponsible hag from the little villa of the oceans. i want to scream, dear valentine. and aim at your eyes. and shoot a tenderness of alkalinity. dripping, and sweating, and grazing, like cows on hills, wearing peahen cloaks and cotton. and orange peels on dressing gloves. you wear, i have seen, blood condom with fertilizers and seeds. supplant, and replant the identity of man. the woman on the strings. the flautist who killed in the bafflement of murder. in the epitaph of the oven, and then reams of dialogue. on the latitude of words, of poetry and sounds, of rhyme and the dance counties. swirling in sex and moaning and fisting in the paddle house by the riverside. this is the wild irrationality you subsume in the intimacy of your conscience. your perfection of pretense and the lip smacking jaw-breaking eye-killing dangerousness of the 30 year old granny-fuck in the plague fields, makes me want to break the wall of my sensibilities. and throw a fit of love, wilting and crowing in the apostasy of the perplexing breakdown of my structure, for one second. the satyriasis, the maniacal, the hormonal and the diseased. clap like dolls, and smoke in hisses. grass and sea weed, and manure from the garden house. and tug at your belly chest and the stylization of your human asphyxia which makes me want to kiss. in wraps. in shreds. and rip the anatomy of who you are. i want to know. i seek and run. and fleet and sweat. and whore each night. looking and stopping. and risking the togetherness of my morality -what exists i cannot tell. i am no believer in the fatalism of your tribe. you want my objectified stratified pieces of body frames and you know what? you get it. i get it. we shoot. and cringe in the disappointment of what could have happened if we were two. and didn't pray to the bisexual gods. the immaculate virgin, died on the cross. the man in guilt. the father -in suicide. and pill overdose in the beseeching for peace. the vaudeville kiss. the time of blood. thousand feet. and learn to blow, what i did for love.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

life of a pill



 the progeny of mechanics and chemical charades, a pill - its potentiality preserved in the craft of invisible bonds and inexplicable origins. trait of the analgesic, or the psychotropic, or the diuretic, lies in the arrangement of rings and chains; a bouquet of the poly-atoms. a cherry-picked design from the plethora of smells and the color palette, aim to appease a demand of escalating look-ist consumerism.
there exists a disequilibrium of therapeutics and hazard, to the body that is mottled with disease and uncanny disabilities.navigating through the labyrinth of vasculature and the pulsation of blood rhymes, to the hinged receptacles, perched and embedded in a shimmering mosaic, the voice of a pill
creaks in dissolve; to diffuse and suffuse within the strict bottleneck of anatomical architecture. in fierce competition with the natural agents; this is the travelogue of the quasi-natural pill, careening from tongues to the nano-havens of genomic machinations, peeking and prodding in aimed wander-swirls, lulling and swooshing across and into the topology of the body, morphing states in seductive tease to bare the bones of its chemical construction, hissing in activity; biting and chewing an infection source, a roily metastasis, a perplexing ache, with an aim to relieve, to re-live, to amend and mitigate, a broken body of sorts.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

50 cent alphabets


 
henry.

this is your bone cabaret of the tacky nudes. a garland of orgasm, laced and encased in the lilt of the diffuse humanity plenitude. look at you, holding fists. touching cherry plays. this act of discontinuous sex: an effusion of carnality. man, the sexual being. the wonder king of plague machinations of lies, and mystery. live with son and wife. but i want to play with you. you say, with profuse carelessness. oozing a pale grease of satiety. we can rent rooms through my work. i do my job well -they'll do as i say. to wield this power of the extraordinary deceit perplexity, you vapid liar. so bland in your mesh of imaginations. in this ultra-contracture of inter-work and network, a convoluted brain. the network theory of complexity of this irrational man. lying and vying and pretending, every day, behind a curtain of normalcy. a wax tailor of sorts. a molder of kings and sleeves. the proponent of a tortured entropy. welcome to the threshold of the strings. the chaos theory of dissonance. for all of the misshapen, and the addicts. and the roiling displeasure of your ossified subconscious. you hold hands, as if. as if to charm, to please, to support. to succor. to fuck. to comfort. to play and strum and pump your skin. and knead and feed a hundred gods of space-time bigotry. your love of love, your vying deed. your hate of hate, a second fake. your lust for art. and the composition of dead poets. the chain dolls and vaudevilles. the perplexity of a sensuality. make me wild, and crazed. to lose my self in this grip of an engendered evolution of the dissolving emotionality. my testosterone breath and energy growls. and an inner howl of a non-receeding desire. every day. every second. this reflection of the self-identity on a paradigm scale of weights and stones. let us hold hands, and mesh our works and gelatin and organs. and poetry and art. and pupils of ash. and tremolos of glass. and pill crescent honey songs. the dance of snow flakes. this universe of mesh, this work of piss. anathema of the wanderlust. sing something. play something henry. play.