Sunday, April 28, 2013

peer advocate 2


which is to say..

i am anonymous. another. just another. smoker, passer-by.

clasping cigs, painting. the allure of youth. typeset on my clumps.

look at the geometry of my love crinkled hate.

can you feel, Mulannet, the spiders in my eyes?

i am anonymous. just another. another. molten by the winds. 


foto: juul

Saturday, April 27, 2013

twin fairy

when i saw you at the coffee shop, i forgot to breathe. for a moment. my god, you are beautiful. especially your eyes. and your dark dark blonde hair. and your hair band with the paper rose. purple and flaky. crisp and pressing. i want to touch it. and your ironed peplum at the edge of your crisp gray dress. bordered with black and a gentle creme. black buttons, bold. gold ornaments and a silver skull. rhinestone rings and dangling tassels. little hoops in shades, bouncing against the gentle curves of your shoulders. you are sitting at the table, across from me. talking to who appears to be a close close friend. very understanding, very supple, very gentle and cheery. her hair is red, like her eyes. sipping cups of iced latte. and i can't help but keep staring at your eyes. they are beautiful. they are violet, like the flower on your hair. i want to say, you look sassy, you are staring at me and smiling. you are moving back and forth, your fists clenched, your fingers painted a deep gorgeous crimson. and your shoes, so so beautiful. they are black with pieces of glass in ovals sown. they dazzle against the sun, twinkle in the rain and buzz with fragrance. your head shake gentle. your arms, so smooth. an orange ring. a yellow purse. a mustard toe. if only through the purple of your beauty, you could see the world. perceptible, more than tactile. peppered across your fashion conscience, your apparent insecurity, i wish you could see. your own beauty. with in and with out.

Friday, April 26, 2013

a hymn of the menstruals

in the spring time we sing. lullabies and serenades to bigotry and race. ecstatic, civilized, and coherent. as if it lightens. as if, the weight, the mass, the force of the curious chuckle breathes in your soul. with the blossom of fragrance, with the bloom of the rainbow, with the odor of the christening, the gardening and the tippy-toe, there is a nonpareil enthusiasm of the optimist. maybe, with nature, i can reset the synchrony, the anachronistics. shade and glaze the dullness, the shadow of a mournful painful winter song. the menstrual hymns, the sinister babes, the categorical gravity, seem diffuse. obtuse in angularity, and pregnant. fecund. soulful and blissful. in peril of the winged epitome of a scatter herd of luminous, careless, saint-devils. i revel in the sound of an oxymoron. not the oxymoron in its category. cherish the peculiar analysis of a grapheme, and a syllable. the polysyllabics. the structure of the male grammar. the geometry of the ovaries. the catechism of hormones. the unity of the eye lash. the developments and circularity of an anorexic circuit. the aroma of smiles. the tentacles of eyes. the seams of flies. of hearts, leaves, gin and the elements of the individual. a scripted melodramatic queer, with the ravenous thirst and the spectacular thunder of blood rivers. the fashionist and the materialist are divorced in love. how paradoxical, this allegory of my cityscape. they pray to the wind, and mutter words of misery to the joyous. in competition, vehement. in despondence and recourse, in categories and polyps. it is time to sing. a love song of fidelity. a homily of innocence, of mating and skipping reciprocals. this is how we love, this is how we sleep and this is how we dream in couples of nine.


Thursday, April 25, 2013

androgyny and the shadow #7

in the anatomy of closure, and the politics of recollection, there is a pause. painful and severe. arrested in a phase of rhetoric. a love agency. a tragedy. a latitude of craving. a blurred dissolution of face, and smell, and love, and sex and nomenclature. wrapped and unrolled. unraveled and unfolded. you know, on the needle of your closure, it feels like a prick of supersaturation. in the conditionality of the balance, you will precipitate into a microcosm. or a macrocosm of an emotional debauchery. of un-love. of retreat. and of the immolation of your identical characters. your soul decor and your blood ambiance. you let it sit in a gentle treble. a weird tipping point, living and brewing in denial. may be he thinks? may be not. consider, again? what if? what if, what? what if things were different and we shared a glimpse? what if you didn't know what was wrong, what was incorrect, what was void to begin with? what if you told yourself over and over again. in pleas and remittances of your bloom currencies. of your natural behemoth. of your self-aggrandizing, self-hating? miscegenation of the ebony tides of your dead hues? you feel your tragedy. in your blood. in your pith. in the interiors of your tenderness. in the resolution of the strength tendrils, the curlicues of your dream innocence, the enchantment of illusions, wrap and fold the tragedy of your dreams. in a felling wisp. and feathers.

in the surrealism of craving, in the abstraction of your desires, there is no mind. there is no black, there is no coloration of your dispersive, cold, vulnerabilities. you are the voice of your pain logic. you understand, and you feel. giving up, holding down. a plunge into the deep red pit of imagery and art. begin with the closeness of the fond, the dear, the anxious. the originality of your biology, your nationality of your body language, the voice of your emotions, make you. do not repent, do not escape. do not color this disembodiment of who you are and what you see. of what you love and what you wish. of who you miss and why you cry. and why you lust and crave for life, the hands to hold. in songs untold. piece by piece, in mirth and bliss. and dreams and frills, of the cavernous. the blooded. the soulful man, the soulful gods, the soul-less man, the soul-less gods. the agnosticism of your make-believe. of your trust in faith, and faith in trust. do not lose, the hue of you, in twists and turns and cues and veils of what constructs the meat of i, the perpetrator, the mitigator of creation. 

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

piece #2


silence has made me so very nervous. fidgety. morose. and pensive. a brain-less child of mist and covets. of a dull, syllabic craving of the spectator i long for. what happens as a result of gentle severance, is a glee-less comeback. self-wrapping in explanations. in theories and hypotheses of the possibilities.

it is the problem that has no name. not from the trade-off of the second wave ovaries. a notch parallel of depression and mania. silent, gentle, hushed. a complaint to the self. a repentance to the soul. yourself, unarmed with love. shrouded in fear. and coated in pain. tear drops rolling down, past my nose. against my lips, around my cheeks and on my palm. thinking about yesterday, the day before. the memory of mirth -however temporary. however transient. i do not understand, why this particular pierces me so.

there is a beauty in sadness. observe, your philosophy. an esoteric teleology, maybe even an evolutionary adaptation to the compassion of the kindred? what causes the emotion of melancholy. sometimes personal. sometimes impersonal. personal, always however. your body curls into this emblem of dissolution, an inconsistency beyond rationalization. there is this pressure, this force pulling you inside out, upside down, restless, agitated, distracted. you cannot explain, however. what if there was a pill for erasure of the melancholy? an analgesic, a balm, a potion to vaporize an internal dissonance. parting ways, moving on. leaving trails and swirls of volatile memorabilia. an incontinence of the dream prospect of building a life, of building a branch of the durable. what leads you to dream of an unbecoming future, i do not know. i tell myself. i ask myself. in harmony with the priest who fueled my anger on a sunday night, fourteen years ago. hearing voices, sopranic. cachophonous, in unison and in thirds. in the castle whir of god worshippers, of peace maniacs. of the oppressed and self-deluded. on second bites, fifteen, fourteen count downs. till the very end, a splurge of pricks in glands and ducts of your hidden lachrymal. of your crazed, ovoid egotism and jarred sensibilities, make them crystalline and diaphanous. transparent in its entirety. why do you display such unreasonable cowardice at the prospect of the mismatch? feign, pretend in vain erudition, that you are a master of this ignoble compass -playing with the ballistics of sentimentality. ill-will is not my retort. possible dramatics, possible pondering and tentative muses. hoping and wondering, when does the self unfold, refold and release a pocket of piercing pain?

deserving reprisal, oxo, you are happy, and unhappy. in your crystal globe of the polymath, the polyglot, the self-material dome-seeker. i will re-visit the paralysis of my sentiment. i hope, moving aside. spraying love-potions on my sleep vehicle, dead poetry and art.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

L S Oxo

when you meet a person for the very first time, a person that seems like a fit with your narratives of compatibility, you smile. nervously. coyly. hoping, is everything going well? is it a mutual attraction? does the person feel the same thrill, excitement, jolt, nervousness? the same dramatics of your mind construal, the same imbalance, the same impetus? the same force to grab your fingers or grip your elbows? an emotional arousal -a category of belonging. of conversation and connection. of a founding communication. maybe this is worth a shot? am i going too fast?

in my mind, it is. nervous and hesitant. beseeching and hoping. worrying, even. i hope this works. i really do. and then i continue to look at you. disposing of my predilection to logic and argumentation. bypassing a series of preliminaries and scrutinies. cold judgment, character analysis, aside. i want to live in the moment. looking at you, laughing with you, crying with you. holding you and telling you that there is a beauty in your soul. that i feel a rush of love and lust, by your side and while i am away. thinking about you constantly, uncertainly, rushed. how does this happen after a first encounter? why does this happen? a perilous prospect. because i am still confused about the basicity of my rudimentary entrenchment. an electric capture -how do i let you go? knowing that one of us may be unattainable. may be a formidable challenge to love. gripping my tongue blossoms, my charity woes. any sense of the rationality. genteel and calm. how am i calm when the concept of you, your hazy face, floats in my mind all the time? how am i supposed to sit and rationalize with myself that one of us is less deserving, perhaps? how am i to explain to the bases of my apprehension and coarse melancholy, that it is me, at odds with expectations. how am i to reach a crown sensitivity and not feel like i was pushing and pushing till i over-stepped the limit, because there wasn't the trace of your physical prototype. it all comes down to the physical, doesn't it? and if it is, is that even unnatural?

when you break a heart, remember how it felt when yours was broken.

in loops of logic, in words of the composer, in words of the emotional narcissist, call me what you will. it hurts every time. so very bad, so deep. remember how it feels to ignore? deep, chasmic. remember how it feels to lie? heart-rending. because there is a fickle-sensed man. because there is always another. because you didn't live up? because you didn't grow to that standard of capacity and capability?

how do you tell someone. vaguely. i love you. without saying you do?

Friday, April 12, 2013

wire composition #r50


if everyone's not a beauty, then nobody is. -warhol

drummer boy and the tail chic. a sartorial ecotopia. sensibilities and qualifications of a marginal beauty. how beautiful is beauty? how lovely is love? how lonely is alone? a self. a prospect. i am available. on sale. up for stocks and bidding. the tag human commerce. the green bills not financed without an emotional restitution. without the passover of the grave analogs. a mercury lamp shimmer, crystal cut. quasi-quartz. and chrome-cracking allegory of a dazzle flare. buy me a pair of silver dovetails. honeybee and the mildew chirp and breeze in the cattle nets of spring pools. still on sale. still at war. internal. domestic. body-specific.

to just give me a reason, an explanation for this dirt bargain. for the dead cormorants. for a subservience of the marmoreal. the brittle of a wallow-slough. a splash solitude of the cherry blossoms. an awakening. re-awakening of the poetry verse. your cosmetic gin. your perishable lips. your peculiar appetite for an inner perturbation. crepitation of a beautiful commodity. passaged around. parlored around. painted and smoked, rolled and roiled. tingled silken blood-filled and pressed against the novelty of a self-bargain. a self-i. am i wise enough? and strong enough? and memorable enough? memorable? am i the extra-ordinary? the parallax of the shadow puppets in consumption of the routine. lost in ellipses, with a fresh day and a fresh dusk. memorable disillusionist. a harbor phenomenon of pull-through tide freckles. in your mind, and in my mind, did we replace? exchange in the paganism of a poly-faith dispensability. what if your perceived salience is yet another make-believe. am i special to my self? am i special to your beauty? am i coveting your crown label of composition -in sonnets, and haikus, and verses of smoke? in competence of the minimalist fledgling composite. we will hand tune a personality. a caricature of your simulated brain. a wired difference. step 1. am i beautiful. for me?

 

Saturday, April 6, 2013

red pigeon

little spade, crawling and bending and bleeding from your little brain of paraffin. the architecture of a dew trickle monologue. buttered and smeared in the poetry of your ovaries. in the saccharin of your realism, gore tendencies of a new beginning. a poly starch driven sensuality. drop keeper of spew waves of fluorescent sperms. sensual to the breast, you moan and moan. and groan and squeak, in shrills and screams. in squeaks and gawks. in drapes and beds and kettle lids. so sexual, so snarly, so spectacular. planting parafilm balls. a paresthesia. your cadence of tongue rimming, blood gushing, fist fighting breaths and heaves. and pleasure bones rattling on the precipice of the poly-amorous slut. a marzipan, chest-like will-o-the-wisp fragility. tenderness on your swim beads. your diamond hole plugs. and the tapestry of the facultative. the imaginative. the indefinite. wait who? was this a peasant, longing?