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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.   
 

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. 

yesterday rush

they pushed you into a rude, paradoxical shuffle. of stares, business bags and paper. timid, you detracted. held the inch of a rusted pole, and slipped in sweat. to rise amidst a beauty man, a live poet, a breast feeder and strip recruits. i saw your face, bellow and rinse, blur and rip in claws of anger, humiliation and worry. a thorn illusion, relentless, in voluble metaphor of disease, handicap and glaze. gazed over, insulted and ridiculed. this is our generous life, of mongering, lying and contentedness. through the curvature of my myopia, i saw your becoming a laughing stock. infused with guilt, helplessness and rigor of a manhattan rush. on the runway of sensation, of the fiscal desirability, of a burnt gamble. in your green shirt and pants, prominent obesity, burnt orange teeth, dry unkempt curls, you shrieked and pushed and screamed with lungs revolving your copper larynx, salt infused in credible anguish, of emotional freeze in a photonic palindrome of your day to day. caressing from behind, your famish nurse. begging to the dead swings, the gelatin heads, and wax models can we breathe? a solitaire rises in a confused befuddlement. pondering in tones, should i stand? for judgment in the face of humanity. surpassed in the erasure of duty and antibiotics. he offers. to which you lunge forward in a disequilibrium, twiddle your skull, pluck your brow, hit three neighbors before you pant, in a sinusoid of rhythms. heaving, with a cringe of restlessness, flinging your wire knuckles, bellowing in pain, missing your milk, dreaming of songs, neurotic and disabled, a social queer, quirky and ashamed, you may be an orphan. bleeding through your careless nose, panicked in fear of abnormal love, what lay ahead of your blue tomorrow, i wish to guess.

of the folklore and mythology of your body metronome, the tick of your circadian imbalanced with the astronomy of your chromosomes. deranged and derailed, misaligned in genotypes, the penetrance of your population, makes me think. do you see me differently? my imagination of your reality is one of a chronological decadence, of a mellowed inferior, of a specific abnormal. to make me think of this alteration, i seek the assistance of hypothesis. to attenuate a chasm. created by the random. the laws of chaos. the clockwork paradox of infinite splice, of a molecular magic infection. i wish you well, levalie. as you sweat and cry, in the rumbling of lights, and colic.

permalink copier post: the criminal 5

oh what it would be like to revolutionize. to turn a wheel along the way to a cultural behemoth, a scandal of the century, a posterity-magnate in a pure magenta hemi-tone. to revolutionize; a thought attraction. a mind revulsion. a biopic convulsion of a timid physiology, struggling and swarming, a malady of bees, a decoration of contra-skeletons bellowing in tapioca dust. what imagination oozes from the septum of your brain pustules? in an absolute theory of the geometry of the optical ballet, in a pale mazurka of cataracts, i am the pediatric pedophile. how heinous of a criminal would i be? bending morals, sleeping, waking up a seminal propaganda of an unfounded fear, of a thought experiment -this child loves child. what a paradox! a peculiar clemency of sexual applause, of a present hum, of a moon toy. when i smile, half-agape, half-denied, you fear my motives. what if, today, i were a feather of urine? what if, today, i were a bullet shell designed from your belly fat? what if, today, i fucked a light fixture, anal-esque, vaudeville and asymmetric? what if, i stabbed a door handle, kissed a sign in fluorescent red, telling me, screaming at my nose, this is the way to exit. at a nearby store, i walked in tonight, with a purple spray bottle, exist. it felt good. i licked my nipples. stimulated, and awake, i ran away to the river top, and swam across a battery of sixteen miles. half-afloat, semi-drowned, semi-erect. i stroked myself, swimming, caressing my fur, fingering my jaws, sucking a water eel, paraplegic and lung-dead. aside, what if i tore your lungs apart and flung it to the moon? 

but i drift away. in apology, i made a rope tonight. with frogs and creme. and christmas lights. and jazz birds. my opera ornaments adorned, i strum a viola string for ninety two minutes. and at the end, i shred the piece in fourteen splits, releasing the violence, the temperate, the revulsive lattice of bone atoms, of the chic effigy, of a pressurized sexual ravish. at the nomenclature of a boy slut, a pediatric whore. because you kissed, held chins, held in parallel the acidity of your pubes, held an acoustic, amplified thrombocyte -a gamete dance, a fertilizability of homo-sexuals. literally, the homo sapiens, the wise man. makes me laugh, the wise man? yet same-sexual disparagement? what wisdom reference the Latin makes, i want to giggle and choke and tear my eyes and cry to understand the damage of the strict Conservative. the disparagement of my atomic cones, my crystal celluloid, in argument and rationing, in reasoning and folly, the paper bulb is my character. burn in resistance of heat coils and epiphenomena, of a daunting task of laughter -the universality of the greek child philosophy and the unanimity of breasts, the curvature of cocks, the pesticidal nipples, the body  aroma of agarose and urea, lilting to the wave pricks of a moon tide, of a sun shriek, of a saturnine bonhomie of the celestial, the mega-scopic macrocosm harnessing an image of infinity in the laterals of my brain. isn't it funny, belaruth, that infinite is a number?

c

spirited and affectionate. exhausted to a point of eyes rumbling, tumbling, blurring and dead. nonsensical. head giving forgiveness. haiku myths. blood bacon and band-aid. and the illustration of the glory fuck. troy trojan elixir. time of the ulysees. the worm glasses. embrace of the plastic sex toy. friend and apparition asleep. manhattan. bed harlem and a note dearest s, love ebk. in the manner of drunk autopsy of cancer pigeons, broken kids and the spew of the typology. reading monuments and thinking of catering, steam and feminism. sounds like a mind whir in the radical of antibiotic war play, resistance, flute and blue-pink. sugar sweat beads on my proportion mind of sleepiness, pretense of lies. i am the chronic hallucinogenic psychedelic morbid sex-child of the queer theorists. of the medicinal equivocal. of the departed lonesome. of the dead seas and clouds, pregnant and ripe. my new catechism of the supra-eternal death cycle, paragon spice of the crack-heads, cocaine and my heroin god. resend the hidden emotionality of checks, cw italics, pepper scarves. a dustbin of consciousness, ridiculous reminiscences of attraction. lie dl, down and under lowliness lones, swan fairies and fantasy on my soprano bees. of the operatic bewilderment and alcoholism...a mid sentence death of meaning of verb, understanding accepting. . .

my neural hypothesis 3

to stumble down a gray, burnt sidewalk. a mild august morning breeze. a gentle drizzle. pitter-patter. fourteen cars race past you, and come to a screech at the bold red. they seem asleep, motors whirring, keys ringing, heads bobbing, eyes blinking, and a pause. the water drops smile and rush to a tar, cold heart stone. the manhattan lights, shimmer and dim. glow and blow, rhythmic, jarring and irrational. coughing, a little. quivering with the smell of fifteen hiccups. a lady staggers past. mid-72, orange hair. eyelashes, red. burnt beige sweater, with a sagging breast. other, invisible. prominent nipples piercing through a woolen wall. you, surrounded by a queer aroma of old age, melancholy and haste. a paternal chastity, and purity of your longing. you look at her, half-rainy, half-foggy and create a broken narrative. as it plays in my mind, every odd micron. microsecond and minute. a woven spool of story times and epithets. of cotton birth and stillness. of a brutal handicap. of a waving miscarriage, awry and demented. of a nervous fortune, of a gentle braid. choreographed in my centennials, my perennials, and dead cellulitis cocoon brain. of an unnatural perturbation of lifeless families, of dead dreams and wring trills, of vanish and hope. of a beseeching diamond pond, bedazzled, glittering. post-sweat syndromes and intrusive fatigue. to break, slowly, under the burden of ideal happiness. to what poetry does your target happiness come to completion? in tears, song, frustration and violence. or a meager solitude of calmness, infused with puppetry. in a narrow, raunchy composure of giving in to the gift, the ultimate composure of success, surfeit, and liberation.  

if only i could be as happy as you. ringing in your blood, an architect of comparison. if only you could love. yourself or your ego? your image or your shrine? your passion or my idea? in composition of the piecemeal destiny, of a relational superlative, to feel defeated under the vision of a parallel narrative of fundamentals. hypothesized in my neural tones, why am i dismissed? of a self, of shroud, of beast and counter-points of an intuitive human algorithm. unmatched and bitter, you contradict the pedestal of a generation of lives, of a panoply of values, of an exposure of your weakness. to hide in fear of vulnerability, to build walls of brick, and machinate a happiness, is to be an independent certain. with the power curative, the self-prescriptive, empowered non-native, this is the reality of your day and night. to live, like a feather doll, is to bend to an uncertain, stoic humility -none of which you deserve, preserve or spill.

dust song

tonight, in the banquet of moons, you consume the parable of chicory and bow-ties. syncopated, and polished, this is a half-cremation, a repression of the feline, of the narrative, of a confidence. to be attacked, mono-syllabic. to be harassed and repressed in a misogyny of verbs, of thoughts of ideas of longings and dreams. of a future, woven and interwoven, scootered hope, crystalline and breakable, this ductility of a futile conversation, this unknown cosmos of beads and pantaloons, i want to scream, sometimes. and love, sometimes. and bleed into a parapet of mediation and checkerboards and hold a doll house, a parafilm, paraffin ribbon. for you to grow up into a willing maturity, is the root of my contention, my hesitation and my lie. to hide in smiles, to bestow a twinkle, a grimace of satisfaction, like a celery scorch, crunch in humiliation of an alter-ego. to rise in an emotional confusion, a psycho-sexual dialogue, a racist diaspora hemmed with negativity and irritation, to unfurl a cat-blossom, burnt and piqued, smiling and sweating, an oriole, an oracle, the orbicular infectious, contagion raging and racing, and swelling in the trickery of peplum, in lace bangles and conifers, in hearts of pale and candle swings, in the touch of a longing fulcrum, modular and hollow.

at the benefit of camphor and a tincture of iodine, simultaneous specula soul searching the vacancy of sand lamps and blood sheets, in my abstraction, in my hallucination, i want to be a silicon dust, polished and shone, stomped and sung, danced and worn, abused, misused, burnt and flamed, gleam in rust, skeletal and green, waxed and wrung, hit and frilled, in swings of tides and cognitive fumes, released in air, afloat abreast, in the agony of a God.  

marilyn M. i wish you, the anti-traditionalist, my real-itarian cement, another birth.

eleanor

eleanor

you sea shell,
bent, tied and wind washed
in a shuffle of widows.

a paper nail, disposable,
transient and impermanent. heaving
like po-hens, peacocks and 
Trilbys, saccharin and mildewed,
spotless and red, like 
a hyphenated blood basin.

eleanor, by the beach bay,
hold sands and wing tides,
sonnets and peculiars of a montage of lies.
an alter-boy, dubiosity,
chagrin of fear, heart pounding and bouncing
every time you breathe, touch and pickle
in a Danish of afternoons.

wind crisp, fake lies,
negatives and love cries, racing
in commodity christ, lace jews,
pathetique and antiquary. in a vernacular
of rose puppets, chirping and burping
with AIDS and drugs, in argument of the war
1984, dairy and miscegenation. 

to undo a false reality, eleanor,
is to melt your foibles in alum, roast and tipple 
in comb sweat, a polish of banes. 
seven tales of moth rings, red songs and communism
lay, perhaps, in your bright fields. 
hopeful and fake, this artificiality. 

camphor rose

to lay down and tell me of your discontentment, took me by surprise. you, almost crying. teary and watery. a little cotton-ish in your pallor. a little befuddled, unhappy, and confused. it has been under five months and three weeks. your eloquence of familiarity, warm like milk, honeydew smooth and supple, made me at home. a glass of crystal, clean fragrance, crisp water and jiggling ice cubes, rattling and whirling by the nightstand. we bend over, smile, and eyeball a vehemence, an intrigue. a remorse through your convexity, a frustration, the concavity. a voice of reason, irrational, illogical, sloshes around your serious hoarseness. of attraction, attention, sincerity and sexuality, you emanate a spectrum of confidence, a plenitude of talent, a facultative tapestry of experience, sleaze and deviance. of the bathhouses, the strip vehicles, the molly coddles, the arm rugs and trickery, of your guiltiness and conscience, slapping and swarming against the injustice of your profession. this is the welcome to your loneliness, your solitude. to which you blurt out and say resentment is like cancer. i latch on to your meaning. to the chasm of your vocabulary, unperturbed. it metastasizes so quickly. of your partner, married with a child, playing hide-and-seek, beck and call of an alcoholic reality. your imbalance quickly settles in, wrought in a shabby cast-iron doubt decadence, creasing and lurking in a medieval reality of law and lawlessness. meeting at a cast bubble, soaped and lubed like your goo dolls, rolling in a wind slime, chiming and gawking, milling and filling holes and bowls of conscience, catholicism and sin.

your passiveness and repentance made me coil and recoil into a dizzied frenzy, feign disappointment and hope. to believe in a rain prayer, to hope in a servile methodical category of sorts, to solve the diaspora of age and kin, to encrust and case your violin life, your Vulcan songs, your tidal vespers, whispers in your neighborhood, in your wifery and upholstery, in binding and unwinding the musicality of your blood kin, refused, abused, deject and defeat in the wake of scrutiny and police. in your metaphor and script, in your life of love and hope of song, i leave your will. your faith in you, brushed, polished, towed and healed in your sliver of tear. in resent, consent, battle peeks, crayon lives and sponge. 

an oddity

the oddity of the civilized human metaphor lies binding to the allegory of our deep, carnal, primal fetishism. in the genetics, the meiotics, the mitotics, the central dogma plagues in the lyric of the eccentricity, string wired and poly labeled into syllables, monotones and monologues. to the shoe dust and urine, a cum-phoretic, electric and sadist, masochistic and the pliable plastic prudish, in the enticement of a searing scorching revolution, plagiarized and canonized, lionized and patented, in shame, fear and embarrassment. to be lured in a conundrum of an absurd desire, to be vulnerable to the explanation of madness, of a creation of a glasshouse, in silk dolls, and horse trills, in the suffocation and invalidation of the paramour of fetishism, its roots and origins unknown, untold, shunned and spun in the lethality of cotton mazurkas. the fan bloom, petrified and chided, scalded and judged in the litany of roars and screams and yells to the un-normality of desire. this desire to differ, drift in the rawness of the liberality of a sexual, morphic amorphous sapiens, clinging to a tome of behaviorisms, punished and reviled for the philiacs of a pediatric, for the maniacal incest, the rapist desirabilities, the paternal, the maternal, or sororal. this is the sex confectionery. the porn bakery. the unconventional community of the blood fraternals, you fetishize a power play, an unexplained surge, a swell of gels, swooshing in concussion and disharmony, of a phonetic disarray, of a broken break, of a chasmic erotic abstraction in practice. this is the theory of dissonance, the paradigm of a cream fetish, in thrust of dirt, in yawns of gore, in filth and stench of a barbaric theater of excrement, passion and bliss. in the genetics of desire, cold and curdled, this game of songs, this melody of sex, this sonnet of wild, pray to a century of judgments, conventions and bricks.