there’s a hand floating this way and that, with a cord wrapped/stretched
longlingly back… and creaky muttering into just wicked magnetic loops and
curls or whatever it is that digitalizes voices and sends them spickling
around the globe… chatter chatter chat. the boodle is so full of nackers.
last night beer was the drug of choice: to honor my friend’s mother’s accomplishment
of 23 (?) years ago. to your mother, I think of saying now, lifting my pint
in my mind’s. there’s talk of hockey which I sit silent; I like the pre-teen
girl screamers, lusting for their hockeyhunks to fight; other sportalk? can’t
recallit, all so similar. oh, and bartender, “cocksucker,” says. referring
mewards? can’t tell. don’t care. bring my pint, you bearded fellow. and he
drops my change in the barpuddle. mayhap doesn’t like my look, my outward
cover, conceals the deepself, those twisted pages of words and words and
words. and everyone’s chattering and there’s loud music, and to be sure
the ears only catch like every third or so. but that’s enough… I think.
and you only ask people to repeat themselves once: it’s so redundant. I tell
my little story. but the boy’s eager to get back to talking. so the story
just loses allsteam and blah blah blah. what a reludicrous…
why, just think: a piece of nutty whatzitwhatzit
why, last night, I fandangoed. last night.. last night… last night…..
tonight there was to be some kind of thing. what it was, I cannot say, for
it hasn’t happened yet. and what it will be I will not know (at least not
Thursday style, october 18 style) ever ever ever ……
try reading Philip K. Dick’s
THE DIVINE INVASION why doncha? I did, and liked it.
give this sweetness
i don’t know, but
it is worthy to be
praised my word what a boisterous
sleep i have
to be sure there is
no remedy for past
sorrow it remains
with me forever
i would not part
with my soft sorrow
for all the joy that
lies in world’s
unknown vapors crash
phantasies and madnesses
which wanders mightily
questions and all
my word-hoard lies useless in its vault
dewdrop painted heaven
so the nighttime
revels dance their stardust moonbeam
spirals in the
once when i was
small & the seaside
shone with life and
bright odors of salt
and sea came bringing
all my sandy wishes
home scuttling crabs
and flopping fish have
become my seashore
time was we’d had
some sorrows lodged
in mind but grief
resolved itself into
quite known before
how to say it? what
in nightly dreams
has made its leave
within my mind
what face a
parlor games charlatan tricks soup?on of
don’t drink the water
neither swim in it
nor bathe or dusk
your flanks in the
but do wrap up your
sighs in boxes packed
away in livid orange
u-haul trucks store
them away all winter
but beware do not
raise the door too
mouldering winterlong in dust and shadow (darkness?) deep secrets have
been growing secrets deep enough & dark enow to burst your heartstrings
as you like on the backs of water- starved fish dry ribs heaving
in the sun por qua, my dour cockle-shell? your dainty bounties are
withering in the wind wipe those quiet tears from off your back—we
have no room for excess baggage (luggage?) piecing together the witnesses
to all the wilted gold in all the windy treasure boxes of the world
i’m sorry there’s nothing more to say when all the birds on earth
are dead try as i might i cannot summon up the courage to whipping
wild fish into fashion while whispering sweet nothings into the
lips of a crocus there is a splendour lurking in the bower eaves
don’t mistake it for malice or a lurking partisan brimful with arrogrance
and spite (despite?) all these paragons are wallowing in their own
fortitude drowning in their own virtue beware the sneaking suspicion
that you are right write down yr. whiskered breaths upon the windowpane
cracked though it is with spiderwebs and time discussing fine wine
***and again**** touch her hair, I wince-think: what if I were to
say hello? if I were to touch her hair? what then? are words so
strange? my mountain of words: who can find a vein of fold?
chirruping I cannot awake and so veiled bindings wrap creep around
my sleeping eyes… even were I to wake they would not call me they
would not see me in blindness I hear nothing this is it: when
I see her sitting there, as though nothing could can slice across
my shallow weak and twittering heart “come you nightmares! dance
a dancedeath with me!” and bright the blade comes quickening fiercing
in the deep and purple night those yellow teeth and blear-red
eyes lurch forward clutching club gob gob, mouth so fast is in
nonsense-denied, these deep claws come clucking- “Must I weep or
laugh or dance? when if, how, must these things come to pass?”
slickly past nightmares come crawling –they hope I am alone- sleeping
in their lurching way fluting me into an unguarded sleep, where
deep blades purple night, killing sweetness or soft colors which
swarmed around “Avaunt” (feeling antediluvian) “you grim and grey
colors, soft and sweet as you are in timely fashion; thin wool tightening
slowly, so soft, about my bulging carotid, Avaunt!” hold me tight
in your embrace, then- sagging now, find you only staunchly staring
cold into the dark these strange patterns gruel shimmer/thrust in
time break your week into pieces slices of harried splendour… [I
don’t know what this means] [anymore than you do] [but I like how
it sounds] [do you?] I walked into the dark shadows of inaugure
these strange crumblings-curled out like cheese or paint till the
grey head droops into a chalice blood-red and stained with garnet
wine dripping drooling beneath his wine-stained elbows, arms- pick
your words at random (so carefully, beware) so that no grave dangers
find your whimpering but
seek wisdom from the dead, if that’s where it lies….
need a book recommendation? try Bruce Sterling’s Zeitgeist!
pinching my nose between two fingers ><
these days have movt to autumn
where have all my summers gone?
when the clericues and damsydoes are spurling in the sun?
do I have the wit and wither to weather some new thing?
does my cluttered <5 weeks! five w@@kends!>
brain have mucho things to bear?
but can it wallow in this new spinning?
so that it bears sticky and fleshly sweeting?
so my mind doesn’t sadsad itself into a sadness…?
but seizing horns (ya ya, I know) is worth…?
until these goligoes…
but now I’m talking nonsense, even more than usual.
If we could try a new way of being? how much could we fit into our new self?
how much could we fit into our portmanteau/neglectful packers?
cheese…. cheese… (can’t keep my brain on a straight track)
like spiderwebs it just mangles new thoughts into scattered ones
when once walked through