Wednesday, November 17, 2010


Come Celestial,

My lips are brown, like heaven is

With dreams to drown, the seven seas


In the old chapel

The cold dorm

The sold apple

The bold storm

Come, celestial,

Be milk for the dust

Be silk for the rust

Be the one eyed night

Be the rawhide fright

Just hold me tight

And forget the wave

And forget the grave

The toothless beggar

The ruthless dagger

Come Celestial

And wait for the hours to decay

For Haddad comes,

And he’s here to stay

It’s not my shame

And I’m the clay

Before the dusk,

I was dust

I wore my mask,

I wore my lust

Children of El

Down they fell

The milk was stale

So come, Celestial, honey and frost

The sand’s too dry

And my eyes too lost

And the distance burns,

With the symmetries

With analogies

With lies and sparks

Which often wear the veil of words

And remains naked otherwise

With the unheard sighs

With the deadbeat dead

With the arrowhead

Forget the skies

Forget the trees

Forget the eyes

Forget the breeze

Forget the days

Forget the nights

Forget the haze

Forget the rites

Celestial…With a million sparks and sparkles and lakes and snakes and valleys and green green green green gangrene…. Colours, lights, sacrifices, photonic interfaces, momentary and nebulous….all electric, all musical, like death in chairs and seated pet skeletons with cords, Tommy-guns and saxophones…. Back dated sketch in the back of some old postcard

War calls. Whispering. Faint.

Painted pains

Of flowers, of skulls, of blue erections,

Through poison, intoxications, mother and the harmony

One moment.

One eternity

One communicative speech

The internet-voice, the mother-voice

The celestial, colder than dead

The coldest is somnambulism

The lunar projectiles

Seeping through dreams, violins, pride,

Eating and shitting, rainbow sunshine clouds mazes

Of our ages, voices, multi-linear choices

Little flickers

Little stickers

Superhood calls

Like cobra-head, cobra-eyes, panther-fear, pantheism for the masses

And unification through microcosms for the classes

New religions,

New wines

New bottles

All new

New new

Like old news

And chewed views

Through handbills, pamphlets, manifestos pointing to olds anew

Anointing the dried-up wounds, monastic, like fire, cold and the mad

Through colloids, hemorrhoids, tabloids, tablets, inventions, intentions and carnations.

Throne. Thrown. Shone. Shown.

All Weird anachronisms

Patterns of freedom through electronic birds….

Blood in my tomb

Flood in my womb

Blood in my skies

Flood in my eyes

Blood in the breath

Flood in the death

Blood for the creatures

Flood for the teachers


Let me enter your silent prayer

In that violet veiled church

With time, dust and layers of care

For the ancient owl to perch

Drowsy daisies, nightbirds, whistles

One drunk sorrow

Two drunk sparrows

Three drunk arrows

Another day

Decadent. Bloom. Exorcise.

Another dead song

Verses to nurse

Curses to curse

And yet another

Again. And never again.

Fits of glorious strangeness

Vanishing hands of speedometers

Distant rumbles,


Humble bitches

For one drop

Gory, agoraphobic

To trust

To fade past

Pasted and wasted

Everything. Watery, symbolic.

Like clocks in synagogues

And peace in sanctuaries

Feverish, like life with shields and swords

Someday, Pandora will be your rival,

Old lovesick moths will creep through

Their little wings shall be mine

All mine






Illustrated pornography

All mine.mine

Until then,


Incessant and innocent, my prayers remain

As true as they were in the cave

Before time and god and earth got chained to this thunder

As true as they were through the wheels

And between eyes, joyrides and joysticks

I remain. Illuminations beckon…. Elusive and illusive

Like bullets

Like a terrible battle

To worship

To bow down before the broken altar

To think of doom

To be

Not to become

Intense, Incensed and Sixpence,

Celestial. Almost like love.

Almost fatalist in fatelessness

Almost like never

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