Sunday, September 30, 2012

Empty Clocks

Communiqué from raindrench chronicles
Straight shots to dragoon those damn projectiles
that keep on swirling, fighting every rose and shit
for this being despite everything.

The gods want this fire
And this decay
The gods love us naked

And that’s the history of decimation:
one sorry asshole staring at ants
and contemplating defilement of the sacred pitfalls


This slow suicide
Wraps us tight, like stoned jokers
It’s a burlesque tragedy
The sort that kicks your guts and freezes your balls
The sort that keeps you up all night
And makes your stale presence shrivel up before daybreak

I’m here
Raving alone
Loving and hating this furious solitude
Birds on the seventh-floor cage
Blood on the streets, there’s been a murder here
Turn the knob slowly, peep out
Landlady with nice fat ass
Talking to hungover policemen
Hard-ons by dead telephones
Deaths by fiery rivers
Our love, their love, our shit, their shit
It’s all about fortitude
As devils eat up whores
And insects eat up flowers
Living through this
is as good as dying through this.


Days of pure agony and angst
Nights of fat sultry whores
Free joys of the carnival
The insane and the boldly ribald
Worms on crimson beds
Dogged dogs of dogged lives
Faith and other grotesque images
of acquired normalcy
of assholes giving too much shit
See them making nice warm doodles
With nice warm shit
on the canvas of everything that weighs down
mighty thumb pressing us down like little lost ants
thin folks, almost ghosts, on dark alleys and darker riversides
talking in fluent rhymes, of the disease of colour tv,
and god’s pleasant presence to cushion the truly lost
who’ve got nothing left to lose

this decay is fascinating
this damnation rises in wholesome glory to shatter gods, heavens and thunderbolts
we’re bound to live through this shit
so let us do it in the grand style!


The dick of love is big
The dick of love is strong
The cunt of love is sweet
The cunt of love is smooth
There’s a madman in the gallery
he hides the centuries behind his fingernails
there’s a sailor in the cathedral
he’s very drunk
there’s a prisoner in the apartment
you know his three daughters: Misery Agony and Wretch
there’s a monster at the gates
he’ll be burned in a while
the dick of love is hot
the cunt of love is hungry
o hail to the glorious dick of love
o hail to the motherly cunt of love


Hic and the night goes blind
Hic and bedamn bedamned
Hic and it’s all rage and crap

Hips join hips as asses collide
Free within this doom
Bats getting smashed against sordid castle-walls
Let’s lament for the million splattered bats
As the avenue becomes a snake in fury
And eats us up in perfect wrath

Hic and befuck, bemoan
For what could’ve happened and what has instead.


Brotherlove again in kingly robes
Point me the mountains of gothic gods
And i’ll dig out the treasures for you
And we shall live in love as ever
as giants that kill to live.


Gods who looms large and heavy
Created happy shining people
For cheap thrill
And the people fucked around and created more happy shining people
And then some more
And God was happy and so were the people

But the people were unaware of sinister stuff that lurks
In darkness and pounces on them when the time is right
And god, being pissed at this shocking lack of wisdom
Urinated on them and thus it all ended in perfect chaos


In between my eyes and yours
In between me and not-me
In between sonority and shit
And in between stepping out of greasy bars with loud blinking lights and louder music belted out by flabby sweaty whores and stumbling into brothels teeming with flabbier sweatier whores
there’s this great harmony of the soul flowing out and booming its declaration of victory to the world
that makes all flowers and all shit worth trampling by.


Nice irony of this
Gutted tunes of total insanity
Pointless games
The seriousness of the participants
is worth tonight’s entertainment.

Emotions are just two downs deeper
heavy sloppy masses
more real but not truly real

then again, who the fuck cares?
Join in, sing and dance
Rub dicks against hips
And be happier
It’s good this way,
Each getting entertained
in personal ways
and it’s all polite beyond the cords
and it’s all fake:
even the bonsai rain and the bonsai madness.


A knife from the fluffy jubilant clouds
Like a wolf or a Blake or a Louis Malle-Charlie Parker thingy
A knife ready for the other knife
I’m ready for you, motherfucker!

A knife to dig it in
A push to throw it off
It’s all there
Ghastly, screaming, throbbing:
just an affirmation


Solemn and extreme tip of joy
Like it’ll never happen again
That’s our only chance to tickle the edges of the light
Our only audacity of booming at immortality
despite all flesh.
Something very beautiful and sad, that one dot of pause,
that makes proud flowers out of the truest rebels that never are
and vice versa.
Just bask in that while, that great leakage of the softly soothing, and let every motion and geometry bring you to the same blissful shore and gets you ready to bust the balls of remorse

And i’m not talking of fucking.

Broken automobiles, there’s more sadness left in the world
than this celebratory bit. And it’ll leap on you soon enough
It’s just waiting for a step beyond this cosy cocooned vice,
Waiting for the final laugh
Like the cold Judges and snipers
Like a stern tramcar in sunset
Like a brutal totem god
Like me and the raining solitude

Again, those jingling inter-cranial zones
aiming at the only opportunity of total freedom
like overcast deserts where it rains once in around seven thousand years.
There’s a happy mask for all
And a sad mask for many
And no mask for a chosen few
But no one ever dares unmasking, and no one knows why


Don’t fool around if you can’t feel the thing that’s fucking you in the bad way
this path is not for the fixed and fake sons of bitches
few reaches that fiercely doomed kingdom
and fewer endure to their ways out.
It’s a harsh awful journey and the ones who define sanity and normalcy better stay out or else face the consequences


The terribly terrific stuff
Don’t show up or throw it around all the while
It’s comfortable leaving explanations to god for some
And for the rest who can’t seem to reconcile
Ought to be brave enough to bear
Old lady with grocery bag passes by again
It’s been the second time 
She has false teeth and she appears to have flatulence


This is how the disease creeps along
To observe this process with absolute objectivity is fascinating.
Little joining cords start getting shape
And the dazedly dead ones resign first
While the ones that throb keep on fighting till the throbs stop
And then the gruesome silence
And then the complete death.
And even the ghosts get too stunned to dance.


Four Heroes guard the corners of doomland:
Hero of strength, much desired
Hero of these blankshot hours
Hero of the hotrod fight
Hero that’ll slay the sharks
As soldiers mortified in hostile posters start getting to everything
As we dream of the cleansing of the essence through meticulous absolution of the putrefied
What grand shit!
I’d rather sit outside and have fun.


Wednesday, September 26, 2012


Stare on, guru,
through potface television sets that preach of being and shit
and burping radios waiting to be struck to endless silence
it’s all useless anyway
do whatever,
stare at me staring at the great blank rainbow beyond
pretty girls and their stockings that roll up to perfect asses  
and stare at my dreary solitude talking to me,
tending to me, giving me food and love
when nothing or no one else does
do whatever,
I’m not carrying this somber tapestry with me wherever I go   
and i’m not gunning the moon down until I find it necessary to.

Damned skeletons, won’t they beg for mercy?
Strong tall elevations for people to speak from
Rotten stupid people unaware of their rot and stupidity,
Parroting one another
Eating in cold places,
Drinking in soft places
Fornicating in mindless fuck
Needing their toys, high places and absurd conflicts
Needing their fake prophets, their illusory maps
And other similar shit
And they won’t ask about the iron and puppets anymore
This waste is shameful.
And the damned skeletons will take on new shines and roll down
the bitter naked roads without complaining.   

A dry old man at a moonshine joint had once told me that it’s all shit
He must’ve got it pretty tight
I was busy shaking mosquitoes off my hairy legs
And stuff in general were caving in like they always do.

Those damn pillars shooting up from the burning deeps to hold the sky
can’t keep it from rotting
trains sprint through storms
snakes and worms crawl to the fond core
demons boom laughter at pale places of oblivion
a half of this craze goes to all of these
and the rest half to the stupendous inanity.


It’s just the thick white cloud pleasing the throbs
And that’s pretty much it
The rest is all about bluebirds sending doodles to pink baboons.

Thunderbolts roll down channels like massive cannonshots that jolt us to dread
and words and spaces trying to wrap up thoughts
and codes blocking the grand highways of pure laughter
and heavy gods sharing wisdom with the heavy judges
and red-eyed shocks of heavenly destruction that tremble the sundown
and the lonely and the lost and the bizarre stuffed in moral guiltshit cages: they’re
mad as hell and they’re roaring at this disgrace and defeat as those swarms of asinine assholes out there celebrate attainment, the rising and other false notions of security.
People are so weak that they can’t think beyond pacts, resolutions, contracts and acceptance
and I’m bored.

A flower with guts
by tramways
revolting against sunshine
through the film of piss
gives a bit

a petticoat
with dark sweet memories
hanging down sad ropes
of lost mansions
takes it all away.

In the beginning there was the cunt and the cock
And fires were lit and funs were funned
And rains were rained and pushes were pushed
Then came boredom,
And then came the decay
And things are pretty much stuck now
The fires are dimming out
And the rain is drying up
And when it’ll all get knocked cold by this growing monotony
A sneezing clown and a fleshless whore
will be all that’s be left of these.


Dotting the i-s
Sitting by the brilliant riverside muck
Strange talks of the strangely damned
Stubborn temples flashing tiny kindness
Silence screaming out from cold ancient forests
Folks pressed to vapid darks
Children lost in stone-eyed wombs
Forms dissolving without notice
Ghosts leading the way to stations
Kingmen seeking submission through steely fright
Monstrous buses bending in terrible orderly motion
The poison goes beyond the realms of rain
And too deep for any damn pain

The last man left on earth will need beer
And the last woman, sanity
The last man will miss being hated and the last woman being loved
The last fish left on earth will be as coldly dumb as all the other ones
I’ve walked a long way today through empty trees by empty roads
Fishes sleep, cocooned by tender watery love

Clocks squeezing heartpulp like raging palms on bloodsmudge cherry ass
0s and 1s circling each other to create makebelieve roads and bridges
Fake whores of fake brothels of fake towns tie us to fake fleshes
All we are forced to see and do is there to hide the ancient fires
that haunt us in vague recollections of dreams and awakening
armors to resist the chromosomes
to thump them to capitulation
to keep stuff from falling through because falling won’t suit much purpose
there’s a lake and there’s no map to that
the real roads and bridges have been burned
long ago
and now, for this wait,
in despair
for the gruesome payback
as clockhands clamp the heart tied to blinding flashes of falsity.

Tongue searching for the furthest treasures sphincter like soul searches for essential eternity
Profound breasts and asscheeks weighing the world in fleshly weight
Sweat oozing out of human pores like ants from a kicked mound
Things grow stale inside polytone polychrome packages
To see through this ploy is to know the glory of purest insanity
It’s raining in the Milky Way
Camels of dogged love trudge through this festivity searching for the roots
Tongue searches for furthest treasures sphincter
Soul searches for essential eternity.

Solitude like madhouse Madrigals eating core out and soon it’s all hollow in daze
Just a circle and me standing inside
This constant fadeout of ringside faces like a train dotting away in fog beats down like frozen rain on rundown factories
Cat leaps on broken glass
Sun leaps on moon
Love leaps on hatred
It’s all getting darker
It’s all a tragedy of fools.

The bull’s there to charge at guts with the raging wisdom of gods
And I’m here thinking of flowers that wilt in sadness so great that the world’s silence drips down bust beercans and somberly throbbing citadels.
These are the lonely times when I make love to those Muses of intense dreams with sincere grotesque curves and fire from hell in their meat   
It’s all bullshit and I know that.

Get lost, fucker
I’ve sold the rulebook
But I’m not selling this resilience

Little lost child,
When you grow up and grow strong enough to conquer this splendid kingdom,
promise me that you’ll let me dig up all its hidden treasures.
Or else I won’t show you how to cross the river
And I won’t tell you where the chipmunk ghosts go when it rains past midnight.

Locomotive-beat toil
Rugged harmony, greased machine-ass
Piper stops to piss
Snake stops to fix aim
soft tissues shredded by iron wolf-teeth
sturdy tissues holding fort
Head heading for Valhalla
Harpies heading for Heart
Much fun preparing for false victory
in the real battlefield
till we get to know of the void
and understand that we’ve been fucked for good.
And then we rise to kill.

The undoing of shit
is for the grand ones who don’t exist
Fools search for the purified essence of conditions
and die in misery of mortification and loveless pestilence
like the rest of us –
mortgaging affirmations,
whoring out freedom,
dangling situations and blatant genitalia
The best one can do is take this silent night
and hump it with regal brutality.


Monday, September 24, 2012

Flowers, Food and the Bestial Heart

Naked, like bust roses in hailstorm,
Tiger pounces on walls, dragging heart of the world through
The asscrack of this damndest staleness and blank estrangement
As fatal soldiers stand weary of the puppets of pure desire in seamless agony
The positioning of this form, through grasses and shapes, through
Shoulders and gleaned illuminations, decay of the city, ribald wilderness
Lacklove loacklaw, this raw heart in furor,
Hunter-hero, guilt awash in blood for the crude strong gods
Bestial dogged hours, sturdy brutal wails across windows as shadows and structures of hateful reckoning and strength rove through the ancience of a city in rot, a declaration of endurance jutting out like rusted nails of the mind of angelic coitus of serpents

Dust and mud, screams of the purest gamblers, hurts flushed down shitpot of heart in beerdunked prosthesis of all that’s dead and down, frozen eyes and corpses of the paragons of all that’s dead and down, rain beating down the throbbing tombs of all that’s dead and down. Put out the lights, turn the music down, kill the gods, kill the whores. It’s time for the vultures now. It’s the purest hour of submission. A trumpet for the rodents of decayed epiphany, a thump for the clocks. Cats leap on clocks. Local newsflash, genitalia of the current times waving for truce. Current times are small. Big temples with big altars of big gods trapped in photographs pasted between dogs and dead grandmother saved with acute pornography aligned to the tapestry of alienation of the others and the mothers of the others in moonlight tunelight blazing tunnels; dim primitive conditions of cognition and recognition. This form is pure desire. Love breaks through. Blue flies splatter against panes, guts splatter against bloodred walls of sacrifice. Ignite, Uproot, Shatter.

Slithering through the channels of neural time, the cold frozen cave, the speck of fleshly tremor, the calculated trauma, the usurped rhibozomic thrones, the falsity of resurrection, the gruesome massacre of wants through the three sisters of Abundance, Availability and the most fatal one: Necessity, who guard the furious zones of silence inside and outside, smoking tombs of the incarnate and the blasted corridors that lead to the thick pleasures of amnesia, bloodless armies of deathpale mothers smelling of bitter rot, bitter wax, wormshit inside flesh, wormpuke between skulls, molten décor of the shrines snatched from the jaws of the wolf howling across the badlands inside, grinning at the waste, grinning at this syphilis; turgid cocksuckers of embalmed prisons, monasteries, madhouses, brothels, barracks, slums and factories gloomy snow trickling through all dimensions of time space and mortality
the fakeness of it all,
versus the realness of me, enduring.

Between the heaving boobs of fatigue and nightmare
Between the asscheeks of putrid senescence
Between trashcans of sordid trance and perverted dirges and luminous meatlust
Blight breaks through walls, this carnival of free damnation,
Our homes in our domes, forever till we feel
There’s a door leading ashore
There’s a boar screwing a whore
Follow the light the blinding plague buses run through nerves and blood vessels like medieval knights wiping their brows after the grand rape, stars sweating in nervous bundles, mutation for owned land and cellular beings, ground between God and Time cowering to atrophy and ashes, ranting bluebirds and rabid dogs foaming up the Vision, dulling up the boundaries, dashing down the great sturdy resistance in terrific rage of the oldest God finally awake and finally dead.    

There’s an actor who floats in moonlight and goes everywhere leaving a trail of lossless defeat
See him hunched in the private loo of angels thinking of lightcool haze, staring at pink lipstick stains on bluecool walls, putting his finger against the smoothcool tiles, sobbing for his nine million doped children. Soon he’ll be on his couch, raving through the lifeless blues, copulating with the insatiate machines that deck the wanton dolls of civilized mayhem, aiming for the barbaric thunderroll: a world of his own, a world wrapped in sweat semen and eternity. This actor is habituated to the numbness of hate, and he seeks company of the durable bastards of ravage and decimation. He is a fool. Let us kill him.

Creating true literature is always like shitting strong smelly shit. It’s an affirmation of the heartbeat-boom. And you do it well only when it’s the only thing you can and you must, when nothing else will or can happen. And more often than not, it’s a product of anger, boredom and bitterly terrible sorrow. I walked out of office and dived straight into the whorehouse. It was a sweaty mad night.

Geometry, sharp edges and smooth surfaces. It’s nice to be a reptile among this decay and defeat of life. At least I’ll still be capable of movement without external impetus or stimuli. And thus the circle of all that’s free keeps on getting smaller. And the wolves keep on drawing closer. And waiting for the fire to be dead.

Mortally stupefied, like dead flowers on dead crucifixes. And suddenly this whole conspiracy to make us cheat on the void and thus to cheat us into utter submission makes no sense. This rage and fear and hatred and sadness: it’s all shit. It’s there to cover the ugly endless holes: the cowardice of mirrors and bells and solitude, of this denial of void that regularity of symmetry that conception orderly chaos through this conception of chaotic order. This game of hurting and being hurt
is stupid.
There isn’t much time or love left in this world now.

The knife was mine since when it all begun.
The knife’s still mine and that’s the way it shall be.
And when it all ends I won’t need it anyway.

We spend our entire lives peeing on living. And one fine morning, “poof!” and it’s all over. And there’s no life left to pee on. Hang in there, tender lady. Stick on for the little odd glints of life. If they're to come, they will, or else they won't. I’m here. And so are the piranhas. And I’m here and they’re there and you’re aching for gold and I’m aching for the tombs and meanwhile, knives pierce through the oblivion and there might be much blood or there might be a little. And of course the primeval barter system to maintain the economy. Our lives for their lives, our dreams for their dreams, our gruesome perdition for their endless plenitude. Hang in. It’s all good, it’s all the way it is.

 A drink from the cup of bionic soup. A drink from the cup of blood. A drink from the bottle of pure love.  Like jokers and harlots from medieval carnivals we wander across the skeleton streets of deadland, stretching like an ambidextrous, demonic flood of darkness from the horizon to eternity. Father stares down. Fire from the eyes and steel from the fist, streams of thought memory evolution impulses floats rockets of wet sorrow into the dryness, musing of untainted severe doom and smoking sphincter and grave judges swirl of smoke, coiling into the pingpong heart of darkness with the pinch of chemical juggling and the dancing of triggers like screeching hooting sharp ghouls emitting fumes of red and brown and the black from all porous caves orifices and apertures.  The Father is very angry. Won’t you cover his harsh with your supple soothing soil, Mother?  
Won’t you tell tales of tender love, Mother? Won’t you show me fertile dreams, Mother? Won’t you draw me closer to your calm watery darkness, Mother?

Sudden photographs and recollections of glimpses
that sparked through these edges, a fantastic carpet,
something deep and tender and well-protected, almost like sadness, but better, something preserved sincerely. All for the early worship. All for the lions that roar from heavy dens, the red glow in the forest, the droning dark from the caves.  

Recoil, get steady for the next attack. The next set will swipe down soon. Dark shapes gather around
the river. And still statues observe us with perfect objectivity of the long dead. And we observe the statues with perfect impulses and tremors of the dying. It’s a tight world. Those dark shapes keep on getting bigger. Buses and houses keep on looming larger. All in perfect silence.  

Cold, all the frenzied fireswipes. Benumbed, those damned chemicals and channels of electricity and gatepasses to the shrieking void inside. It’s not shrieking anymore. Clocks cocks and algorithm bombed down. Music and laughter all in serene purest joy. That’s the only time to truly forget about the urges, pangs and all other collateral hazards of being here. And the pain goes away and the snakes dissolve and pictures of sadness fade out for a while. Burn with me and you’ll get to know.   

Meat and milk for the soldiers.
Poison for the roots.
Umbrellas for the ghosts in rain.


Saturday, September 22, 2012

Thursday, September 20, 2012

On Fishes that Glow When Sad

Pink flesh sticking to my heart of iron balls
Pink flesh sundown, pink flesh extermination pink flesh abject in the blinking bizarre
Pink flesh of the purge, cold minds choked souls, my friend, my single eternity
As hours leap on seconds, pink flesh leaps on the clock
It’ll all fight for me, and I stay the huge sad slow sticky mass
staring into that convoluted twilight

Snakepuke on the moon
I left my spring behind on the mountains I guess I’m not sure
Snakepuke on the moon
I sing to you
Your teeth are nice and shiny
Give love

From room,
ants gather round dried cum on bedsheet
goblins around my head
sad joker of dreams
masculine motions, tiger-sturdy zones
silent Buddha zones
decadent zones
resurrected shit

from room again,
view fades, blink blank blur blear
splendid legs, splendid ass, moonlit desert,
highway shoulderblades spiral mist
spinal gaze
the house of Atreus


Spots a little yellow in the red

I feel like a little girl, lost.


Nudecat, walk the alleys fight the hours down
Splendid nudecat in perfect guile
As inamorata shines down trashcans
And silver sings in perfect hue
Soft iron wings, launch Icarus
Citrus punch, decay punch
Limelight in the warring furs
Tolerate me, tolerate the dying and the long dead
Nudecat, nudecat, I’ll die one day
Punch the tremors down
In pristine puissance ah
World wraps in soft cocoon
Nudecat works way
through the lightpulp core.

Citylight moving backbound shoving down the ass of doom
Winding empires modern songs oh the champ how he goes look
There’s a temple in my head
It’s very dark and all its priests are dead
Falter by the altar, baby bird
It won’t rain for a thousand years
The big tragedy of the world
The big love of the world
Excreting angel-shit, excreting angel-love
Dig through the cave will must dig deep
Till you’re bored and dead
Citylight marching forth again,
Smokey cockroach-limbs, million oars to draw
Closer to that goddess of appalling rage
Who puts your soul in a cage
Who drags you down to her flesh
Blue boats on frozen lakes
Whatever it takes, fucker,
Whatever hell it takes.


Cindy windy tinkling tone
Where be thou
When the wind begone?

Before jumping out of this
Before dangling dick civilia cocophany cockophany
Men usually seek sustenance from women
Don’t know the story
Don’t know the compass sneer
Little registers of purity and urge
Fresh love fresh shit makes the mind happy aglow summerbum winter’s broken lute heart’s broken spine
Barbaric ecstasy comes easy, beer comes cheep or they ideally should
Like Olympian heroes greasing the guts of this brutish thump 
Tales of love sex and rape, tales of hatred and cauliflowers
One picture, big picture, upside down
I get the cogs I get the wheels
I get the postcards with naked flowers and naked women
Moderation by assholes democracy by piranhas Thanatos by the great white swan and the great black knife. lonely cow, big tits. Bad weather, pink umbrella.

One fine morning I walked into limbo
Where I met this boobey bimbo
whom I knew I had to screw
So I did her tight and I did her through

But the nasty wolves that guard that zone
Pounced on me when I was alone
I ran for my life and I ran so fast
that the heart went down and the balls went bust

And now I’m here bloodfuckdamn!
They broke my walls so yours I spam
as I stand on this weary road
reeling under motherload

But I’ll go there again for further fun
This time ‘round with a machine gun.
I’ll be strong and I’ll be tall
I’ll kill them one and I’ll kill them all.


I wouldn’t wipe my ass with poetry
And yet everything
just keeps on getting darker
it’s like from inside this dank cave or cathedral or heroon
i hinge my thoughts on your mind’s thighs
the mind’s cold and gray, like all sacred places of religion and death
the heart’s big sad child, suffering from unwanted gigantism
the body’s in decay, wrapped in civilizing marks
sadness never thumps like a torpedo
it rambles down slowly like a cloudy mountain so huge that no one’s ever seen one like that before
it’s sundown in this world of herons and Neptune-kisses
little electric dots ditty the world in plural  haze
roots the sun the moon and miners go down


Once again, back to the tiger
Mind in white glow
Death Mama of richest flesh
Death Mama of silver gleam
Death Mama of honeyed sweat
Death Mama of the real pure
Death Mama with the snake
Hooding up from her navel
Silk body milk-meat through climes of strange paradise
The dark tender succor and a tiny red flint deep down below
which the world of splendid Angels with revolves around
I see them. Tiny rickshaws with wings, balloons of the heart,
Senile trams coughing primal shiver, houses and little monsters
Shops and the honeybees,
Sliding down into the speck
As rain turns dust into mud
Death Mama, with curves of the Universe
Kiss me into that hazy benign forgetting of blood and tissues. 

Decay of puppets, as the Jokers say,
is good for the harmony of senses
Counterfeit membranes pill up, covering the deep boom throb
Simplify the terms
Kill the whores
Keep their children
And let the big thing lie
like a whale, trembling raw
on a great white shore.
The idea is always to endure
Else we lose all fun.

Write to me
Send me a picture of love

Remember the drowning tigers
And their shadows finding us
Naked like the flesh
Steel blades sparkling like Gothic foreboding
My castle by the roof
Howls over the ancient sea
Barbeque appositions
Is the minstrel beastly dead?
Did Homer roar in the pines or was it Whitman?
or were both of them inside that ghastly ancience
as masters say?
Pull the car over
see your naked mind brisling in sunshine
to be the bull in massive fury of your dreamy nightmares
and stay within that eternity for never.

Don’t kill the freedom, boys
There’s no poetry without that.
Don’t kill the fun, boys
There’s bloody nothing without that.


Lion’s roar the moon’s a whore the world’s a bore I sail ashore
Roses are red the heart is dead tailor-made like I said
Lighting struck the fuzzyduck that quacked you luck from the muck
Pigeons coo, the love is blue, it’s all true and I am through.

Bent, slithering along the cold rough surface
Little glowing tricklettes of shiny arctic red
The rules have changed and there’s none to hate or love
Tacit empires nekton buffs placid shapes
Frozen gods of gold and love
Frozen spirals coiling out
from the vulva of love
Blue wines for Egyptian princesses
The bizarre droning of binary
sits tight on frontal lobe 
like the oldest bird that knows it all, and says nothing,
and stares
pressing the fond cells down in electra storm
storming fortresses of the terribly doomed antique
forests burn in cold sonata
and those icy sheets covering heart and mind
but the soul is older than this.
And pured to that static neutral extreme.   
The soul sings aloud from great white peaks of severe glory

Weep for what is lost and will never be
Weep for the honey and sting, weep for the rundown cars for the faceless bells weep for the gods weep for the coolly dead ponies weep for this blank living and that still dying.
Weep for the mother and her flesh
The Sybil has been banished, the clocks have been busted, Arthur and his knights have been sitting there forever,
Buses run slow in mourning and cats kill themselves over mice
There’s a great blob of sorrow spinning around, spitting sadness all over our faces as we live eat fuck and shit.   Weep for the stoned gods of silence, weep for their silence, weep for this inevitability weep for that thirst, weep for the bridges on fire and for the Sphinx, weep for what was once the spectral wholesome holy in the far shadow of this mind in rot as the great Emperor of madness and laughter fades away weary sun slumps down flowers wilt and birds return to tender doleful nests.    

the conspiracy of these maroon hours
stuff and matter and form dancing with things that shine and things that don’t
lost ones gather in the alley
and march to the hidden valley
to form an army and mangle the balls of time
and when it’s all over
the squirrel lies beastly flattened by the world’s weight with guts and blood splattered in a ferocious silent mass on the smooth avenue of love
Let us ride down it before that happens.
Let us make dark love in the primal backwoods.
Let us rise to brutal bigness.



Monday, September 17, 2012

Ballad of the Bleak Flowers

Raving child, mad child, i still think of you
at the saddest corner of your house
stooping before your semi-defunct computer
with eyes that make hearts gulp tender winesoaked cherries down
seeking cocoon in those tiny pieces that shone through the gloom
Times with you were like still cloudy nights
And i was there, a feckless prince, or maybe a jester hurt to hush:
wondering what to do with you and the conception of you.
None of us had much to give, but we gave all we could
and some more.
You were waiting for that train that would take you to dreamy places
I don’t know what i was waiting for.


Little posters and other bright sparks
I’ve been betting on them for a while now.
Mesmer, i stand to endure,
Ancient ghostly shadows cover the brain
This stupor: has hugged me from inside like roots that you see spreading and don’t do much to prevent because you’re clueless
the burning dot of red deep inside the frozen realms:
It’s our only hope.

Look where we stand
It’s all fake: caravans, cities, rain
False erotic electricity shining on our manicured brains
Degeneration of the soul: it takes years
Until hatred becomes the easiest of all emotions
And much more ready and real, like real knives boring real guts
And need-based constructs masquerade as love.
The tiger must be saved, boys,
there’s no other way to it


Throbbing cocks and juicy cunts
Oblivion and death have little to do with this
Or maybe, they’ve a lot.
It’s a very disturbing world where the economy and the production system and binary codes
and buses and trams and shops and geometry
and religions and conscience and shitting sparrows and bombed villages and lost tribes and doleful dirges and breached pacts and senile flatulence and concepts of ambrosial epiphany in dreams of kissing sonnets and old men pissing their intellect out and young men pissing their emptiness out
Are given more credence than
throbbing cocks and juicy cunts.


Love-meat, always the raw ones that draw in, sabre-blades,
Love-meat, lean-meat, tender-meat,
Love-meat, big, boom blatant meat strong and sturdy to weather death and choices

Love-juice, from the fleshy fountain, and then it’s time
For the clock
The laptop
And the doorknob


Rage for the want of slender blushing virgins
Rage for the lack of all that’s real
Rage for the city and the nation in gross platitude
Rage for the drowning islands of dream
Rage for the death of Christmas Trees
Rage for the absence of tears
Rage for the presence of the vultures and the shark
Rage for the maltreatment of living
Rage for the neutrality of dying
Rage for the starving monsters, the dying heroes
Rage for the murder of grotesque fun
Rage for the sword, the fist and the flower
Rage for the ignored seamen
Rage for the doctrinaire prisons
Rage for the incomplete blowjob
Rage for the compulsion to choose
Rage for the necessity to kill
Rage for the deified vanguards of sanity
Rage for the half measures and lies
Rage for the bullet-holes on petals & skulls
Rage for the necessity of contracts
Rage for the tiring dementia
Rage for the numbing chill
Rage for the silence of the Gods
Rage for the blasphemy of religions
Rage for the falsity of love
Rage for the ease of hatred
Rage for the brutality of demons
Rage for the soldiers of doom
Rage for the massacre of pink
Rage for the depletion of wisdom
Rage for the ignorance of Judges
Rage for the sunlight lost in mist
Rage for the solitude of mountains
Rage for the blatant declarations of mortality
Rage for the defilement of the valley of flesh
Rage for the veneration of pointless constructs
Rage for the deconstruction of the rose
Rage for the ghosts that knock at midnight demanding food.
Rage for the conditioning of symphonies
Rage for all that was to be but didn’t
Rage for the almost perfect joy of Porphyria’s lover
Rage for the almost perfect sin of Oedipus and Jocasta
Rage for the almost perfect reckoning of Raskolnikov
Rage for the perfect harmony of chaos
Rage for the need to fight this decay
Rage for the blue shapes confronting me now
Rage for the skies dumping cosmic shit on me
Rage for these bleeding bastard words fighting all of these
Rage for me being sold to the wolves before I would ever know.


Brother Love, in boisterous shine by sunsoaked beaches
Penchant and its rainbow hued glamour
Has departed the city, like gods streaming out of moments and cavities
In terrible exodus, this pursuit of the real, this burnout of the self
A glowing speck of warmth deep down sinister alleys and dark caves
Was all we needed, Brother Love,
And all glory of heaven and hell were to be ours

In this dark room i sit static and think of you, faraway from these fumes
Out in the new, clear dash of blazing light, brazen asphalt, temples of gold
Flowers fall in blood,
The perception of malice: it’s still there, stinging venom in me
Navigating through the choked channels of fury
I think of you
Days and nights of the Universe spin around my axis in buzzing spirals
New Dream evolves.

Brother Love, I am but a thirsted shadow of your flesh.
I will fight for the sun one day.


Just lying down and staring
Thinking of lost invitations and of the gigantic spider spreading all over
We’re wasting the clocks,
What a shame!
This acceptance and the need for it: it’s all bullshit
And we know it. Moments of lucid reckoning
The hour of the kingfisher
Mourning for all seamen lost in forgetful mires and faraway climes of memory
Wish time had a memory of its own and didn’t have to depend on me to be here
Wish there was something absolute, something so pure that i won’t be ashamed of my guilt before it.
Fatality of the senses wearing themselves out through throbs and the rush
Rain’s older than life on earth and that’s hardly a solace
My oldest ancestor was around one by forty odd trillionth my size and i’m still bearing his cross because i wasn’t given any choice. And that’s reason enough to rebel.
This fond heart is sadder than butterflies lost in kisses of dreamy wilderness. And that’s reason enough to mourn.


A feel of the binary
One sturdy bull
Staring from distant cliff
At crumpled soul

A feel of death
The king and his sword
Steel-blade, ancient breeze blowing
Neural haze.

A feel of terror
Robots, clashing
Icarus, you asshole!
Silent, save the damning noises
from inside
affirming life
affirming death.


bluntly throbbing vessels
organised chaos triggering storm through electric cellular pathways
primal scars within the Ribonucleic festoon blocking pathways to eternity
and it is on hours of perfect darkness like this that i rise to endure:
damned, barbaric, wholesome,
phallus in hand, challenging the gods and demons of this brutally serene night.


Fingers that touch petals, touch my pure body
Frog leaps out, lost dogs in heat,
Leaving the dearest domes,
Distressed songs from gutters of love
Purest dreams lost in this senile haze of sapphire
Wilted roses ask me about the condition of my soul
This chiming grief of bells
This inert turpitude of rot
This relentless subversion, sabotage, occlusion
This totemic monstrosity: it’s getting to me.

Beside the sweet secret waterfall
Lies the altar
Where i kneel and cry

i have wrapped the tender core with sturdy iron sheets
i need you, now.


Poetry is that bastard child of void
It’s just what we make of it
And nothing more
And nothing less.

Poetry is practical bullshit
It’s the writing that matters
Writing, for me,
is waiting for the decay, unforgiving
to have its final say
You decide what it’s to be for you.


I’d lost my way home in dark swamps
A few thousand years back
And by the time i found it back
It’s a blasted city
Teeming with loveless women, clueless men
and heedless machines
to live in some midnight lore
or to die in some moonlit roar
would’ve been better than this


To die in your arms tonight
as the motherless rain lashes against the window
and frogs croak themselves hoarse for want of love
to forget all about this prison, this damning curse of being
to be free within this doom
and listen to the daring footsteps of eternity
as gruesome storms attack this room with the frenzy of drunken monsters
to think of sailors lost in miasma, soldiers lost in truant passes    
of time, death and the unwound infinite
and death wearing a dead child’s mask
and the good naked earth learning motions of perfect geometry
through the reptile-crawl, rabbit-run, tiger-leap
and other dark timid secrets

The thought
of dying in your arms tonight
would make me live through countless moments within flame
there’s no bereavement in this,
grief runs soft like sad words spoken in flatbottomed whispers
this sweet candour of love
is all we need to banish our hearts to bleak zones of silence

you’re not here tonight
you won’t be here ever again
i won’t weep for you
i won’t write to you telling how much i need you
i won’t tear these walls down in severe wrath
i’ll light a cigarette and stare outside the windows
and do nothing and think of nothing
until i get bored of this cold, blank apathy.


The stonewalling of morbidity
Takes a lot
And gives a little
When the gods departed
They took it all away
It’s like listening to the stuttering automobile engines
Choking themselves in grime and entropy
And gaining strength through defeats
Only to lose it all in the next victory
Tracks represent absorption of desire
Labyrinths move down to unspeakable depths
Sisyphus turning anger into insane ecstasy
Takes us closer to fake freedom.
It’s easier to push the knife deeper
Than to crawl inside the wormed womb
of wants, to accept depravity as a part
of the natural process and to decode the unlearning program.


Sunday, September 16, 2012

Discovery of the Dandelion

Primord elongus mute zone. Blue, blink,. Torn that at, box In box, vanilla.
In visions of gold
And back to the tiger again, he-father, she-mother. Cold, but dots a splash of life in shadows,
In realms
In between the blue pearls of dead
Sweet joy of the savage
Sweet joy of the rotten and decanted, the.
In very occlude precision
Faint flames of the yore
Busses of ghosts and cunts
Marching on, forgive the hell
 And shades and shapes of the black lizards
Just a few clichéd terms
And the moon will be hours
Yes, o yes I speak of the carnival joy
Conniving honey-scented bees bedamned
Sway, little doll
Sway a while by
But where’s the sharp bite and, fuck!
All the demented and doomed
Stare out from the café
And see
Something I won’t conjure up
And yet be close the doors and befuck with the light!

Onno this discord and mutiny inside
Flesh sugar grab moonlight starsong
To keep the buzzing fleas off burning red flesh
That fire, is , jubilation
Within corpus juris corpus christi corpus luteum
Feels the joy in whistling them away
And letting be what would not be
Oars and the camerashoes
How we take
The mountain
In dacoitsong go back,
regress, inside brain, neurons, cells that spark
Conscious of self as a soul/sole
Tumble me down
To severe ugly darks
And so children gather around the wise old mask
And hear about the body and death.
That’s the valley
Of wrathful rivers
Rivers reverse the rehearse off my stage you mothrfucjer!
Off my stage I say, Oedipal in delight of the own
I say and I rise
Like snake jutting up to kiss the light
That’s light of cold pale places, freeze-up, a while
Of me getting a hunchback
O know. Who has condemned! Or am I a puppet too?
The question made me push the blanks
That I feared and now I won’t
Damn, it shrinks
Seems like glue piling up
And gather sad effects of entirety through reflective decoders,
And that’s how the silver gathers strength in another
Gush of the avalanche
Let’s just see what happens! Push the bits up for a while, and conditioning of all, fuckgrey silhouettes
Maybe that’s the conditioned lust
Of the petrified ones to switch off before the staircase and shiver down below
You think the thin one floating, the thin ones floating outline Genie,
Is a huge balloon by the gooey beach.  

Observation: titty fucking is good.


 Back to the light for a while please\essential functions are being conducted/in lips and flowering hip

 Yes yes flow of the distant synthesis.
It’s like when I stare, like a huge sad goat
Beyond horizons, I get nasty things I’ trying my best to push in the light
of pavements from bellow-gutters and labyrinth.
That’s the way I still think of the primal city of instincts
O hateful reckoning, take me in, rescue me, I’ll find protection on my own, fuck off, junipers,
Now you know why
I lash out loud electric, throbbing and sharp

Pushing through circles
Damn. No more blasted fake glues!


Blots blotted, lionman! Paranoia. Awakening
Ancient tribal domes
One hurt mother. And silent, awhile


And bleeding to
One emotional sparrowsong
Now again phoenix withers away through substitution
One step lordbound, up
Inscriptions, damnation,
Now slanted, reject
Dick Regency.
Poetry is the greatest trick of godhood, to wrap up hot with the cold.


Tasks again. O whatthehellheehee!
That’s how fake your wax can be,
Bitter wormed candy, all in pink and white
Nah, starts coming again
The happy attack
To the second loop
The extra step.
Stuck in muck

:’( alas! this depletion of resources. L


Nomore the world of jewels, this hazy sweetness
Glimmer shimmer object conception of animals of elephants
Telephone sparks
Infallible, the numbing blue once again
Blur off, faint dream in mother vision reality
Of advertisements and resumes
Choke it off
Shake it
Serve it. Done. Rain in valley of eerie
by day, vomiting soldiers in damned pain
Mauve passes through, as dwarfed magenta agent

Hero of the headless ones as the wheelspeak seeps through
Sleepwalking by broken factories. Statues. Swirls and moves back.
Just these joyrides in the discreet valley. 


False windows
Barring our path
Through own frames
Through own mirrors.
Mirror-frame syndrome.

Attrition rates high.
Dostoevsky would’ve nodded right here.


It’s alive, lady wisdom
Slender lady torpor
Oink oink Cinderella shut
Naked foliage brutal stationary jets gods big stand still hush judge
And then, before you know, dead.
Things should’ve been better,
And far more pure.


Mother, I weep like a spider dangling sown the skies stuck in faint green hue
Mostly grey and platinum, just the way our great Oracle had wanted it to be. Incomplete, incognito,
And hell.


ebaar tomaaye khaabley khoobley khabo.


That force
Relieved released
Now, to disintegrate
Into tiny dots of time.


Goodnight, navigate
Little room
Our nights and noons that made us laugh
In sweet cocoon
Of polka dot
I’ll think of that instead
Lips pressing, tongues tangled
My palm and your waist
Lighting those little sparks, that show some light not much light
Of ancient trees ahead, crawling, insect, angry doll, farlost tribe
I was to be one of these
But for simulation.
As I trudge through these stormy deserts
I will think of light and shadow making eerie magic on the walls instead.
I won’t think of the sadness of sands.
I will be grave and won


Knife. Smirk. True love in big strong beautiful majestic sky. Suckaboobie!
Whatever remains of me
can still hold on to the knife
I gave most of all
You gave all you could. It was a sad departure.
Rained. I was at the carnival. And yet I was staring up for moving dots,
Like the ones that come out of wings of pretty little fairies of bonsai-sex imposed-soft magnet-machine. I was looking up and the carnival couldn’t impress me as much as it should ideally have.
I walked back home. And I slept in throbbing sting.

Basking. Spilled and stuck.
Sweet nausea sweaty mound
Yogi gave a wisdom tree
Flowers, white sparkle sun holiday in gloss
To cover the gaps that might fume one day
 Many beneath this lying haze waiting. Frozen to the still rack of memory
They’ll be a thousand, incubating.
Pictures adjust blue-doored white-walled platitude,
Decoding our way through this valley
“Pulse levels”
Tiger you sarcastic etcetera morally bored crocodiles and gods. Colours are essential to comprehend. Real dove flies,
That sharp joiner.
Bright and durable, painless
From myth-man I carve this day, from mother I start to unlearn.
Welcomed by graceful motions of simpler geometry,
like clouds that make the world sadder than three million dead rats,
I play my sad sundown.


Didn’t go down
Focused on roots going down
Before electric corpses beyond delight
Didn’t listen
to the doleful dirge
for clues.
Oysters hatch sweet corn of love.