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.


1 comment:

Zeebs said...

I pretend that I'm a tractor cutting corn when I have to shave my legs. Fight me.

And hi.