Monday, October 15, 2012

Cityrain, Moonsong and the fond nuclei

Spider crawling at the sun, for ages we’ve seen the ruin
For ages we’ve pressed the totem gods, hot with anger of centuries
Into dark and the mouse and the rain we move no further than this
Circumambulate around the dreams in visions in starlove of perceived eternity
Much has been decimated. And more awaits.
Naked buses weep in rain
Silence observes me from the other side
It’s romantic in a fucked way, even being alone is,
At times.

Our anima our vague profoundness our drunk whores
Opening of the doors
Smelly farts
One pattern sneezes on the other
Erection of the barriers
Misoneic acrimony of the flowers pressed in twilight
Perfect laughter riding straight to the core:
the bit that glows.

The grand highway
The truest laughter that ever is
Children of love in forest
Monsters of love in cities
Vague ideas of cold resurrection

Drinking all night
To wait for things to happen
Because when they don’t, it’s the beyond-awful deal for us
Sparkling knives and man-moon’s beard and lady-moon’s hair
And the hairy belly of the city
Hiding ants and little children
Lost and very very sad
One of the leg-shaped piers
Have given away
There’s a beauty in naked women
That can laugh it’s guts out at
all linkages between power sex and civilization
and you forget all shit
for that moment,
perfect flesh in perfect glory
moving towards you from across the room
in shapes of pure comfort.

Days of lion and iron
Sullen vapid nights
Strong kisses from strong men
Soft kisses from sift women
Rain and shit no rain no shit
A lion met me
I met a lion
This was long back
In dreams unseen
And tales untold

Real loneliness is the only free thing
It’s not confined to anything –
be it love or lack of love, companionship or shit,
Thinking or free association, whatever
It doesn’t care about education systems
Production processes
or my dick in your mouth
or my dick between your titties  
it’s good.
And it’s always beside you as you fight this damnation of poinsettias
and elephants
almost real. Almost like love.

Lactobaby, water-colour gods
Every anima, sad joker tending to three headed hound
The wheel and the big bird of city
The city I can make the blue shops go away fountains will give
lassitude for the brother of love
for the sisters: a kiss
Demonlove. Lactobaby, galaxies,
I’m in fever
Bridges rush to madness
In silver macadam snipers aiming high
Skulls of spirits in marvelous hunger
This terrific battle between the eyes and other dividers
Other nostalgia, in dreams, in November hanging cold corpses
of photographs of horses along the highway
to take me to the other crystal highways

live telecast holy frames fucked apostrophes eclipse my canine god our thick breasted fertile hipped goddesses our vultures consecration of conditions through the arts and oh see I transform slowly into mind I do the ease of life the gutters of life I don’t-remember-whether-she-was
my mother or my whore now we walk through the city
formless as ever before
three legged rhymes of acid-bulbs or vapour-lamps thrown at the sky
severe meditation
cockroaches nature and longitude
many grandly screwed-up words placed side by side pre-planned
cavemen painting the hunt
Gilgamesh and pet lions and angry surfaces, reptiles close to rough lands
In our own ways we draw the first maps of the world, all of us, hellish circus, great zen in great void. terrific silence.

See me in dark fright of unknown becoming heart because badthings hinge on hazy edges withering clockhands withering petals in blood and neural cavity, confines of comfort milk of love  durably mortal easy pleasures and easy waste. 

Automobile shrieks
Tiger jumps from wombs
Recollections of the lost
Ghastly noises and regularity
The silence won’t let me be
The shadows won’t let me be
Sugarmoon, starch moon
Placards to lay out the rules
The largest reptile, ancestors staring, the moon is staring

Scholarly senses of golden ants, cricketsong
Thoracic mind
Houses at the end of the field, little girl from clouds, kettle-breath. Taciturn.
Pawing at the..particles rainbeat senses waiting for the freeze
White combs. Trancebirds. Other little pictures to hide the blank. This omnipresence of the soul is maddening.   

Baba Yaga I think, ladies and gentlemen, our new presentation
Of the next
In straight lines we move and unbearable stuff try to kick their way out, vertical symmetry
All dead. Limited Brownian motion. Straightshot canvases
Old men sharing cigarettes with old men senile dangled like treasures and pleasures
As the wagon rolled forth
In search of the tablet where everything has being inscribed is automation is tabula rasa blankgaze in fear bombed senses knifed guts, all after the tempest joining one silence to the other. Not sure if chronology is followed.

Complimentary revolution oh all night like clay containers holding a lot of darkness and wisdom that swirls out in deep pleasurable zones from below cutting through the glassy slabs ninety degrees to the horizontal and shooting bulletful visions and dazes like counterstrike heroes. We are losing touch with the myths now. Much darkness lies far below and our feet are uprooted our wings Icarus no, our throbs our shelters mother o mother I weep and rebirth and resurrection and coinciding coordinates damn. Much is lost and hence the stonewalled rot. There’s not much rough surface of lively touch left to feel. Much have rotted and the rest are rotting. We’re all dying. Largely because we give too much damn to the do-s and don’t-s. please escalate this matter to the higher authority. Mother you’re my only hope left. Our dreamy thirsts: flowers on fire, forests in rain. 

hushed animus. What strange lull has befallen. Three headed dawn. Old father, did the leopards follow me? Has the one eyed owl hooted? Raging doleful sparrows. Oh what joy we feel heading back to the feminine, head throbbing due to broken links and perished temples. We must head back to the feminine to be pleased. Everything gets charred otherwise.

Real meat real joy much mirth x naught y. critical appraisal of tales of kings and their wars. Pretty things to bring tear to the eye. Citysongs. And everything else in absolute soundlessness. The crickets are really singing. Make merry. Have fun. All in the bleary island of hapless hopelessness.

Harmony or the lack of it
Is shameless. Sugardays by sourpuss nights
My fart is green
My art is clean.
It all comes down
to the woodcutter and his terrific axe
grinning like a daze

psychotic craze
try to become don juan, that easy grace the reptile embrace
sadly, trying is shit. And folks die out, sad and weary, because of this shit-rush.
Like a bust moonsong
Like a flower puking in electric-columns trampled at last
And then freedom from the predetermined links
Whoever comes, play on, concepts slaughtered
Particles and energy
Polite sanatoriums,
Cosmic momentary and tendrils clasp in faith and soon the free conceptual particles are tied to pre-put determinations and axioms.
Terror in paradise
There’s not much freedom left anymore, and we can vaguely foresee the scary unknown. Misoneism,
Much profoundness before this surrender
And then the sudden leap
To deeper realms below   

The little girl from inside, soft, silent and very sad
Grim visions of ignition. Sudden infusion of light. pain morbidity.
And then we talk a little,
Feel a little good and sorry
And we sleep in soft, placid cocoon.
And balloons fly all night by the shore
And happy puppets and fairies sing in soft symphony
And bald clowns bow at us.

Necessary desires and pissoff judges
Dotting the godly game of smoothness,
Reptile bodies, wake-up calls and lots of light will be pressed into you,
All to remind you of the container-status 
All within the overall scheme
Little blisters to remind you of your closeness 
To pain and to the womb of dark vapours

The saddest souls welcome her first
They hold the rite of passage
Like a coldly glowing torch
This story these words this body this skin and fat and meat and all sorts of pulp and tissues
All of these could’ve been theirs
The saddest souls with sad heads raised from the darkness,
Almost fetal,
Almost human.

Memory and fragrant clouds over goldenly lost kingdom
Almost Dharma, much proximity, assorted relevance
Tearing through the first cry of the messiah for personal relativity and relevance of symbols and symbolic nets woven all around us and we’re lost, we’re fighting the going down and it’s tied up and we’re all prisoners of shit that look like splendid calls
The luminance of ghosts and ambrosia
Shapes and symbols, supposed to shine on till the end of all ideas of the eternity  
Tramwheels crush curious little flowers with necessary sincerity
There’s no better poetry than weather-reports
Either we get rain or else we don’t
Blocked channels
The idea of compromise is to make the most of what we have and of what we can
This doom is brutal
If felt,
there’s no pain greater than this solitude
but there are worse things than pain.

On writing
it’s all being captured
why shall I allow this yield why shall bulbs bath Beethoven venus of our lively hearts crone of our bitter defeat with senile wisdom in pre-shaped boxes and sturdy heroes hammering down their glory from mountains and linked up to the gods in texts and contexts and cognitive hypertexts. It’s all been conditioned before the conscious could grasp. Mulberries in rainkissed blush. Understanding as communication. Technology and infuriated degeneration. cold electric blows. Particles aligned in patterns.  

Demons of terrifying beauty set in opposition to all these.
The war is on.
Let us observe and relish and sing and dance and clap and make merry and love. It’s a nice show for most. It’s a necessary stage for a few. all stages and battlefields are true. What they hold is bullshit.    

All art is gallery play and all arrangements are labeled
Window of life caged in symbols axioms and geometry
It’s all a shameful sham  
And we await the army of indignant flowers in fury
To deliver us from this inevitable saturation

Soul snails out camels of diamond wandering in search of unknown stuff
Winking sirens of guilt pointing at
the ghastly thousand-mirrored forest echoing ancient whispers and silence
Stretched highways, canine rivers, nights disguised as death and skulls,
triumphant flashes
soul lured to reconcile
to the depth. The collective dark of our selves has survived through primitive linkages
that fade by gross clockhands
as decay accelerates
and the wheels are in stubborn motion now.
This calls for mortal outrage.

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