Wednesday, October 3, 2012

immolation of the impacts

There’s a sadness in this city that refuses to go out
There’s a dog in my mind that refuses to stop howling
And then, on silent, insane nights like this 
The dog and the sadness sleeps, hugging each other like tender babies of the moon
My mind is the city, now, when all music stops and unspoken thoughts give warmth to candles and pianos 
And then, the resigned ballerina, the sweating symphony, the Molotov rage
Crawls past my window as ashes and love from all the burning
Finds me naked,  in the crazed glow
And the city is my mind now
And it’s a puppet speaking of solitude to the tender gray flowers.


Stumbling out of bars, thinking of women and beauty
Of Mahler and Bombay
Like a dead cherry in winter
And swords and chocolates in dolorous resignation
Occasional aphorisms, crazed flashes
Snot-mosaic kids, psyched, sucking on tubes
To hide tracks of the dark crime of time, generation and chromosomes
Love, like a declaration of love against the skies
The skies are raging
To strike us down in great wrath
The gods are angry tonight
The wolves won’t get much food
And trains crawl by, carrying dead ghosts: like they always do.


Bitter, like wine and love and other things which’re hard to afford at this stage i walked down the staircase and took a left turn and i was thinking of fucking women, many great big beautiful splendid women with hips like women from illustrated Arabian Nights and breasts dangling like moon over cavemen.
The trashcan of heart spills over
Beer covers nights,
This night
Is a flower in rage
An orchestra of total recall
All mind and soul dumped over sparrows that move to light
And daisies and gophers and things that are not so bitter and things which are affordable
Like knifed clowns on homebound train
Bite gently, don’t use your teeth


Advantage yellow morning
Advantage darkshit night
Advantage chicken love
Our whispers meet in dreams
Our defeats meet in victory
Our fleshes are nice and soft
I spit out a mouthful of toothpaste on cockroach stuck in basin
And now for the warm smelly beershit
One feels like god at times
One is god at times
And the idea is to endure, like rats in gutters
Like letterboxes by rundown mansions
Like magnolia
Like terror


Onions of want, rolling by
Dots, like distant books of love
Doom, like a vague shape of all that’s terrible
Beer, like rain on tender pulp of the heart     
Shadow of the naked mind, content, sunflowers in constant action
There’s a great big tragedy running parallel to the shores
The train’s not done yet
The train of the mind is slow
The light of the mind is blue
There’s a lost little girl, and a lost little dog roaming inside the soul of saddest sundowns like all the squeezed cherries of the world staring from beyond wallpapers in violent silence.


Binary babes, there’s something sad about them
They’re stuck in electricity and algorithm
I’m stuck in this dark room
They don’t think
I can’t
I stand tall before mirrors, semen dripping from my cock,
Sturdy, here, and almost immortal
There’s a scissor on the table
There’s a sadness in the doctor’s chamber
And there’s anger - lot’s of it, inside the brown boxes
Balloons fly all night by the river
Balloons fly all day by the city
Binary babes with binary pussies
Yearning flesh and love
Heart throbs, penis throbs,
Bullets for the puppets
My tongue around your rosy clit
And yours inside my asshole


There’s nothing like this crazed boredom of solitude
When you’re neither happy nor sad and the boozeshops are closed and
because you’ve jerked off five minutes back you don’t want to do it again, and besides you’re not exactly in the mood to get turned on or anything. Waste was never purer than this and harmony was never as chaotic and books and movies will bore you and all you can do is slouch with a pillow or two and stare at the walls and ceilings and smoke. The tobacco industry loves these moments. Everything’s square and circle and rectangular, and everyone’s a pain in the ass.
Wrath rage and sorrow smells of rotten fishes.
Bliss and happiness are broken automobiles by rundown shades
You try to think of carnivals where harlots with painted faces gyrate their flabby stuff and you try to think that they’re sad but all you feel is a bad headache. You’re not drunk or stoned or hungover. You are not anything anywhere. Some scriptures prefer this stage because this supposedly is a good way of soul-preservation and there’s no fire or ice to make you feel real, there’s no rising or the fall. Bulls’ balls to renaissance and resurrection. Toad’s fart to winning and losing. Just this ocean of tired codes and symbols to choke you, to beat you to submission.  And nothing more.
And nothing less.


Lottery-man of wisdom: one more dead fly on dead sugercubes
One man one woman one machine one cloud of pink fluff
Rage on, little girl, there’s no rain left for you
Search for what you’ve lost
In madhouses, flophouses, panic-rooms, jails, brothels and other jingling places of sincerity
Li’l things that shine in the dark
Little sweatdrops blocking the pores
The skin is enough to hide a lot
And reveal a little
Spots a little yellow inside
And walks out of the room
And there’s a door downstairs
And nothing more.


Dangling dick and dandelions
There’s a strange algorithm binding us
That fucks things up
And the throbs rise in revolt
And the saints and the suckers of love
are very angry.
And now the rules have gone
And i love and hate only myself
And dancing shadows of the drunken ants
lead the way to asscracks of some great benevolence


Cows of love in the sky
Cows of love in insane glee
Cows of love with fairy feet
Cows of love with yellow milk
Cows of love with squishy meat

I heard this story
There was a local retard
And a determinative approach
And hands get tied to flesh
And flesh gets stuck on flesh

It’s a happy night
The cows of love are flying all around
I can see them, can’t you?
We won’t weep tonight
Tonight is a bouncing jellybag
A rebellion against the farting tyrants!
O cows of love O cows O love O ghastly pingpong! O rotund pale!
The cows of love in terrible beauty
Are staring at me.

Going crazy in this squalid room
Days and nights without rain and music
Without women and wisdom
Is worth a hell lot of happiness
And the purging of certain beliefs
And puking out a lot of ill-digested hope
It’s like an accidentally erased poem
circling you like a formstripped vulture
As you hide behind fake altars
And think of insects that eat flowers
And of Flowers that get drunk
waiting for things to get better
waiting for the sweet kiss of dreams
waiting for the stunning knife

It takes a lot of shit and dejection to punch back
Most people opt for the canned everythings instead
Once in a while someone gets shocked by this wastage of wisdom
And uses gasoline or ninth story windows
But now I’m here
And I’ve wiped my ass with the rulebook
And now that the rules have my brownish pasty crap on them,
let us make love in heaven!

Much detonation left
The mountains still stand
So do the walls between what could have been and what has instead
When I die,
kiss me.

Cat jumps
The sky is dead
The red rider
Is jerking off instead

And a large mass of semen
Flies off his cocktip
And into the golden cup of love

Cat jumps
The sky is all fucked up
The red rider
Rides to somewhere
I don’t particularly care

Porcelain torpor sits heavy
Hooves on canvas
Guts in mud
Mangled flesh of love
Affirms life
Headache and El Dorado
Affirms death.


This poem
would not have been written
had I not
typed this out

This poem
would not have been here
had I not written it

This poem
will still be here
if you don’t read it

now go fuck
Or somebody else.

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