That slow, soft humming of essence rolling through senses
Things fall still for a while.
And then the sky erupts,
Stuff starts bursting between these eyes and those ones
And the tiger leaps out to face the other tiger inside and outside the mirror and the core.
Body in that grand meatball of love rolls at puppet-pie masks and jokers in rags
Strong pulls from abyss and smokes and strange whispers in this dark.
jumps on walls and roofs
jumps on shades of love and pain
Cold blue flower blooms on mind
Perfect freedom, perfect laughter and perfect fun –
leading to that perfect strength
moon shines bright on the grand highway –
Arctic delight of the gray-soul
Sun shines bright on the valley of laughter –
copper-soul blazes through heart and guts in insane glory
Mama-wings, goose-night, blue-wings
they best thing to care for – that one bright dot.
People and puppets move through this,
and through the ruthless moss that grow thick on temples and caves.
Centuries and snails and other ideas of cold, slow, sincere progression
And then the creatures that screech take over the stage
and all creatures that love sit and watch, tied to the happy seats of big fat love.
the moon is out
there’s a carnival tonight
we have fun
we smash the walls of this maze
we have more fun
next, we reach the sunset-shore
to find the funny guy with a sad look sitting there and holding a thousand balloon-strings
a thousand great balloons of love in skies that rot and shiver
we stare at the balloons
he doesn’t stare at them
we stare at him
he doesn’t stare at us.
a thousand great balloons of love float in skies that rot and shiver.
Again and again, that sad smile of defeat of ghosts pressed to the edges of being and oblivion
Or maybe it’s victory. It’s hard to say, and mostly victory and defeat don’t exist except in dry fucked-up places –
barricaded by solemn fools of vigour & vehemence
outlasted by wolves that prowl in oldest forests.
And then, the army of puppets marching through these thinly veiled insults at our truest ancestry.
One day I shall shoot them down.
Visions of wasted gods,
then terrible mother of the road speaks of our worst nightmares,
and then the ghosts chase us down the beat alleys that cry in thick solitude.
That star-crazed perfume
This slow burning of the petals
Love for bland mother
Kisses for pale sisters.
Chamber-doors fling open
Thunderclaps set skies of mind aflame
We get ready for the kill
but nothing much happens after that except when it rains.
Once upon a time in a kingdom of great joy and sorrow there lived a wise duck named Wise Duck.
And there was a flower named Flower and a big witch with big boobs named Big Witch With Big Boobs. Of course, there was a funny toad named Funny Toad.
And then much fun, much pounding, new ages, kingdoms, pain flows by mothers cry children cry clouds gather bells toll everything dances in mad glory of grief and flowers wilt.
Fog takes over and takes the mind to cold grey places beyond the knotted conditions of impact, reckoning and axioms.
and then, we rise strong
we rise to kill
That’s it. What else would you like to know?
Mononomial festoons, they say, were there since when we have been carrying these damned crosses
And wild reptiles crawl out to bite the moon
And the colour of love is pink.
And five monsters guard five doors
And it simply doesn’t rain
strange people bring strange words from strange places
sadly, we’re too deaf and too damn blind for them.
tied to strong chains in our own fucked up places, we wilt and wane through the cold centuries in rainbeat sonority
but these strange people, they don’t give much fuck
and take even less
they move on to other strange places with other strange words
dots of fire follow them.
sun bakes clay to life and love
reeds bow to winds of life and love.
Dogs of love and hate followed us down to the valleys and river where dawn and dusk bathe
and we were all scared and we were all in the story of the chase, the hounding, the gutting of the core – and we crawled towards the reds of the sky and blood
but the river was calm
it still is
and every night when the moon shines over the willows Ophelia floats by
in a great white mound of flesh in perfect putrefaction of grief
things fall silent for a while
and the river becomes a woman in that frozen, terrifying beauty of sorrow.
We swat little blue dots from the sky
We think of sailors and soldiers
We eat roses of love
We move in and out of chambers and caves
Our pain becomes this fort of insane glory
Our enemies draw close
Wolves stare from soundless dark climes
And stuff starts piling up on the hunchbacked soul of prisms and prisons that move down snakes and up ladders till it gets so terrific that the clockhands burst out in sharp-hued symphonies of electric essence and everything else burst out in their own forms and shapes, grasping the throat of geometry and cognition:
raving through the skies that burn,
raging against the slaughtersongs that smash our windowpanes of heaving Chimera & Judgment
spitting at our hard, heavy confines of reckoning,
mocking at the wisdom of mockingbirds that mock no more.
back to the wilderness once again, searching for faces.
back to the slow train chugging along the margins of this and that
back to the senility of hideous defeat in grisly saloons & brothels:
checkmate in fifteen moves.
loss of electrons
loss of things that are big, pure and right.
and then it’s time for those bloodshot poinsettias that bloom the way they should’ve bloomed
and for these lions in blatant, brutal delight of laughter and durability.
and three more shots –
one for the god of love
one for the god of death
and the last one for those splendid women who that stare at the distant rainsong haze with something more than sadness and something closer to the core than abject plainfuck loneliness.