Stories of the Room

and then, strange doors open

through mirages and through frost

blue wings cover blue lakes

et cetera

and mammoths in rage against oblivion, bring falsity closer to the little dots that glow a bit, stuff bleeds a bit, stuff moves in light sensekiss motions across plates and platelets.  

until other strange doors fling open and the fifth horseman draws faster than you and dark blank spaces pull in you in.

the room is a kingdom now

light of the mind is cold

senile movements flicker awhile and puff.

elephants sleep in moonlight

little children sleep at heart of hearts

and chambers and aces move in jittery paces

the room –ants drown and women come and go talking of a hell lot of stuff but seldom of Michelangelo.

heavy freedom rolls through the bumpy ways of this having to be.

the moon isn’t a gypsy.

this sickness is unbearable.

motherfuckers who sell dreams shall be gutted tonight.

core takes much beating

sunlight hardens clay

things die of thirst inside

and there’s much misery and torment in this.

I moved, you see, we move, vectors club us down to blatant submission.

brutal things roar from scary depths inside

to rage against this damnation entrapment

this abyss of forgetting of scares – is closest to the idea of hell we can ever get

and that’s binary and that’s another chain and another shit.

it’s all shit

we know that

we fight that

against the rot

against forgetting and being forgotten,

forsaking and being forsaken

against the nonchalance of damnation

against the sad withering away of this being here, now and of all things that matter.

sadness becomes huge –

it’s like the wilting of roses when they shouldn’t have and waning of the moon when it shouldn’t have

it’s a monstrous formless mass hanging down the clockhands,

making them too heavy to move,

making the skies weep rain on tender people dying unnoticed in dark scary places

climbing roofs and walls,

lulling the dogs to sleep on deserted park-benches past midnight,

eating out my fingers past midnight

becoming a lot of things – that penstand, these keys and those earphones and whatnotshit. it’s just there.

and this dragging of the crucifix down the deserts – things don’t stand the way they should’ve. Suckerfishes wink at lonely mermaids

Jokers bow at stars

Bust snails crawl out of bust sewers

tiny flowers bloom in weird dusty rebellion between tram tracks.

…

purple fury

ghosts that haunt

dancing of the puppets

dancing of the cold sharp blades:

the pulpthrob beats its way through these

the idea is to forbear.

like relentless ships in fog

like a tiger in insane glory –

the idea of pure, perfect freedom.   

Cinderella,

Cinderella.

…

This is the boat of love

And we’re all in it

And then there’s this other kingdom of gold

Stuck between Mama Midnight’s tits.

..

You see my ways aren’t twisted, my way’s aren’t many.

There’s no chart of compass

There’s no conception of astronomy

There’s much fun in this voyage.

…

    

this mutilation of meat and substance

is intolerable

sunlight has no nucleus

balloons have no heart

and even the stars burn out

this betrayal

is revolting.

northwind brings wisdom of the oaks

placid swans flock in royal laze

mountains roll out

and stuff smash through walls and come out mostly for the essential fun of coming out.

Fun is important

children of gods of doom pluck out little red bits of love from between the scales of silver carps.

hapless in misery, we roam the naked earth

shorn of glory we whimper away to submission

this search

is for the big booming love – the sort that breaks free in heaving beastly motions and dances in insane delight under the open skies – to live and relieve – to glide along that that brazen lonely highway in sleek moonlight.

Wolves shatter skies with maddening laughter

That massive snake raises its hood above all volcanoes and colossal relics of dust and worth and dances through the shredded horizons

Vines crawl up those damned ruinbashed, rainkissed pillars that stand tall and strong despite everything.

Castles lean over dark waves in ruthless expectation of submission

Lightning strikes the hunchbacked mountains of sacred, ancient terror

there’s no giving in or giving up.

there’s much turbulence in this

there’s much shattering in this

child, see my ugly face

your candy-gods of bittersweet oeuvre are pale tonight

mother is a green dot in rain

end is a room without roof and walls

loneliness is an outdated Bradshaw

…

there’s more death in a long unused umbrella hanging from a rusted nail than in anything else.

Things are bullshit and we’re here dealing in that.

Decay dangles down the yellow teeth of centuries.

Meat rots.

Dead tissues swell up.

Moss grows on the contours or caveman coherence

Rotund sonatas skate down calm avenues of being.

Love gathers grime.

World gathers wisdom from the oldest rivers.

Fires get cold.

Antony forsakes the god.

Little balls of void dance between eyes.

Dandelions incite mad love.

Paper boats float by.

Mind in haze of reckoning, slaughtered in twilit hush – that ghastly shade of cognition

We reach out for the pearl.

We doff our hats to the mocking minstrels of plenitude and ill-shaped worship  

We kneel before fucked-up altars.

Windows endure indecisions

Crocodiles make sharp love in mud.

It’s all or nothing for me now.

…

the key lies in cognition

essential violet bedamned

dogs of love in dogged resistance against the tides

to think of you

to think of the silver flows that stream down in moonlight

to afford nonchalance against the wolves that prowl and against the harsh gods that loom large

one can fight all fights without thinking of victory and defeat

and that’s the closest to freedom one can ever get.

…

Platero was a wise donkey that sang not a song

I’m leaning on chances for I know not where I belong

I’m stuck inside this ashen gallery for too fucking long

it’s all so damn there and so damn isn’t that it beats me ten times over.

This be the dark crime of forgetting

And that, dear child, is pure hell. What else can it ever be?

  

Goodbye-trees gape at us.

We push till we can push no more and then we push a bit more.

And then the shadow gets to us,

it all gets to us,

and leaps at our throats

on frozen midnights of pain,

on blind trashcan alleys,

in the wilderness of yearning and yielding.

Our thrones aren’t ready yet.      

The world bleeds a bit on every hollow midnight and then the music stops.

It’s all calm here now

This be the room of love

This be the room of death.

…