Sunday, January 20, 2013

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.   

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.



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