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

Paradigm

Whores

Bullshit.

...

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.

...

Dance-hammer-neuron

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

yourself.

Or somebody else.

…

Empty Clocks

Communiqué from raindrench chronicles

Straight shots to dragoon those damn projectiles

that keep on swirling, fighting every rose and shit

for this being despite everything.

The gods want this fire

And this decay

The gods love us naked

And that’s the history of decimation:

one sorry asshole staring at ants

and contemplating defilement of the sacred pitfalls

...

This slow suicide

Wraps us tight, like stoned jokers

It’s a burlesque tragedy

The sort that kicks your guts and freezes your balls

The sort that keeps you up all night

And makes your stale presence shrivel up before daybreak

I’m here

Raving alone

Loving and hating this furious solitude

Birds on the seventh-floor cage

Blood on the streets, there’s been a murder here

Turn the knob slowly, peep out

Landlady with nice fat ass

Talking to hungover policemen

Hard-ons by dead telephones

Deaths by fiery rivers

Our love, their love, our shit, their shit

It’s all about fortitude

As devils eat up whores

And insects eat up flowers

Living through this

is as good as dying through this.

  

...

 

Days of pure agony and angst

Nights of fat sultry whores

Free joys of the carnival

The insane and the boldly ribald

Worms on crimson beds

Dogged dogs of dogged lives

Faith and other grotesque images

of acquired normalcy

of assholes giving too much shit

See them making nice warm doodles

With nice warm shit

on the canvas of everything that weighs down

mighty thumb pressing us down like little lost ants

thin folks, almost ghosts, on dark alleys and darker riversides

talking in fluent rhymes, of the disease of colour tv,

and god’s pleasant presence to cushion the truly lost

who’ve got nothing left to lose

this decay is fascinating

this damnation rises in wholesome glory to shatter gods, heavens and thunderbolts

we’re bound to live through this shit

so let us do it in the grand style!

...

The dick of love is big

The dick of love is strong

The cunt of love is sweet

The cunt of love is smooth

There’s a madman in the gallery

he hides the centuries behind his fingernails

there’s a sailor in the cathedral

he’s very drunk

there’s a prisoner in the apartment

you know his three daughters: Misery Agony and Wretch

there’s a monster at the gates

he’ll be burned in a while

the dick of love is hot

the cunt of love is hungry

o hail to the glorious dick of love

o hail to the motherly cunt of love

...

Hic and the night goes blind

Hic and bedamn bedamned

Hic and it’s all rage and crap

Hips join hips as asses collide

Free within this doom

Bats getting smashed against sordid castle-walls

Let’s lament for the million splattered bats

As the avenue becomes a snake in fury

And eats us up in perfect wrath

Hic and befuck, bemoan

For what could’ve happened and what has instead.

...

Brotherlove again in kingly robes

Point me the mountains of gothic gods

And i’ll dig out the treasures for you

And we shall live in love as ever

as giants that kill to live.

...

Gods who looms large and heavy

Created happy shining people

For cheap thrill

And the people fucked around and created more happy shining people

And then some more

And God was happy and so were the people

But the people were unaware of sinister stuff that lurks

In darkness and pounces on them when the time is right

And god, being pissed at this shocking lack of wisdom

Urinated on them and thus it all ended in perfect chaos

...

In between my eyes and yours

In between me and not-me

In between sonority and shit

And in between stepping out of greasy bars with loud blinking lights and louder music belted out by flabby sweaty whores and stumbling into brothels teeming with flabbier sweatier whores

there’s this great harmony of the soul flowing out and booming its declaration of victory to the world

that makes all flowers and all shit worth trampling by.

...  

 

Nice irony of this

Gutted tunes of total insanity

Pointless games

The seriousness of the participants

is worth tonight’s entertainment.

Emotions are just two downs deeper

heavy sloppy masses

more real but not truly real

then again, who the fuck cares?

Join in, sing and dance

Rub dicks against hips

And be happier

It’s good this way,

Each getting entertained

in personal ways

and it’s all polite beyond the cords

and it’s all fake:

even the bonsai rain and the bonsai madness.

...

A knife from the fluffy jubilant clouds

Like a wolf or a Blake or a Louis Malle-Charlie Parker thingy

A knife ready for the other knife

I’m ready for you, motherfucker!

A knife to dig it in

A push to throw it off

It’s all there

Ghastly, screaming, throbbing:

just an affirmation

...

Solemn and extreme tip of joy

Like it’ll never happen again

That’s our only chance to tickle the edges of the light

Our only audacity of booming at immortality

despite all flesh.

Something very beautiful and sad, that one dot of pause,

that makes proud flowers out of the truest rebels that never are

and vice versa.

Just bask in that while, that great leakage of the softly soothing, and let every motion and geometry bring you to the same blissful shore and gets you ready to bust the balls of remorse

And i’m not talking of fucking.

...

Broken automobiles, there’s more sadness left in the world

than this celebratory bit. And it’ll leap on you soon enough

It’s just waiting for a step beyond this cosy cocooned vice,

Waiting for the final laugh

Like the cold Judges and snipers

Like a stern tramcar in sunset

Like a brutal totem god

Like me and the raining solitude

  

...

Again, those jingling inter-cranial zones

aiming at the only opportunity of total freedom

like overcast deserts where it rains once in around seven thousand years.

There’s a happy mask for all

And a sad mask for many

And no mask for a chosen few

But no one ever dares unmasking, and no one knows why

...

Don’t fool around if you can’t feel the thing that’s fucking you in the bad way

this path is not for the fixed and fake sons of bitches

few reaches that fiercely doomed kingdom

and fewer endure to their ways out.

It’s a harsh awful journey and the ones who define sanity and normalcy better stay out or else face the consequences

...

The terribly terrific stuff

Don’t show up or throw it around all the while

It’s comfortable leaving explanations to god for some

And for the rest who can’t seem to reconcile

Ought to be brave enough to bear

Old lady with grocery bag passes by again

It’s been the second time 

She has false teeth and she appears to have flatulence

....

This is how the disease creeps along

To observe this process with absolute objectivity is fascinating.

Little joining cords start getting shape

And the dazedly dead ones resign first

While the ones that throb keep on fighting till the throbs stop

And then the gruesome silence

And then the complete death.

And even the ghosts get too stunned to dance.

...

Four Heroes guard the corners of doomland:

Hero of strength, much desired

Hero of these blankshot hours

Hero of the hotrod fight

Hero that’ll slay the sharks

As soldiers mortified in hostile posters start getting to everything

As we dream of the cleansing of the essence through meticulous absolution of the putrefied

What grand shit!

I’d rather sit outside and have fun.

....

The Celebration of the Lizard by Jim Morrison: A Translation

Lionballs

Stare on, guru,

through potface television sets that preach of being and shit

and burping radios waiting to be struck to endless silence

it’s all useless anyway

do whatever,

stare at me staring at the great blank rainbow beyond

pretty girls and their stockings that roll up to perfect asses  

and stare at my dreary solitude talking to me,

tending to me, giving me food and love

when nothing or no one else does

do whatever,

I’m not carrying this somber tapestry with me wherever I go   

and i’m not gunning the moon down until I find it necessary to.

…

Damned skeletons, won’t they beg for mercy?

Strong tall elevations for people to speak from

Rotten stupid people unaware of their rot and stupidity,

Disgorging,

Expunging,

Parroting one another

Eating in cold places,

Drinking in soft places

Fornicating in mindless fuck

Needing their toys, high places and absurd conflicts

Needing their fake prophets, their illusory maps

And other similar shit

And they won’t ask about the iron and puppets anymore

This waste is shameful.

And the damned skeletons will take on new shines and roll down

the bitter naked roads without complaining.   

…

A dry old man at a moonshine joint had once told me that it’s all shit

He must’ve got it pretty tight

I was busy shaking mosquitoes off my hairy legs

And stuff in general were caving in like they always do.

…

Those damn pillars shooting up from the burning deeps to hold the sky

can’t keep it from rotting

trains sprint through storms

snakes and worms crawl to the fond core

demons boom laughter at pale places of oblivion

a half of this craze goes to all of these

and the rest half to the stupendous inanity.

….

It’s just the thick white cloud pleasing the throbs

And that’s pretty much it

The rest is all about bluebirds sending doodles to pink baboons.

…

Thunderbolts roll down channels like massive cannonshots that jolt us to dread

and words and spaces trying to wrap up thoughts

and codes blocking the grand highways of pure laughter

and heavy gods sharing wisdom with the heavy judges

and red-eyed shocks of heavenly destruction that tremble the sundown

and the lonely and the lost and the bizarre stuffed in moral guiltshit cages: they’re

mad as hell and they’re roaring at this disgrace and defeat as those swarms of asinine assholes out there celebrate attainment, the rising and other false notions of security.

People are so weak that they can’t think beyond pacts, resolutions, contracts and acceptance

and I’m bored.

…

A flower with guts

by tramways

revolting against sunshine

through the film of piss

gives a bit

a petticoat

with dark sweet memories

hanging down sad ropes

of lost mansions

takes it all away.

…

In the beginning there was the cunt and the cock

And fires were lit and funs were funned

And rains were rained and pushes were pushed

Then came boredom,

And then came the decay

And things are pretty much stuck now

The fires are dimming out

And the rain is drying up

And when it’ll all get knocked cold by this growing monotony

A sneezing clown and a fleshless whore

will be all that’s be left of these.

….

Dotting the i-s

Sitting by the brilliant riverside muck

Strange talks of the strangely damned

Stubborn temples flashing tiny kindness

Silence screaming out from cold ancient forests

Folks pressed to vapid darks

Children lost in stone-eyed wombs

Forms dissolving without notice

Ghosts leading the way to stations

Kingmen seeking submission through steely fright

Monstrous buses bending in terrible orderly motion

The poison goes beyond the realms of rain

And too deep for any damn pain

…

The last man left on earth will need beer

And the last woman, sanity

The last man will miss being hated and the last woman being loved

The last fish left on earth will be as coldly dumb as all the other ones

I’ve walked a long way today through empty trees by empty roads

Fishes sleep, cocooned by tender watery love

…

Clocks squeezing heartpulp like raging palms on bloodsmudge cherry ass

0s and 1s circling each other to create makebelieve roads and bridges

Fake whores of fake brothels of fake towns tie us to fake fleshes

All we are forced to see and do is there to hide the ancient fires

that haunt us in vague recollections of dreams and awakening

armors to resist the chromosomes

to thump them to capitulation

to keep stuff from falling through because falling won’t suit much purpose

there’s a lake and there’s no map to that

the real roads and bridges have been burned

long ago

and now, for this wait,

in despair

for the gruesome payback

as clockhands clamp the heart tied to blinding flashes of falsity.

…

Tongue searching for the furthest treasures sphincter like soul searches for essential eternity

Profound breasts and asscheeks weighing the world in fleshly weight

Sweat oozing out of human pores like ants from a kicked mound

Things grow stale inside polytone polychrome packages

To see through this ploy is to know the glory of purest insanity

It’s raining in the Milky Way

Camels of dogged love trudge through this festivity searching for the roots

Tongue searches for furthest treasures sphincter

Soul searches for essential eternity.

…

Solitude like madhouse Madrigals eating core out and soon it’s all hollow in daze

Just a circle and me standing inside

This constant fadeout of ringside faces like a train dotting away in fog beats down like frozen rain on rundown factories

Cat leaps on broken glass

Sun leaps on moon

Love leaps on hatred

It’s all getting darker

It’s all a tragedy of fools.

The bull’s there to charge at guts with the raging wisdom of gods

And I’m here thinking of flowers that wilt in sadness so great that the world’s silence drips down bust beercans and somberly throbbing citadels.

These are the lonely times when I make love to those Muses of intense dreams with sincere grotesque curves and fire from hell in their meat   

It’s all bullshit and I know that.

Get lost, fucker

I’ve sold the rulebook

But I’m not selling this resilience

…

Little lost child,

When you grow up and grow strong enough to conquer this splendid kingdom,

promise me that you’ll let me dig up all its hidden treasures.

Or else I won’t show you how to cross the river

And I won’t tell you where the chipmunk ghosts go when it rains past midnight.

…

Locomotive-beat toil

Rugged harmony, greased machine-ass

Piper stops to piss

Snake stops to fix aim

soft tissues shredded by iron wolf-teeth

sturdy tissues holding fort

Head heading for Valhalla

Harpies heading for Heart

Much fun preparing for false victory

in the real battlefield

till we get to know of the void

and understand that we’ve been fucked for good.

And then we rise to kill.

…

The undoing of shit

is for the grand ones who don’t exist

Fools search for the purified essence of conditions

and die in misery of mortification and loveless pestilence

like the rest of us –

mortgaging affirmations,

whoring out freedom,

dangling situations and blatant genitalia

The best one can do is take this silent night

and hump it with regal brutality.

…   

Flowers, Food and the Bestial Heart

Naked, like bust roses in hailstorm,

Tiger pounces on walls, dragging heart of the world through

The asscrack of this damndest staleness and blank estrangement

As fatal soldiers stand weary of the puppets of pure desire in seamless agony

The positioning of this form, through grasses and shapes, through

Shoulders and gleaned illuminations, decay of the city, ribald wilderness

Lacklove loacklaw, this raw heart in furor,

Hunter-hero, guilt awash in blood for the crude strong gods

Bestial dogged hours, sturdy brutal wails across windows as shadows and structures of hateful reckoning and strength rove through the ancience of a city in rot, a declaration of endurance jutting out like rusted nails of the mind of angelic coitus of serpents

Dust and mud, screams of the purest gamblers, hurts flushed down shitpot of heart in beerdunked prosthesis of all that’s dead and down, frozen eyes and corpses of the paragons of all that’s dead and down, rain beating down the throbbing tombs of all that’s dead and down. Put out the lights, turn the music down, kill the gods, kill the whores. It’s time for the vultures now. It’s the purest hour of submission. A trumpet for the rodents of decayed epiphany, a thump for the clocks. Cats leap on clocks. Local newsflash, genitalia of the current times waving for truce. Current times are small. Big temples with big altars of big gods trapped in photographs pasted between dogs and dead grandmother saved with acute pornography aligned to the tapestry of alienation of the others and the mothers of the others in moonlight tunelight blazing tunnels; dim primitive conditions of cognition and recognition. This form is pure desire. Love breaks through. Blue flies splatter against panes, guts splatter against bloodred walls of sacrifice. Ignite, Uproot, Shatter.

Slithering through the channels of neural time, the cold frozen cave, the speck of fleshly tremor, the calculated trauma, the usurped rhibozomic thrones, the falsity of resurrection, the gruesome massacre of wants through the three sisters of Abundance, Availability and the most fatal one: Necessity, who guard the furious zones of silence inside and outside, smoking tombs of the incarnate and the blasted corridors that lead to the thick pleasures of amnesia, bloodless armies of deathpale mothers smelling of bitter rot, bitter wax, wormshit inside flesh, wormpuke between skulls, molten décor of the shrines snatched from the jaws of the wolf howling across the badlands inside, grinning at the waste, grinning at this syphilis; turgid cocksuckers of embalmed prisons, monasteries, madhouses, brothels, barracks, slums and factories gloomy snow trickling through all dimensions of time space and mortality

the fakeness of it all,

versus the realness of me, enduring.

Between the heaving boobs of fatigue and nightmare

Between the asscheeks of putrid senescence

Between trashcans of sordid trance and perverted dirges and luminous meatlust

Blight breaks through walls, this carnival of free damnation,

Our homes in our domes, forever till we feel

There’s a door leading ashore

There’s a boar screwing a whore

Follow the light the blinding plague buses run through nerves and blood vessels like medieval knights wiping their brows after the grand rape, stars sweating in nervous bundles, mutation for owned land and cellular beings, ground between God and Time cowering to atrophy and ashes, ranting bluebirds and rabid dogs foaming up the Vision, dulling up the boundaries, dashing down the great sturdy resistance in terrific rage of the oldest God finally awake and finally dead.    

There’s an actor who floats in moonlight and goes everywhere leaving a trail of lossless defeat

See him hunched in the private loo of angels thinking of lightcool haze, staring at pink lipstick stains on bluecool walls, putting his finger against the smoothcool tiles, sobbing for his nine million doped children. Soon he’ll be on his couch, raving through the lifeless blues, copulating with the insatiate machines that deck the wanton dolls of civilized mayhem, aiming for the barbaric thunderroll: a world of his own, a world wrapped in sweat semen and eternity. This actor is habituated to the numbness of hate, and he seeks company of the durable bastards of ravage and decimation. He is a fool. Let us kill him.

Creating true literature is always like shitting strong smelly shit. It’s an affirmation of the heartbeat-boom. And you do it well only when it’s the only thing you can and you must, when nothing else will or can happen. And more often than not, it’s a product of anger, boredom and bitterly terrible sorrow. I walked out of office and dived straight into the whorehouse. It was a sweaty mad night.

Geometry, sharp edges and smooth surfaces. It’s nice to be a reptile among this decay and defeat of life. At least I’ll still be capable of movement without external impetus or stimuli. And thus the circle of all that’s free keeps on getting smaller. And the wolves keep on drawing closer. And waiting for the fire to be dead.

Mortally stupefied, like dead flowers on dead crucifixes. And suddenly this whole conspiracy to make us cheat on the void and thus to cheat us into utter submission makes no sense. This rage and fear and hatred and sadness: it’s all shit. It’s there to cover the ugly endless holes: the cowardice of mirrors and bells and solitude, of this denial of void that regularity of symmetry that conception orderly chaos through this conception of chaotic order. This game of hurting and being hurt

is stupid.

There isn’t much time or love left in this world now.

The knife was mine since when it all begun.

The knife’s still mine and that’s the way it shall be.
And when it all ends I won’t need it anyway.

We spend our entire lives peeing on living. And one fine morning, “poof!” and it’s all over. And there’s no life left to pee on. Hang in there, tender lady. Stick on for the little odd glints of life. If they're to come, they will, or else they won't. I’m here. And so are the piranhas. And I’m here and they’re there and you’re aching for gold and I’m aching for the tombs and meanwhile, knives pierce through the oblivion and there might be much blood or there might be a little. And of course the primeval barter system to maintain the economy. Our lives for their lives, our dreams for their dreams, our gruesome perdition for their endless plenitude. Hang in. It’s all good, it’s all the way it is.

 A drink from the cup of bionic soup. A drink from the cup of blood. A drink from the bottle of pure love.  Like jokers and harlots from medieval carnivals we wander across the skeleton streets of deadland, stretching like an ambidextrous, demonic flood of darkness from the horizon to eternity. Father stares down. Fire from the eyes and steel from the fist, streams of thought memory evolution impulses floats rockets of wet sorrow into the dryness, musing of untainted severe doom and smoking sphincter and grave judges swirl of smoke, coiling into the pingpong heart of darkness with the pinch of chemical juggling and the dancing of triggers like screeching hooting sharp ghouls emitting fumes of red and brown and the black from all porous caves orifices and apertures.  The Father is very angry. Won’t you cover his harsh with your supple soothing soil, Mother?  

Won’t you tell tales of tender love, Mother? Won’t you show me fertile dreams, Mother? Won’t you draw me closer to your calm watery darkness, Mother?

Sudden photographs and recollections of glimpses

that sparked through these edges, a fantastic carpet,

something deep and tender and well-protected, almost like sadness, but better, something preserved sincerely. All for the early worship. All for the lions that roar from heavy dens, the red glow in the forest, the droning dark from the caves.  

Recoil, get steady for the next attack. The next set will swipe down soon. Dark shapes gather around

the river. And still statues observe us with perfect objectivity of the long dead. And we observe the statues with perfect impulses and tremors of the dying. It’s a tight world. Those dark shapes keep on getting bigger. Buses and houses keep on looming larger. All in perfect silence.  

Cold, all the frenzied fireswipes. Benumbed, those damned chemicals and channels of electricity and gatepasses to the shrieking void inside. It’s not shrieking anymore. Clocks cocks and algorithm bombed down. Music and laughter all in serene purest joy. That’s the only time to truly forget about the urges, pangs and all other collateral hazards of being here. And the pain goes away and the snakes dissolve and pictures of sadness fade out for a while. Burn with me and you’ll get to know.   

Meat and milk for the soldiers.

Poison for the roots.

Umbrellas for the ghosts in rain.

  

নুলিপ

On Fishes that Glow When Sad

Pink flesh sticking to my heart of iron balls

Pink flesh sundown, pink flesh extermination pink flesh abject in the blinking bizarre

Pink flesh of the purge, cold minds choked souls, my friend, my single eternity

As hours leap on seconds, pink flesh leaps on the clock

It’ll all fight for me, and I stay the huge sad slow sticky mass

staring into that convoluted twilight

…

Snakepuke on the moon

I left my spring behind on the mountains I guess I’m not sure

Snakepuke on the moon

I sing to you

Your teeth are nice and shiny

Give love

Give

Give

From room,

ants gather round dried cum on bedsheet

goblins around my head

sad joker of dreams

masculine motions, tiger-sturdy zones

silent Buddha zones

decadent zones

resurrected shit

from room again,

view fades, blink blank blur blear

splendid legs, splendid ass, moonlit desert,

highway shoulderblades spiral mist

spinal gaze

the house of Atreus

blah.

Spots a little yellow in the red

I feel like a little girl, lost.

….

Nudecat, walk the alleys fight the hours down

Splendid nudecat in perfect guile

As inamorata shines down trashcans

And silver sings in perfect hue

Soft iron wings, launch Icarus

Citrus punch, decay punch

Limelight in the warring furs

Tolerate me, tolerate the dying and the long dead

Nudecat, nudecat, I’ll die one day

Punch the tremors down

In pristine puissance ah

World wraps in soft cocoon

Nudecat works way

through the lightpulp core.

…

Citylight moving backbound shoving down the ass of doom

Winding empires modern songs oh the champ how he goes look

There’s a temple in my head

It’s very dark and all its priests are dead

Falter by the altar, baby bird

It won’t rain for a thousand years

The big tragedy of the world

The big love of the world

Excreting angel-shit, excreting angel-love

Dig through the cave will must dig deep

Till you’re bored and dead

Citylight marching forth again,

Smokey cockroach-limbs, million oars to draw

Closer to that goddess of appalling rage

Who puts your soul in a cage

Who drags you down to her flesh

Blue boats on frozen lakes

Whatever it takes, fucker,

Whatever hell it takes.

….

Cindy windy tinkling tone

Where be thou

When the wind begone?

…

Before jumping out of this

Before dangling dick civilia cocophany cockophany

Men usually seek sustenance from women

Don’t know the story

Don’t know the compass sneer

Little registers of purity and urge

Fresh love fresh shit makes the mind happy aglow summerbum winter’s broken lute heart’s broken spine

Barbaric ecstasy comes easy, beer comes cheep or they ideally should

Like Olympian heroes greasing the guts of this brutish thump 

Tales of love sex and rape, tales of hatred and cauliflowers

One picture, big picture, upside down

I get the cogs I get the wheels

I get the postcards with naked flowers and naked women

Moderation by assholes democracy by piranhas Thanatos by the great white swan and the great black knife. lonely cow, big tits. Bad weather, pink umbrella.

…

One fine morning I walked into limbo

Where I met this boobey bimbo

whom I knew I had to screw

So I did her tight and I did her through

But the nasty wolves that guard that zone

Pounced on me when I was alone

I ran for my life and I ran so fast

that the heart went down and the balls went bust

And now I’m here bloodfuckdamn!

They broke my walls so yours I spam

as I stand on this weary road

reeling under motherload

But I’ll go there again for further fun

This time ‘round with a machine gun.

I’ll be strong and I’ll be tall

I’ll kill them one and I’ll kill them all.

….

I wouldn’t wipe my ass with poetry

And yet everything

just keeps on getting darker

it’s like from inside this dank cave or cathedral or heroon

i hinge my thoughts on your mind’s thighs

the mind’s cold and gray, like all sacred places of religion and death

the heart’s big sad child, suffering from unwanted gigantism

the body’s in decay, wrapped in civilizing marks

sadness never thumps like a torpedo

it rambles down slowly like a cloudy mountain so huge that no one’s ever seen one like that before

it’s sundown in this world of herons and Neptune-kisses

little electric dots ditty the world in plural  haze

roots the sun the moon and miners go down

…  

Once again, back to the tiger

Mind in white glow

Death Mama of richest flesh

Death Mama of silver gleam

Death Mama of honeyed sweat

Death Mama of the real pure

Death Mama with the snake

Hooding up from her navel

Silk body milk-meat through climes of strange paradise

The dark tender succor and a tiny red flint deep down below

which the world of splendid Angels with revolves around

I see them. Tiny rickshaws with wings, balloons of the heart,

Senile trams coughing primal shiver, houses and little monsters

Shops and the honeybees,

Sliding down into the speck

As rain turns dust into mud

Death Mama, with curves of the Universe

Kiss me into that hazy benign forgetting of blood and tissues. 

…

 

Decay of puppets, as the Jokers say,

is good for the harmony of senses

Counterfeit membranes pill up, covering the deep boom throb

Simplify the terms

Kill the whores

Keep their children

And let the big thing lie

like a whale, trembling raw

on a great white shore.

The idea is always to endure

Else we lose all fun.

…

Write to me

Send me a picture of love

Remember the drowning tigers

And their shadows finding us

Naked like the flesh

Steel blades sparkling like Gothic foreboding

My castle by the roof

Howls over the ancient sea

Barbeque appositions

Is the minstrel beastly dead?

Did Homer roar in the pines or was it Whitman?

or were both of them inside that ghastly ancience

as masters say?

Pull the car over

see your naked mind brisling in sunshine

to be the bull in massive fury of your dreamy nightmares

and stay within that eternity for never.

…

Don’t kill the freedom, boys

There’s no poetry without that.

Don’t kill the fun, boys

There’s bloody nothing without that.

….

Lion’s roar the moon’s a whore the world’s a bore I sail ashore

Roses are red the heart is dead tailor-made like I said

Lighting struck the fuzzyduck that quacked you luck from the muck

Pigeons coo, the love is blue, it’s all true and I am through.

…

Bent, slithering along the cold rough surface

Little glowing tricklettes of shiny arctic red

The rules have changed and there’s none to hate or love

Tacit empires nekton buffs placid shapes

Frozen gods of gold and love

Frozen spirals coiling out

from the vulva of love

Blue wines for Egyptian princesses

The bizarre droning of binary

sits tight on frontal lobe 

like the oldest bird that knows it all, and says nothing,

and stares

pressing the fond cells down in electra storm

storming fortresses of the terribly doomed antique

forests burn in cold sonata

and those icy sheets covering heart and mind

but the soul is older than this.

And pured to that static neutral extreme.   

The soul sings aloud from great white peaks of severe glory

…

Weep for what is lost and will never be

Weep for the honey and sting, weep for the rundown cars for the faceless bells weep for the gods weep for the coolly dead ponies weep for this blank living and that still dying.

Weep for the mother and her flesh

The Sybil has been banished, the clocks have been busted, Arthur and his knights have been sitting there forever,

Buses run slow in mourning and cats kill themselves over mice

There’s a great blob of sorrow spinning around, spitting sadness all over our faces as we live eat fuck and shit.   Weep for the stoned gods of silence, weep for their silence, weep for this inevitability weep for that thirst, weep for the bridges on fire and for the Sphinx, weep for what was once the spectral wholesome holy in the far shadow of this mind in rot as the great Emperor of madness and laughter fades away weary sun slumps down flowers wilt and birds return to tender doleful nests.    

…

the conspiracy of these maroon hours

stuff and matter and form dancing with things that shine and things that don’t

lost ones gather in the alley

and march to the hidden valley

to form an army and mangle the balls of time

and when it’s all over

the squirrel lies beastly flattened by the world’s weight with guts and blood splattered in a ferocious silent mass on the smooth avenue of love

Let us ride down it before that happens.

Let us make dark love in the primal backwoods.

Let us rise to brutal bigness.

…