Thursday, December 29, 2011

065: Little sun / Runic

I roam the outskirts of the living world,
with postcards of the petulant and vile,
on subway walls and empty roads,
settled behind by fragile snow.

My fat moon, in the belly of the night,
I slowly sleepwalk below granite skies
and flicker forever to flame for the sunroof,
vested to the sun that blinks through the vortex.

It shoots photon arrows to shatter the ice,
shy nuclear heart, brighter with every revolution,
a trace of wings, brings comfort from the spirit
and ever so often, a savior's sword.

And in the wake of its leave, gradients of ash,
crowds chatter, like grinding, in foreign tongues,
clouds of doubt fester and shower the fear
that maybe the hands of light are just lips of a ghost.

Circus pet struggling 'round the axis of null,
sun in my head, blood loss bleeds into the golden path.
I will wait at the gates of dawn all the while
tucked away, the runes sleep in the darkness.

Monday, November 28, 2011

064: Conclusion

Gallery of mummies,
murdered parts of self,
wrote in red, the clouded life,
as exposures drag the head,
the earth drank the blood
that seeped between
the cobblestones.
In our mausoleum,
honey shrouds the corpse,
the hurting words
and the loss
of what was never there.

Absent angel,
present the echo,
in the concrete world,
pitch black solid;
I answer to -
find myself
in blank days,
terror in the night,
hold back
the rose of anger,
nude skin stripped
of denial.

Sun flare whipped,
when they speak,
every word,
the knife described,
parchment the mouth,
throwing stones
to build the cathedral
Cold dark hides,
restoration in the distant,
cupboards of my heart,
the spiders' racket;
you may feel
a little sting.

Monday, October 31, 2011

063: Teethgrinding in Heaven

A miniature coffin laid down,
without a sound
from the stonefaced crowd
steering 'round the cenotaph.
More woman than child
and less child than that
weathered avatar.
Where undirected tides go,
beneath a hungry moon,
from a soil dewed in tears,
flowers bloom of rot
in delightful creation.
Imperfect angel descent
from the stars gazing back,
we come together
and I shudder to think
I'd choke on a mouthful
of your innocence.
Human dirt still tastes sweet,
like the growing pains
of a world suspended
in the instant of our lives.
An alchemical balance frame,
which way do we go from here,
maybe the rising will tell.

Monday, October 17, 2011

062: Atlas

Paint your love red on the walls of my abode,
so the thin marrow may outgrow the bone;
I've lived so long in the shadow of the sky,
my wings tucked deep beneath dead skin,
waiting for one that fits my loneliness
to kindle the rush in my innards of rust.

Chained dearly to the mountain on my back,
made in the shape of every writhing thought,
I'm building an exquisite silhouette
for you to match, but I was always there -
self-portrait of pain, ease in distant deserts,
still kicking ego on the frozen slab.

Discard all judgement when the nails go through
and I'll find you shying inside my serpent clothes.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

061: Distraction

A sequel, predictable,
rug pulled by things
of so little consequence,
no news, just symptoms.
Ravel ironic, stationed in wait,
on the way to somewhere, a surface truth,
central among distant beauty -
razors the eye, shakes the bowels,
as buzzards land around the neck.
Perhaps I have no right,
just walking on the shore, in line,
but furthest away,
shielded by night.
Uncomfort reaped, a bestowed memento,
cutis contained, to cast a shadow
and give birth to nothing
but words and shades
of deep monochrome,
to a logic dire, beyond Champollion's reach.
Natured/nurtured, readily lost,
thought clouded, to strip naked in the wind,
could the ink used to write the guidelines
be drying still.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

060: Death and the Antiquaries

Island within
a scattered archipelago,
low tides still expose you,
winds erode
and waves grind,
while a random snapshot
mimics serenity.
Leaden beams
carrying the wounded,
so fascinating
from afar,
the reduced bodies
of the once mighty,
a fleeting relief,
away from the fall.
The bridge behind your back,
only floods will reveal
its final pulse
and its absence will mirror
the screaming void.
Time is no friend
in the echoing caves
of this freakshow,
so I hoped blindly,
come spring anew,
they would clone me
using DNA from littered
cigarette butts.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

059: Trip to the treehouse

Eggshells rise and roll
the crowded dining hall
and fingers freeze pointing away;
on the jungle's rim, a foxhole,
leak through the pipe
and sandbox the mirage,
with a twitch of fear,
between sudden trenches
of the outside.

Freed to the vasts of self,
still quaked back in Cretan mirrors,
intimacy - desert well,
nurtured by the mute fading,
then dive it for a moment
to the berserk sound of life;
and before leaving here,
dust the patchwork
seeking a lifeline
all undividing.

Monday, July 4, 2011

058: Sleep of the ants

Gasp self, formed by matter against absence,
calloused knuckles and radio songs intimate,
forcing the outside world in,
figures deluge beyond the Cartesian.
This here is condemned,
run-down house atop a restless tomb,
wherein the blind tornado sleepwalks,
cradled by the deepest roots,
lonely seeded from Adam's skull.
Step in, needle cushion, collection of comedowns,
polar north spells only nowhere,
the dead, never dead enough to bring out,
when the tremors of raging weakness
keep them awake through the sanguine dawn.
Crutched eyelids howl to fall,
but thoughts, twitching, carry on,
as ego bursts and blasts in anti-Zen,
a display nurtured to extract cheers and tears.
Always lost in stargaze from knee-dug glens of salt,
with nerves exposed to autumn's gnaw;
just let lie motionless.

Monday, June 27, 2011

057: Names

On the static shore
of a remote lagoon,
I had dinners in the dark
with the moon up high
and an empty plate
for those who live in starfields.
Distance, relative
when trapped in a cage of echoes,
wandering the streets
of the city of unbuilt houses;
still the silver screen whispers
in icepick tongues,
diminutive and demonic,
shards squatting
the path of imbalance,
while I kept replaying
sequences of near joy,
lodged in secret graves.
I stretched my mind's limbs
to touch the sun's mantle
from the bottom of the pit,
starving and solitary,
in kinship of the king,
with a mouthful of lead.
This war, ongoing and unanswered,
cruel yet incumbent,
never released me
into the freedom of wolves,
but taught me I'll never breathe
the air of heaven.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

056: Other end of the world

City shapes go on,
through the smell of plastic
and sweat
and a billion whispers.
See cardboard rows
flashing -
blind paparazzi;
electricity purrs,
lightbulbs mimic stars,
behind a corner,
a butterfly flaps its wings
in a glass box
and the line that divides
draws a blood equator.
The outside
isn't that pretty
seen through a hole in concrete,
through a pink eye
and an evil word,
- like a periscope
from a sane bubble,
refusing to collapse
back to thought.
Shaking paralyzed,
almost bloodless
and up with the blues;
the arms that hold heaven
will reach tomorrow,
but tonight,
nowhere isn't far enough.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

055: Haiku

Append missing time
to a blemished résumé -
hell is a mirror.

[Written long ago, slightly altered.]

Monday, March 28, 2011

054: Cave into me

Cave into me from the flowing blackness
behind subway windows, reflective of desire,
when the eye is lashed - dream trap ecstatic,
when I make up new geometries,
you're the golden ratio to my arch of dust.

Will you let me go, let me jump off the chaise,
run away with the driver, frail wings careless,
let me bloom into the egg shell man
I was meant to be, a poison seed
engulfed in turbid amnios.

We'll birdwatch and trainspot the apocalypse,
tired with a passion on Monday mornings,
a sordid mind's springs unwind so weary,
till we grow old and boring
and the universe puts us to sleep.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

053: The spill

From barrens to deserts,
partaking clockwork migrations,
bacilli of a tectonic world that crumbles slowly,
back to the frozen sweat of the void.
Black hole heavy logs
intersect at right angles,
where my mind falters and my skin knows not,
rabid titans' tug of war,
the phantom of order scared by destiny's scythe.
Fugitive patterns, dismantled by the wind,
wrote the story of a new dawn
on a cold prison wall,
lavishly eroded by the nails of left hands.
A sole beacon, in the distance,
a man's seductive blind rage,
spilled and scattered
to the heart rhythm of carrion calls.
I hang on dark clouds, disseminated
at the crossroads of free fall trajectories,
scribing a single word
on antique rotting bricks
from the ruin of a golden promise;
I'll espouse dusted bones in my flea bed,
upon a mattress of tentacles,
intertwined fingers - starving grubs,
shaping what used to be a perfect body,
long before the illusion faded.

Friday, February 25, 2011

052: Untitled

ring the wake.
Methods to the chaos,
ideation in red,
beneath the ground,
like Mishima's Mustang.
The people.
The noise.
Inhale deeply,
to the end of the earth;
across nails and needles.
gentle violence.
Heart of the world,
the word,
hanging, descending;
let it land.
Heroes of isolation
crowd together,
the last sweeter self.
Never was I
more alive.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

051: Februarie jalnic

The day the sentient beast discerns
the polar desert of its loneliness,
the day volcanoes of revolutions erupt
in the obsidian silence of love,
drugged for an everlasting presence
attainable like the surface of the sun,
lost in treasure maps to the grail of the high
that makes all the lows seem breadcrumbs in a trail
in the obsessional ravines of pale concrete
and seasonal affective crucifixions,
raging, frothing, spitting, pineal bathed in venom,
straining the unlengthy chain.
A day, a trip through empty glacier halls,
where footsteps count the years
along meanders decaying gently like snowfall,
observe - the colors of the rainbow are all black,
divine symphony played on chords of leaflike lives,
trying to break the code of an error syntax.
The day today is every yesterday and every tomorrow,
serpent godfather at the head of the table,
his own tail on a silver platter as main course,
all the while Cronus keeps gnawing on his children,
building a shrine of strength on pearly bones,
a bleak February in the microscope of solar winds,
today is just another day.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

050: Lines in empty spaces

I see the world whirl by
in the glow of lonely streetlights,
tallying seconds in swarms of smoke,
stretched along plastic firmaments,
until a bright consummate day
will blow wide the windows
of my solitude cocoon.
The breeze hints of her footsteps,
as I revel in the barren distances of crowds;
come visit, image traced in sullen red,
from an electric alcove -
shielding meager ties,
while I remember years of eternities,
countdown to an apocalypse of sleep,
the gray comfort of being a master
of a cold, nothing night,
seconds tallied in swarms of smoke
and the glow of lonely streetlights
in which the world whirls by.

Monday, January 31, 2011

049: Spring in Luzon

With a contorted mouth agape,
frothing sermons for seconds past
and myriad mistakes
that congregate in whirlpools of shame,
I'd feel the pain of a tiny, endless world
dissipating in a structured void
of silent, hydrogenic granite.
Away, pustulate words
that never healed betrayals,
raked bone chapel, mine,
in a splatter of rearranged
gaunt icons of the holy,
a haunting of perfect ghosts
in self inflicted lacerations.
My friends of misery would stand tall,
proud like lead crosses,
as I'd absorb the nails to atone
for feasts of skin and milk,
to every place solid or dreamed.
I'd picture trading blood for comfort cold
to solve the riddle of war,
for love becomes the word of flame,
of throbbing membrane
in godly, infernal delight;
but the spirit whispers forgiveness,
seeping through the seams
of walls built of question marks.
For fire and water to be wed or gone,
perhaps as life requires pain,
freedom demands a little death.

048: Together

I still see him sometimes
in splinters of volcanic glass,
standing on my right shoulder;
and sometimes I fall back
to visit the empty rooms
where he used to hide and play,
now, animated only
by a desert wind
blowing memories.
Our blood, our tears fading,
melting into the night,
clawing at the walls
of a perfect nothing;
and if my heart was heaven,
I'd build you new flesh,
brighter than pulsing stars,
and if my heart was hell,
you'd rise to steal the sorrow
from humans' brow.
As you were fire,
I will be ice;
and as you were the word,
I'll be the teeth,
as I disowned, so I do miss.
Together in the estrangement
of concrete confines,
and the tenderness
of untamed flowers,
in frailty and power,
we'll remain the same, eternally.