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Alarms in the Hazard Night

  fig.035) loathing, lamentation and some basic flesh Flesh by flesh is, what it is and always has been, Flesh, again and again and again and again and again...A forest of blind dreams, in a valley of monuments where no one, can sleep Some soft fruit from the man man tree, a dry pull from mad youth Some broken weather for the quiet birds, like songs in the grass with dry turds Over the waves that are crashing, over the walls where the river rolls Forbidden are the tastes that we're tasting Wet in the days that we've ended, we've ended old Over and done go the dead things, the dead things that nobody knows, in bed all over and over and over again... From Milch, This Thimbleful... The swath of angry paper I've rolled myself into is disintegrating. Moving through the crowd has made it damp. Now I'm frustrated, being left by the front door this whole time. I start making my way to the kitchen, stopping to pick up a warm beer or sticky glass of something sweet or swea
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TYPE-2 (craig-bait) Getting Near the End

fig.8) et randy libertine...  All of the houses that I've ever known have burned down too the loose sand that was beneath them. Since, James Baldwin has continued to magnify the essence of those I've loved. Surrounding myself steadfastly and without regret, those who have assured me or amplified what I am or have hoped to find inside myself, have only done so by turning away and becoming another soulless asshole that I've had to walk away from. I pull my fingers out of my pants and they're still bloody. I walk into the store and ask for my gun back, but they laugh. I ask for my money back and they hand me liquor instead, cheap booze that has an acrid smell. Then when I walk back inside and ask for more, they look at me with suspicion. I remember being young and disrupting technology, rather then interrupting the whole operation or getting anywhere with the system, we hiccupped. Missing the bed by just a second, being sweaty and still wanting for more. Now, I'm home

Final Math, or The Seaman's Bell to The Widow's End

fig.980) The Seaman's bell and the incense from the choirs nest are together. Foliated and compressed finally drawn from the water, from the weathers wet side. Bias is its own place, anchored to the sick sacks of blood we are. Open the line of this street down its middle, right between the lights. Then wait, the long night through. Whoa Oh a Whoa Aye... I'd love you twice as much tomorrow. Then the clasp at the other end breaks and mad as the moon over the moors, King Ovid-Pants agrees. While my fingers continue to fumble, the pendant slips its chain completely. Sliding down into the place between your breasts, King Ovid-Pants. Maybe it seeks a trove of amphetamines there or a place where Stan Brakhage might wait.  On the day, we're marching up and down the length of my room. The numbers we have are loudly shouted. It's as though all of it, the math of simple things and the quiet youth of its being built or consumed can stand for something. It's like they'

The Earnest Risks of a Noble Actuary

fig.082) sploosh, this salient and inconsequential arc Don't you know, we're Dancing Dancing through the flames from our beards, Apostrophy, Parenthesis (in that old order); Mrs. Jamwell June, of Sunny Market Place, Deeply Hopless Records It started when the other farm's got a taste for herding some of our stray numbers. At first they poached a few of the prime numbers from the bottom of our board. But then the chalk began disappearing too. Soon enough, people all over this valley were leaving. Finally, there wasn’t any will left to use any of it and the whole thing evaporated. I remember the farm before its small math made it so big. Back then, it couldn’t fail because there were plenty of big numbers floating up to the top. There was never a need for Euler or their damn constant. That is until gamma arrived, suggesting that it was the same thing, only different. That’s when the farm broke. That’s when it started making all of us hungry too.  It's the worst tim

Like a Moving Title Goes Back and North

fig.09.4L) Standard Space Applying Fig.09.4L) Standard Space Applying, or Our Invisible Wall Peaks Crowd 1: "Slip into the tub, scare the kids pissing in our pool," we know now.  "Make everyone wise as hell, I'm just saying."  "Backing up, our eyes stuck slowly in the mirror."  "Let's drown the bastards, living in their piss until nobody laughs anymore." Crowd 2: Our place of favor skips our place of done and gone like it's lead going brilliant Being right, passing beneath every bridge after bridge being seen Because we're thoughts about donuts and not the donuts wasted (yet unresolved, this Yankee without station sits white as their flag)  This window, its dressing and the abutment that's south of the square is at least three things. 

From Below our Burden, the Comma

fig.321 the gracious event Rather than giving in to any of it, Dada-Girl Patsy Cline also known as, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone finishes reading her note and then knowingly confronts the moment's truth. This isn't Morocco after all. We're not in together. This isn't Tangier; no one will die here. Nothing has to stop, the car is right outside and winter hasn't taken hold.  Littered as it is with the robot leavings and burnt flags of nowhere, the gallery still churns. The basement heaves greatness like a mouth fowl with blindness. Hiccupping bile on the treads, retreating kids defiantly hold any distant corners of morning while Dada-Girl Patsy Cline or, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone continues to fight fascism in the dust behind her shed. Using her 50 cent pencil to hold down the paper, she writes, I will be free.  Distance, every mile towards the end is another spent. Even so dull, this cold blade can smile back at me. Since now, we're untangled from t

Workshop/ In the Last Pages of The World w/ Katt and Myko

fig.14.90) our dinner party is made from wax and mesh                                            We've been coming upstairs less and less, things keep burning or begin to run out as we get sad. "How cold is it," I ask again, pointing to the calendar above our shop sink. Stabbing my finger at the nothingness inside one of the boxes beside itself. An enthusiastic eater of sex, she spurns any of my squalid rationales for comparative or binary tropes. "Splendid," she says. "They won't pin me to any of their fucking walls." Setting forth, on the dim waters and dark tides. Slipping away from Fuck-off and heading straight towards Fuck-all-yall, Myko knows where to go. "We're finding a place where the happy bees dance, isn't that right Katt?" "While I want restful sleep to dream in, a fitting collapse devised from easy work is more likely. For one such as myself, one of languid character that doesn't suffer easily, I probably sh