6-26[/7]/13(/29)/4:35

How quickly we become accustomed to our own disbelief. It IS indoctrination you realize, yes? Stretch your larval mind prior, remember that there existed a time that Disbelief was no more a part of your perception than was what you have yet to accept tomorrow. Why do I each day shoulder this weighted cynicsm, the same each night before sleep which I shrug to my floor in some half-hearted gesture of finality? Pray that tomorrow we exchange our burdens for lessons, and our defiance of possibility for the acceptance of awestricken humility.

Statues of the Virgin Mary Weep Blood, Why Should Others Not Likewise Menstruate

Statues of the Virgin Mary Weep Blood, Why Should Others Not Likewise Menstruate
- or -
A high-minded orchard is an awful place to fall.

I've been licking statues. I've been licking statues, kissing them. Some erode beneath the glaze of my vitriolic tongue, their carved aquiline features caving inward, cancerous and leprous and accompanied by fate's cruel chuckle, it delights in their delayed rot, the quiet sobs of sculptors long dead. Some turn away, suddenly aware and very sure that it is not my crawling ape tongue and impatient ape fingers for which they have silently borne the centuries' weight. But some glow and delight, groan and crack and press into my embrace, stone lips separate and moisten in solemn and immediate defiance of their nature, and their fingers spread the folds of ancient stone robes and into which I settle, bashful at the unsung warmth of marble, a skeletal peace observed only by the morbid gardener for whom my insistence was only a passing curiousity and my death so deserved and welcomed as a respite;
"That asshole would he just would, rotted between carved thighs - in death he skewers and is skewered by hyperbole - with a pike he never knew to wield anyhow, and she too cold to reciprocate" [this is irony] "it is not pity I feel! It is not - he just would - "
But the respite soon ends and I die and the statues slowly crumble and the gardener tends her spiral of flowerbeds where the blossoms refuse to fall nor do they ever burst from fertile buds but just dumbly Are.
At the foot of the statue there is magic in the dust of my sperm, and a bird perched upon the marble nipple shits a seed stolen from the orchard's fallen fruit, which the magic catches and sighs gently into dark soil, and something will unfurl, unnoticed by the sterile eye of our morbid gardener, and will bud in spring and cause madness amongst the mindless flowers as surely as the bees take to the ley lines with their dusted gifts.

late winter 2013

I know your bitter breath would prove sweet as victory, and likewise your shallow fangs when you sink em into me.

poemtry

Why doth mine thumb feel broked?
Why doth mine throat so choked?
To sleep away the waning hours,
To piss upon the grinning flowers.

The puppet children have their hands up their own assess! What shall I do, what CAN I do to remind YOU of that pain of gestation? Please, take this mantle from off my shoulders; my struggles are unbecoming and I have naught upon which to rest.

sir?

Up with the birds and chimes, no rest granted the weary, least alone I, weary in Biblical proportions. Slept for a while on a shitty couch, struggled to my feet, excusing a bashed knee as I tumble towards my bedroom to wash my teeth. But sleep nay come, so a porchlight covenant with too-sweet liquor I have stowed, eyes rolled back and sucking to find an alternate dawn. Daylight is upon us, no less lonesome than its brother-the-night, and I fool myself, tickling, "Today shall be different!", though there is no longer a difference in the days of convicts. I have sealed my fated lips with a stretching wax, as if this is how I chose it, this day, each day, passing as an unlit fuse, soaked and waning under an abysmal fucking tidal urge to swell beyond my given boundaries. I skip amongst a gerrymandering long dead and uninterested, empty lines lingering just long enough for a proper questioning, bent lamplight glares in my face and shoots violence into untanned eyes. I know nothing, I swear, not me but he who tempts you Fates and fists, he my brother though I know him not! Ah, pity you poor fool who lurks within my scab'd bones, to hide your wretchedness within a wall of sanctity and secret despair, peering out of my bone-hole window with a hound's baleful eyes and lamenting the great yoke that has been clenched down firmly upon [y]our brow. Really, then, you'd have thought he larger than an unkempt derelict, larger than the beetles that helicopter madly upon the bells' striking tone, a tome a tomb a room, all the same, wrapped in doom with your cardboard California spine. Books are to blame for my not having ate solid food for a week, for my guts erupting upon the intervention of a careful calorie. Books are to blame when I wake upon a ghost and stammer my morning, stamp my morning unto an evening bereft of charm and holiness. I soaked the meat in a sink until the blood bled through paper and turned the water rust, chopped it and fried it and paced circles within tired circles, never enough blood to feed the healthiest vampire "who looks so sick in the sun". My dreams are filled with many-trunked elephants, great engines that spin and spit turbulent waters through the skies of imaginary hospital towns, and carefully indulgent women who refuse to plead an allegiance because/in spite of that kick'd dog that insists on following my steps while wearing a mocking cloak of my thin skin.

The [after]Effects of Red Wine Upon a [wo]man's Spirit, or, "A Titscendantal Crisis, One Among Many", or, "Two Long Nights [ago]".

[Ears ringing, note, natch]

Dreams of tits, clouds of tits just raining. I try to keep it towards some semblance of reality, but jeezus how the tears fall, you know?? If I could be left alone with the knowledge that I am alone, I may be able, just maybe, to grasp upon a falling leaf, to grasp the breeze like a chickenshit rodeo clown, who knows? Oh, this feels so good, as if I'm freefalling again; one again so sweet at the breast of Nipple. Treat me beastly, feed me poorly when I beg to be fed. O Lord, the Almighty Church of Nipple-Fist Action! These flags of Vein will take millenia to decipher, and by then there will be no word for nipples!? Someone is the only fruit worth desecration, as if it became life upon its abortion, but who believes? Certainly none of the cunt I deem worthy of words, they all too smart to be bedraggled with the decidedly unhip notion of THEISM but at any rate I challenge on, I challenge on, always the shepherd of a land that few would beg a difference. So tonight I am left alone to a flip-side, mosquito pest pestilence pestilence

feels so good to write. I may as well write it a few more lines...

Wear your bird-mask, protection against the miasma! The inherent, inherent miasma. As if the very repitition changed the nature of the evil words that come freely. As if my hands were dragons, my fists dragons, my tongue eyes bladed dragons...

And so I survey a landscape raped from a youthful ambition to find tits to spill my cloudy blood upon. CLOUDY BLOOD.

I
AM
IN
CUNT
TROL
L
.

[heart] [skull] AtD '13

fun to attempt a decipheration of my inundated crossthoughts, to scratch a translation upon glass, all "[sic]" by nature [sic], Shea is passed-the-fuck-out on my ratcouch, Nina Simone sings