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

The postcoital cock is a limp corpse draped in seaweed, a mariner found bloated still upon splashed rocks, sea foam in his beard.

Sometimes it sounds better from the outside, listening to that distorted hum bounce upon damp walls, the same I'm braced against with hand and forehead, pissing and thinking in a saturated corner, imagining the improvements on my character if I were to be turned inside-out, all jeweled and steaming, but as it is from the outside, I've doomed my damned self offering my eardrums as Communion hosts to the greedy harmonics that frame my night with its dancing drizzle and thicklunged smoke, boys and girls graceful without grace, sharp of lip yet with yawnful eyes, letting the ripples wake upon the liquortongued bank, easy with liquorfingers and liquorhips, everyone in a passive fuck spinning around the room, or maybe in a back alley I dance alone in a rain, in clouds, listening to the ricochet of metal, seeing sex in cold corrugation, marveling that I am not inside-out as feared but swathed in nightlove and warm monkey skin dusted with cold spring, and how good it sometimes sounds from the outside.

knotsbooks

Heartburn, but not from what I ate
I never knew why people ate these
And now I know why I never did
Record's skipping, but I can't get out of bed
Vinyl cries in the corner
While we bathe in the digital ocean
My dad always told me
To watch out for electromagnets
Humming, buzzing, like a microwave
In one ear and out the other
In my nose and oust the others
Feel so shitty now
Feel like I'm sinking now
But is it enough to stop me
From doing it again
Never was, never will be

Your earring is on the floor
I wish it were someone else's

THUMBS DOWN

motorcycle exorcist into the wild
picking up a spare, settling for a strike
plates smashed on sidewalks
police can target practice
these nights drag and drag
endless and senseless
this book sucks, no reason to read
give all her birds away
it's winter, and you know what that means
nervous hands on top of washing machines
we were all sixteen once
Once, we were all sixteen
tangled mess of electrical cords
sick to your stomach, slick rubber
makes you think viscera, snakes
pick it up with a paper towel
sop me up with my paper trail
grind poison into my bed
wars between spiders and notebooks
flicked the dead onto the carpet
hate killing those fuckers
you know they never stop moving
you know
hear the love from the other room
is it being made or made up

just flick me onto the carpet when we're done, mop up my poison with paper towels and the ocean

Found this in an old notebook. I remember writing it, and if memory continues to serve, as aided by the inherent message in the stumblin' word, I was on some sort of pharmaceutical trip, bad little pill-eater boy thinkin' he a big bad pill-eater man. Probably winter of 08/09? I was reading "The Exorcist" and was miffed how it sucked. Ok.

Collected blackouts, 2012.

No, no, no, make no mistake; these are the suns I rise for, this is the fractured battlefield dawn, this is the glory. A leather bird carries arrows and flint, telling hesitant secrets of our gasoline blood spilled in clots among interstate ruin. Your delicate savage foot a red sled sliding atop shell and grisly snow, you throw haughty lips towards the conflagration as the brave wade knee-deep in the guts of their stricken brothers, brows slickened and singed in the greasy smoke. Scalping white people scalping white people, scalps, scalps, scalps.

"Bach visits"

Brought to wheezing life
at a Spaniard's hand,
there is the smoke of guitar
lofty in a room
belonging to the breeze,
I awkward on elbows
I spin sparkling eyes
I dream lightly
on a plain plaster ceiling;
oxen, a levee
a man, a mistress
a gentle rain of feetsteps
a bow with swept cap
from deep in the gut
to mouth a moth
down dry throat
and dust my lungs
with a boiling allegro.

Spitting spit and drooling mistakes, I'm as cute you know I'm just as cute. My back blank of flesh reminds us in it a canvas for a girl I know sweet as wine and a homely feather who claws at my meat to leave blood marching along nailed deltas in the knots of muscle, I wanting her to tear me apart and shove barrow-loads of gristle upon the morning's screaming sidewalks, I tense instead gather my skin and not inquire more into her delicate position. Oh Lord I am lost and lose the children.

My pain seems guileless and my worry sustainable. My tears grind without pride. But my pain is acutely and viciously MINE and my worry smotheringly and warmly MINE though my tears grind for us all. I expect no anodyne light upon my lips nor a shoulder to share my yoke. I expect to be let be, bent and learned.

I was born with your eyes searing negatives, I was made strong carrying much for long, hoping for oystershelled fingertips to rifle me as the pearl pages of a new book. I've looked for you in dim-lit rooms from ocean to ocean, in postcards from my father, 2002, in Harry Nilsson songs I knew by heart well before the foggy Humboldt dawn knew to assault my eyes, searing negatives and laying such a burden upon newborn shoulders.

Death limps
mystery and fog
trailing us all
A bad feeling all day
Pressed hands sail
valleys of ivory
drank all sensory
bliss
in every irreplaceable blemish
There are caverns in my hands
to hide whispers
to skate razors
and lit matches
Scar scar tissue
Count backwards from zero
right hand through left eye

2012: hips lovebones pain teethkisses

You step through sprung roots and burnt buds to cradle my face in a peaceful charade of hips versus love versus bone. You are a pilot light dancing at my diesel spring, I slow-burning and shrouded by the furs and teeth of poets and cherubim. You are what I want, we carving gruesome hearts high atop sandstone bluffs, we chasing cattle, we mosquitoes, lives swollen and pregnant with pain, finally fulfilled in that valley of lotus only grimly glimpsed then on those summer evenings blue stones awash in a molasses comfort.

My world is not your world and I am its champion. My world is not awake and brimming, disgusted. It is warm, asleep. My stare downcast though perched upon a straightened back plows furrows in the dumb concrete, brushing aside shattered eggs and their sloppy drunk yolk greening in the aging sun and adorned with the same rotten crown of fallen leaves granted all those ignorantly immobile. I breathe wordless oaths in kissses at one-eyed cats that dream lazy beyond neglected furniture, I pump my arms and scream at the boys lounging in a man's skin playing a man's horn satisfied with a child's game. My feet licking lap upon a careless placenta born from found flirting bluffing automobile enmity, brown glass and broken plastic.

My body is tense with the wind crackling walls and knuckling upon my window, the cold dancing against the house seducing its fingers into some neglected fold, holding its icy breath until the house shuddering relaxes resigned into crystal arms of breeze and frost, and a tandem exhale then, an ephemeral semblance of kinetic unity, one mass sighing cold and warm, organic and fabricate, home and distance. Fingers find their mark, tracing in sandy hair inscrutable whorls to be read in some unborn tongue, eyes rolling to their whites throwing gobs of spit and semen upon plaster and mirrors. Teeth taking of their turn more than their share, cuneiform on clay walls of legs and labia, staining winter's blues with a flush upon the surface of ivory, fiery blood splashed haphazardly from memory's palate.

all written at some point last year, no recollection really just spare prose jotted now and then just telegramming myself now from then, a year bulldozer subtle, superficial like a werewolf, no time to write i thought, so busy grinning and grinding away kissing with my eyes and teeth and forgetting maybe to be letting my heart lurch freefall from my throat be letting my fingers dance the tongue dance, now keeping it chained and them tame and just wondering who i was waking next to/walking away from last year, just found these old scraps of paper that told me the above-transcribed secrets and sometimes hard to read my own writing but there it is