Friday, November 28, 2014

what what what what what what want what what what

they told me there was no saving you
and really, i loved the madness
your wings enveloped me
and i threw you to the ground

but seriously.

my back is bending further and further. hurt everywhere, all the time. i am at some low level of sickness just about always. ground covered in snow/feel it in every previously broken bone. Afraid to tell anyone or go to the doctor because, well obviously, what if it is something bad? Can't I just die in peace in my own due time, without some fucking quack butcher sawing up my gutty-wuts and telling me I'm an asshole for doing drugs all the time and eating terrible food and never letting him poke and prod me before?

a clever aside:

My throat is slimy
my nose drips
my head is bangin'
but not because what I'm listening to

My eyes are dry
my lungs feel ?thick?
no one listens to my diatribes on
the realpoli-tik

My toes do this thing
where they feel like they break
and get unbearably hot.
Please, prepare my wake.

Surely, it won't be long
I am cold to the bone
can't lift the whiskey,
is there no end to this hell? I'm alone!

Stressed and depressed
clenched my teeth till they cracked
not like I use them,
for my tummy is all

it rumbles and grumbles
bitching just so,
I'm afraid one day it shall give up
and crawl right out of the mouth-

my hands hate the work
and work hates the hands
but the rent must be paid!
you know we are subservient to the

jackboots and batons out the door
and needles and pins within
my back may be broken (literally)
but I'm thankful my teeth have so much
Skin. (did that work? did you get it?)

Clearly I'm dying,
but what's to be done?
the whinging won't do
and the complaining's all gone!

Because someone said it better, first.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

drilled killed eternalised metabolised and falsified

several hundred internal near-catastrophes per hour. i was gifted a vision of a framework, mother earth divorces father war and begins an almighty custody battle for the kids. i lie down with the bloody bullet-riddled body of a wolf and slip into blessed unconscious. in the dream we huddled around funeral pyres to inhale the burning corpse like incense to chase away the I.

I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.
Rainer Maria Rilke

an impossible extradigital wheel, exploded. step inside the wheel and a vast file tree, infinite card-catalog of experience. zero-lag, subjective precise recall of anything anywhen. experienced in 0-time. work out your own salvation. ("Oy vey, have you got the wrong vampire!") 

That weapon will replace your tongue. You will learn to speak through it. And your poetry will now be written with blood.

i see an end…parts of my body fail. a soreness, a physical expression of ennui, pervasive. i will push my own burning boat out onto the river styx and fall asleep, peaceful. painting face with blood for battle that doesn't come/sits across the street, points and laughs, comfortable in the knowledge that it pulls every string, everything. as if on cue, a headache drags mental faculties back down to the physical realm and thought is vapor. 

Rise now, and drive your cart and plough over the bones of the dead!

hear music softly from another room. soft crooning. pipes creaking in the cold. what a sham, this body. 

a revolution to be had (but not ours)
we are not wanted here.
where is Out?
"Easy, John" they said as they wheeled him back to HQ. 
But they all knew he was dying.

"He walked straight, with firm proud strides, without a doubt. He was doing something that would never end; he would go through death without hurt."

**you can hear the howler monkeys in the background
**it dissolves you into a confrontation with authentic being tmk
A less-than-surgical removal of illusion, fantasy's stage lights switched off abruptly, intimate encounter with the Real. unspeakable unknown death truths. when i go to the jungle, the key is to find your secrets. 

"i lubricate my rifle with liberal tears." he said.

funny, i just soak mine in pig's blood.

"the spiral pilots everything" but, then it isn't really a spiral is it? It's a vortex. with power and motion and chaos amid the clean toilet bowl swirl. dose myself to implosion, save the space for someone that needs it. self-auscultation, self-replication. self-shattering tones, noise-segregation and collapse of all function into the particle-static and cold. falling fast, right out of space and into the void forever.

the controller is the controlled - j krishnamurti

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

most things haven't worked out

at the drive-in theatre
we saw bloodlust and sickness
unremitting horror backstabbings 
melodramatic revenge fantasies
utt/////errrr destruction of illusions
made Real
behind the house
coal cars and leathered lined faces
leered godlike on a trestle above town
carrying black lung gloom 
to illuminate their domesticated violence
for a pretty decent wage.

We wove silently around these perfectly flat, evenly covered fields of some indistinct crop still early goings and bright green low to the ground. at speed they blurred together and appeared smooth and i would pretend they were lakes and we were on another planet where water was emerald. I didn't realize it until i was older that i was probably using some meditative trick to….focus by not focusing…on the oddness of the color in comparison to "real" water on earth and using that to trick myself into thinking i was in like X-Ray Zone or on Venus or wherever i wanted to go at the time that had green water. 

dear old dad built bridges out of concrete because he
couldn't figure out how to create them out of words
nevermind love
denied emotion
but not math
he preferred correct answers 
to what was right
a destination
to a journey
everything was always fine
why can't you be?\/\/\/\//\/\/\/\///\/\//\\/\/\//\/\/\\///\\\//\/\////\///\/////\\\/\/

i watched the older kids jump off the bridge into the deep water the younger ones weren't allowed in while sitting on an algae-covered underwater rock hunting crayfish with a jar and a stick. my memories resemble 8mm film, scratchy…grainy. no sound. i remember the clouds crossing the sun/a knife-edged wind/whipped through the shallow valley the creek ran through/brought some vague contentment as it chilled my skin-unexplainable. only crossed the creek once:something about the other side seemed off. 
sinister somehow

    My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt.

no air conditioning, farmhouse. 
hot…box fans jammed in open windows. 
chased her through labyrinthine hallways
ending/puzzled/in empty rooms
the staircase shouldn't have been there
the door shouldn't have opened
the basement, long disused. dust covered and cluttered
piled high: a century of gathered uselessness
it was always bone cold in the basement. 
i heard her laugh above me: at the top of the stairs she smiled and turned to run
can never reach her, and the smell of her hair trails onward through another waking.

i think if i ever caught her i wouldn't know what to do. 

The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. -Psalms 34:18
(((((tell me which way that river run)))))