Your's is the first redness of the sun, And of the sun's liquidness is made The naked gleam of your skin. There is no coolness, no shade in you And you are not a haven for my wanderings, Being of congealed fire! Your's is the gift Of ceaseless, comfortless wanting And in the spasms of my desire for you at dawn The world's longing finds its voice.
Afternoon sinking in langour Outside, the world turns in a dream Here, the softness of thighs Here, the heaviness of breath The swiftness of desire. Outside, lives rotting in the sun Here, the inexorable burrowing Of lands unknown and older Than the roots of memory, Clad in a perpetual twilight Here the hunger of arms, The reptillian smoothness of tongues. Outside, the vast emptiness of the night, And here, for us under the stars, What redemption?
The stamp of your feet, in shoes two times too big wiped dirt across the bedroom floor when they came to rest                   upon the headboard and stayed.                         The toes, wriggling for more room, always. You were always larger than life to me, tall, narrow face and you slept alone.
You wanted to grow into those shoes,                                                never content with the soft slippers bought that winter in 84                             before you passed, but the bourbon had eaten its way inside. A man withered by years of consumption                                     with pills, housekeepers, the ghost of my mother malcontent. The echoes of rooms built to house empty furniture, the hollows of your cheek haunt me still.
I tried those shoes on and they never fit me either, though I wear them sometimes, when I think of your struggle, when I think of you dad. Life was bigger than you, to me you were bigger than life. The American dream of the fifties. If they were mine, if I could wear them, I would.
spiral head windows cardboard bared microchips maybe next time spoons rattling hung from a string in the cavity turn on and off like wind chimes where the heart should stand be stood up by some headlight falling soberly into buzzing arms of a wasp STAND UP just straight enough to walk a straight line laughing into flames like a motherfucker flickering flames tasting the waltz of daemon tongue flower blood as the shovel hits my brain kissing a bottle stumbling toward circumstances and comas where does the drip drip go iv corked into my center let's play hide and go seek ampersand that i think i thought i think i did i was i was where i was in there and that was what that was smack in smack in let's paycheck spend spent gone too far gone to even disagree with strange sex and phone bills intravenously stunned by a stray cloud mud on my boots don't know which soil soiled splattered doesn't matter
She heard 'generous' while he painted the layer wedged beneath a surface aching with its depth. As though he were inventing her. His hands upon a place not yet invented. Her expression where smile wrinkles would be. A stucco tree in an imaginary yard, with just the right resistance level planted in the ground. 'Somebody live here,' she implored. 'There's not enough of me.' He gradually rose to invitations that he heard repeated when they spoke their separate languages all the in the name of center fraction. Once when he appeared a boy, a woman wrote in penmanship entire new syllabi. His line drawings of her began to serve as her replacement. As he grew, pale diary entries held an overcast arrangement. When she wept, he also cried. The question of identity was shared, and when dusk began to lose clarity, opaque new dove lines crossed the sense of limits into sweet night. He was feathering a wilderness, and she could be again the child.
naugahyde, the fabric equivalent of formica, deflects most perspiration made from the skins of naugas, naugahyde bestows on 100% pure vinyl an alternative smooth surface, a vinyl impregnated fabric of one papal bull naugahyde dies for expanded (re)cognition of oak trim naugahyde glows into now bronze dyed and the woodgraining on the doors, covered with silver rolled and pleated naugahyde naugahyde occupies mildew-resistant circles naugahyde promises to provide excellent durability and long life through normal use of box stitch and dancing naugahyde breeds vinyl, immerses eyesight in a spate of running water naugahyde in some communities approximates bold faith due to the decimation of the nauga herds in recent years, naugahyde falls into never-a-good-idea naugahyde is not recommended for prolonged contact with bare skin naugahyde subjected to a stretch of fears by the very versatile indulges us once and for all naugahyde should be a skirt that spawns marchers with wide signs
“The strength of this book is in its quick-change artistry, the sensation of flux that is continuous, and capable at any moment of erupting into epiphany or surprise.” Roo Borson Across great distances and a panorama shaped by words, poets Douglas Barbour and Sheila Murphy began writing in collaboration. Tapped to technology’s dance across paper, with thoughts like bright colours coursing across screens, Continuations emerged as the product of a new creator, a “third individual,” who writes differently from either poet. Words shapeshifted and poets transformed, Continuations is an intriguing addition to the growing field of collaborative poetry in North American literature.
And so that is where matters rest now- After thirty odd years, two millennia, a kiss And oh!, the tree, a lonely tree that paved The road to Satan's gnawing jaws, and now this! That the righteous of the ages who raged and raved Curses upon you, had got it wrong somehow!
Perhaps, if you could find time from being chewed, As you apparently are being, and ponder That for thirty you died a miserable wretch; You'd probably be baffled and wonder That your brittle pages can now fetch Three million, even though corroded and mildewed.
And perhaps, too, you'd look at the stars above, And your's the foremost of them! Would you shed A lonely tear that others were absolved For doing they knew not what, and yet you alone have bled All these ages? Or perhaps you knew, and in your mind were resolved To plant the kiss that was not the child of sin, but Love?
silence unfolds its wings before me & now gazing into her navel exposed i've found myself entering that sweet decimal point that forbidden asterisk strolling through that twilight tunnel wandering about in circles this illusion is revealed as it truly is silence begins again & again repetitiously echoes renewed by this distraction at the same time dealt a dirty fatal blow in large shocking avant-font she seems ne'er care to have left me stranded to have left me gone reaching desperately for the plateau of her stiletto heels her fine artsy petals how incubation spirals me i am smothered by her red corset her black stockings brokenhearted & hammered in tube station bumming a smoke from some wild-eyed stranger this warmth of occupation this hand-me-down the chill of commuters rushing faces disappearing within the wormholes of bloodshot eyes all faces wearily looking home- ward even if it be made of cardboard & discarded bits of aluminum foil or in the whale guts of an abandoned swimming pool directionless hardly did i know this to be my final final destination doors closing doors closing doors closing doors closing please step away from the doors
Dear Heart, the dance of emotion Stimmung offa the back of your eyes imprisoned by skies lies have eyes they perpetuate the drift [sexua] Imprison me by your stare words not thoughtfully kept without regret ca cigarettes and coffee in nights apparent yarn. of lines called sexism youth associative disorder inclement weather persephone a flower extrinsicette no words [text] will put to mind the shit that is love caught blind foreign to starving minds by bureaucracies measurement ties the living to the artistic reverie novels of decorative ne'er saying something [fragmentation] traces of glass by Birminghams crass [antagonist] the worded drama enveloping cort by committee housing love lies beyond evacuative fear prompted carpet clash and vacuum cleaner I settle my scores by love, my dear gone but not forgotten I need you so and snow [art and life you should leave it there by heck musee recherche] [abstraction beyond insignifi
Imagine a beer spokes-model with an attraction-to-disaster IQ of 180 has a really dedicated energy he expends on inventing a purpose for being his very own fiefdom leader, multi tasking as the gang master of a glamorous staff of peace-nicks manning the decks at suicide hotline in central Bagdad.
Say he works out the answer to middle East peace on the back of a coaster
is a sado-alcoholic who keeps a naggin of whiskey hidden in the toilet cylinder of the bunker where the red button rests
and his radiantly soft, supple and youthful looking skin, glows perfectly flawless at the stroke of a powder brush, beautifully crafted to blend and match those top flaws with a sheer cover of corrective cosmetic camouflage.
Think instead of being careful, he's care free with an effortlessly simple economic fitness regime, to keep family and national finances balanced behind the complexion of democracy
moisturized with tinted concealer, remotely applied when directing insurgency busting exercises on the Irish highway into green zone
like a play station gamer cleaning up with actively soft soaping outlooks that suck up grease by sleight of hand, in an easy, no nonsense neo-con swindle no one believes in but him
Halliburton shareholders, soldiers of fortune corporate stock holders, private security companies who profit from war, and those who like their god angry, righteous, out to remove the menacing threat of terror that can make kids watching Mickey Mouse Club switch off through fear,
stop rich kids on the road to decadence from getting personal valets for thirteenth birthdays because their parents are too scared of who the help might be
and quiet the question demanding an answer for the thousands who die over discredited documents, dismissed and forgotten by politicians who got it wrong from the word go
and who three years later with no end in sight and a world losing all faith in their words still insist they did things because - just like John Edgar Hoover and Joe Ray McCarthy - they love America.
sometimes pretty hunting musics morning moan awake headache gray unfurl shall karaoke Me there he's looking knows what's in underwear in assorted dreams drunkenly dance more something dorothy groping email of the body ceremonial clunky individual tangled in ripped bedroom taste blood halos on trembling lips as dirt moderator try moaning your hope junky wetly solid gold sang particular thought rub i whatever like buffet of interlocking orbs impressionable doc martens walk age-defying on electric ground uber bookmark this soul i've got you in my rearview mirage