Wind is howling through this house
Like inescapable tombs of our past
Flesh biting flesh
Wrapped with fabric so dusty it crumbles.
Yet in open webs I can still see through
Nostalgia hits an ancient bone
That even her subtle breath of wind
Finds it hard to escape duty of.
Slowly eyelids close as raspy sun strokes,
A dying ember reminds us each
That our throat of life
Calms the day’s very nature.
Forever in Desert’s sun
She waited by Cactus
Closing slowly her soft hands
Needle in her thumb
Dragon surfaced in her throat
One she’d never known
She whispered to him by his name
Soon he was her pawn
All at once they struck a deal
One forever indebted
For in her hand she now held strong
Two droplets of crimson blood
I have a pressure building
That’s escalating reason
Leaving letters that keep running
From my fingers as I’m humming
Working from a simple memory
Along a slowly exhaled breath
Sighing in an audible note softly
And the pressure’s in my throat
Dear George,
I’ve been wandering the streets late at night wondering where I am, what I’m doing here, how I got here, what day it is. I know this is kind of silly, just a simple glance at my watch I’ve begun to wear again, but I think it’s more in theory: I’m lost. Can you associate?
I don’t look at my hands much anymore. They’ve become acceptable. I now am fascinated with my chin. The various states of hair growth, the different shape it takes upon waking, after shaving, after showering, at night, in the morning. Have you ever noticed this difference?
It has become obvious to me that my morbid thoughts aren’t normal. No, I am not always dying. The pain in my hip is not my insides unwinding. The twitch in my breast isn’t what it feels like to have your lung spewing it’s contents into my stomach. My throat glands will hurt that much if I jab them consistently. Ears aren’t meant for sharp objects, nor is my nose, throat, bum…
Well, the rumors are true. I’ve begun to enjoy the pleasures of massage. Can you believe I went this long in life without ever truly exploring what my muscles could handle, besides that which I do for muscle growth? I get lost for good lengths of time just trying to understand why my muscle is flip-flopping as it does. I notice when I lie flat on the ground that a muscle in my back shifts a bit. I notice my calves are incredibly tight. And to have somebody else do it for me?! Goodness.
Life changed.
Have you discovered the wonders of coconut oil yet?
With all my brotherly love,
Red.
Some days I don’t want to exist anymore.
Some days I don’t want truth to be hovering
Around the center vortex of my cranium.
And it’s not even a weight,
It’s a lifting feeling that attaches itself
And continually pulls my gaze
..and hands
To face collecting clouds with nothing but
Questions rolling from heart and throat and
Rain drops that keep falling down my face.
Lines have been written down the back of my neck
Ancient scrolls, unintelligible
In a language spoken when men and women
Lived together in deep respect and love
My throat has begun to burn
The ink has started to bleed
Where once was smooth innocence
Crawling with anticipation of the turning times
Return to a fantasia built upon sorcery
Filled with myth so blood-soaked and deep
Memories flood the virgin landscape
And the Oracle speaks once again
Deceive me without eyes beyond clicks of ancient truths that flow like feathers around the citadel, dancing nimbly about while systems shriek in glory-warrior-cries echoing through the midnight sky.
I will not be plundered, wallowed into sober thoughts while brightly colored patrons and ladies of shallow rooms get lost in their own smirking madness that filters ancient wisdom, solid grains of smoke filtering down silk sheets mesmerizing wild charletons with holy charms and glittered dancing.
Trees that flower madness can only hold back repeating chants that break shrouding silence echoing through walls plied thick with rice paper. Concubines shuttling in asynchronous chaos holding lanterns and ringlets and long slender blades through their hair pretending each step means a little more than the last.
How could I stop when I, half naked in the moonlight grasping at smouldering clouds passing through open spaces in the starlit sky. I curled up my toes and dipped my hips while pushing against the tops of my mouth. I’ll elope with whoever I please if it’s all the rage in Little Japan Town. Circling around the erect landscape staring back at me like some Hamilton at the top of the mountain.
Get back to business before light comes up over the left side of the highway. I’m on my way out and this ain’t lookin too happy with all my flowers wilting in darkness’ hour. Cry, with unbounded jubilee, cry those beautiful eyes till their bottom-of-the-shoe-black. Cry until neighbourhood dogs bark along to sorrow and malaise because they bloody well can, they can rip their lungs out and feed them down their throats while licking their lips and begging for more.
Don’t walk: run. Run until running speeds up to faster running and sprinting begins to bleed and basterds start to bleed and whispers start to bleed and candles begin to bleed and pencils begin to bleed and bleeding begins to bleed and all the screaming children yell at the top of their lungs and sit there and wallow in sorry they haven’t even begun to understand because THEY JUST AREN’T OLD ENOUGH. THEY AREN’T OLD ENOUGH. THEY AREN’T OLD ENOUGH. THEY AREN’T OLD ENOUGH.
I’m just not happy enough.
Nothing can explain to me how shallow my pursuit has become
These little drops of innocence don’t break my heart
They tear away my idle hours in bright light fashion
They slit my throat while I stand idle gurgling in the clear air
And caress my weak sin with fabricated desire of adolescence
Here is where I float on, I laugh at distinction
That hands my soldiered frame a paper napkin
Attempting to regulate my copulating heart
Distracted in all it’s splendid gallantry by guns and money
Deeply seating my cold ways into the arms of anarchy
Leading astray the happy holidayers into darkened alleys
Filled with a sulk and a happy hour drink umbrella
Don’t crash my mission statement
Laying there idle in the parking lot
Affix the direction, ignite the heart!
Onward, my god man, onward to the stars
Let it be there and beyond, let it be the future!
The urge is to cry
To roll up my sleeves
And drag my knuckles dry
Pity that holds hands
Hugs deeper than your throat
Meaningless dripping sands
Innocence that’s bleeding red
Hunger rolling eyes
Still lying naked on black night’s bed
Cupping breasts cold as ageless
And sipping wine with fine dark chocolate
Slipping through my anonimical mess
I die with the tears of acid
Flowing freely from the stone
Black with ash smelling acrid
Don’t lie to me angel face
Licking your feathers and pouting your lips
Desire makes death tangled with lace
A cool glove wrestles my eyes shut
Demanding I throw my caution to the wind
Relapse into my nightly routine of unconscious drabble
But ho! I keep a steady battle against the dusty cowboys
Distinction holds the gun against my belt
And loose gravel ties my soul along my throat
Ready to burst at the onset of a tremor
Ready to gush at the first sight of a lover
And then, like the silently sweeping motions of the clouds
A calm rustles amongst the trees of my scalp
Allowing me to enjoy, for just a brief moment
The endless summers of Eldorado
But just as clouds soon change shape and disperse
The thought swiftly leaves the action
Leaving my yearning soul back in the game
Pistol in hand, this is going to be a dirty one