Friday, January 21, 2011

bathroom sequence courtesy the art of memory courtesy kubrick

Thursday, January 20, 2011

VOL. 2

render unto the deep that which belongs below. helephant seal into wit brick mon ne sham beat near the brow of the second quit. i vel to thank upon its neary neck. wither was want, and withers spell vespers for early break in morn. check the cows the paddies the locks, pasture care for thy flock and herd the stragglers near the paddock night. above a weary light sat a shelf of books, wormy and read. the candle drips, the thoughts linger, and the orange lit casts funny shadows along the contors of the walls. the pecks, the holes, the uneven coat gives hairy texture to what is already a beast. now a mont, i have to use words with you. new words to describe the ineffable. and why not. wit wem weper tint try tadder trays lining soup, the sheath, the emulsion bubble, the brown smears and cardboard squares drip and stain the fingers. first brown, now purple, then brown again. vapors reach the light, the bright light, small sun explosions etching shapes onto the canvas surface. hiroshimas without death. linger light. light linger. i now deign to kiss his chubby cheek, a big wet one, liquid lip stains, both clear and clem. sail with crystal sheeths for our daggers gold. careful with that crown, it bears the irreplaceable mark of our lord, that of his only material gift unto this plane. i spy horizontal brown and vertical pines. different climes there, i reckon, his mind wanders, he calls this practice, but easy to get caught up, infinite loop vortex. watch out for those, but please dont pull out comparisons between fun and loathing. i call this fun, yet somewhere, someone or somethought is causing it to be otherwise. the quadrants of the mind. where does loathing lie? nothing lye? dusty shelves, half-hearted filing system left unfinished, unkempt work spaces. the dust motes flying about, catching the goldenrod beams. routine, order, discipline, the names of the various games we can play. but round and around, what defines work and what defines play? self-congratulatory jobs completed, ingrained pats on the back, what we call buisness, what we can ever so easily set aside and discover different lights of life. i feel at home with these green letters and black background. improvised zork. a zork of my own creation: heliopheric tales of zim and zound! the mascerade of the limp life cat. bubbles called dreams. meliotronic aspirations of the malevolent zooch. tell time to ease up on us. life liven and dreams driven. minor spells for young lovers. major spells for forgotten youths. children of the stars and children of the spaces in between. hollering for beginners. looking down at my hand, i beheld a panting red. i fell upon a stylish reptile and he taught me the ways of fashion. the brood and you. fall between the cracks and see. be careful, he's behind you. be careful, his ears are made of crystal. be careful, he caries a hand of flame. be careful, his fingers resemble little oceanic cruise vessels and the rear blades are in full operating condition. be careful the lime giant bearing gifts. tassles and tales to bent and stutter as we don the rainbow afgan around our shoulders. it provides the necessary nostalgia and security in our huddled reading-chair pose. the symmetry of good thought. in the street below light takes the place of shadows, only to slip back into the darkness. the heroes of the ancient and prehistoric worlds. we lived in a time when those who dared to venture outside the safety of the camp fire would conquer the unknown and bring back unheard of riches. outside, he would encounter an eclectic beastiary of demons, gods, monsters and other supernatural forces. he would bring home stories, which grew in proportion with each telling, eventually becoming the heroic legends we remember from childhood with the shadows crawling and tugging on his nighttime walls. dusk. vespers. light. pride his filth, you must pardon for he spends his days by the docks with the brimmed shrimp and little encrustations that form alongside the boat hulls. a smell to my noise, most moist and queer and yet here in the new world i spell vapors of the old one, of long voyages to and fro bringing the old with the new and new with the old, you get my point.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011


beware the groan barks

the witch grass pummel foot.

the sea ghosts.

the secret pulleys and levers

up there where we throw the ingots into the fire

before they lose their golden core.

they glow white in the embers, then blue.

darkness pits lit by the gold & red flash

blue deeps, taps, and stormsfelt, buttons, corduroy, wooden shoes, licorice rivers, honeypot eyes, yellow caps with blue stitching, little scenes of life in miniature.

the sacred spaces of my youth.