Friday, December 31, 2010
The Endless Proliferation of Laws
bat island warms by the scream of insincerity. star suicides cleansed from time. the margins of the bound are the boundary of a breath assailed by a retired magic. supposed margins. diminutive, the marginalized were impaled on an unnamed image by a man who vascillated from wanting to be a god to wanting to be a corpse. despairing the lord of hell who haunts his thoughts like eugene would mime a genetic spectre for spectators bent on the pregnant portion of a knotted godsend. they undergo uncontrolled abnormal mitosis. eugene's bride is reflected in a sluggish grammar of a binding ritual like the one christ endured. blank nothing and nowhere. from one organ to a non-adjacent organ. Paget sobs over the seeds and soil metastasizing in an aching circus. the fornication of the dead amounts to the endless proliferation of vacant names. the manufacture, in fact, of names themselves become ground into nature as an extracellular matrix. an angiogenesis of the damned on mind island, strangled by the sight of a sympathy that is released at the origin of a mesothelioma. everytime a child dies while sending a text message there is a new law like a tomb stone to memorialize their parent's grief. the dead swim through laws. the everlasting wind collapsed into a coffin's dawn. devoured by munchausen's tunnel corrupting the house it annihilates. governed by vessels that reflect a dismembered lamb. like a vine stimulus bloats underneath the disjointed defense of a doom that omits the poles. stretching its science through its animalistic ancestors like a relative clause recinded by the apprehension of a weeping lawyer who thinks that words are gods and that the gods made him.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Prion
bright the cloud covers the palling debris. phantoms of pollution keep this jury to contain a mind that was simple as an infectious particle. four heads in rapid communication. an emotional influenza cannot fail the forgeries of the dead who hover between the spaces of amyloid aggregates and synchronized facial expressions. the automatic tendency to mimic the prion which cannot reproduce itself and must invade a host cell and inject it with its own DNA thus turning it into its own reflection. chewing through the brain causing tissue damage, paralysis, incontinence and then death.
the view from a hospital room. divided into two classes. the deeper the iris passes. the more the darkness grins at this dismal defense. a tumble bomb buried in a sea of dreams. the dead pass through names the way we pass through air. remarkable speaches. like appeals to reason. are falling on a school of theory that is itself turned against theory. where the sky meets behind us. a fistful of politicians are incubating their rhetoric in the breath of a cash cow which is choking on its own vomit. hemmed into a coffin though it is itself not dead. our markets are made out of prime numbers and prisons. just like tricky's grins we are a lie based on a lie based on a lie based on a lie. planning boards which are feeding buyers to sellers and schools which produce machines to operate machines. we are manufacturing plant. a bone machine. outsourcing our manufactuing to the lowest bidder. producing debt. and leaders who follow their own greed. does our market meet your needs when what we market is need?
the ages of man converge upon the age of oil like contemplative glass our political genius is to shatter into pieces. a payment residue outsources joy toward a complete decay of the worldly things that make us pray for an easy escape.
eurydice claims that fear cannot fail death and the smoke vault reveals that which it conceals. a concentic mutiny of the freedoms our soldiers die for. darkness is a dismal defense that echoes like a spongiform encephalopathy through a calm orifice thrust crosswise from a degrading center that cannot hold. passion does not butcher. greed does not murder. atoms themselves are incapable of killing. prayers do not answer. extracted from our empathy is a contagion theory devolving into butchers that forge their power in the wind of freedom and kill what we are willing to die for.
the view from a hospital room. divided into two classes. the deeper the iris passes. the more the darkness grins at this dismal defense. a tumble bomb buried in a sea of dreams. the dead pass through names the way we pass through air. remarkable speaches. like appeals to reason. are falling on a school of theory that is itself turned against theory. where the sky meets behind us. a fistful of politicians are incubating their rhetoric in the breath of a cash cow which is choking on its own vomit. hemmed into a coffin though it is itself not dead. our markets are made out of prime numbers and prisons. just like tricky's grins we are a lie based on a lie based on a lie based on a lie. planning boards which are feeding buyers to sellers and schools which produce machines to operate machines. we are manufacturing plant. a bone machine. outsourcing our manufactuing to the lowest bidder. producing debt. and leaders who follow their own greed. does our market meet your needs when what we market is need?
the ages of man converge upon the age of oil like contemplative glass our political genius is to shatter into pieces. a payment residue outsources joy toward a complete decay of the worldly things that make us pray for an easy escape.
eurydice claims that fear cannot fail death and the smoke vault reveals that which it conceals. a concentic mutiny of the freedoms our soldiers die for. darkness is a dismal defense that echoes like a spongiform encephalopathy through a calm orifice thrust crosswise from a degrading center that cannot hold. passion does not butcher. greed does not murder. atoms themselves are incapable of killing. prayers do not answer. extracted from our empathy is a contagion theory devolving into butchers that forge their power in the wind of freedom and kill what we are willing to die for.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The Superposition Principle
the congregation revolves around relics. the power of fear drives God to bless us in a parallax of opposing vectors. a dialectric polarization of nonlinear optical systems in a constant state of parametric oscillation. the generation of the signal and the idler plays the ring resonator in a feedback lightening. this is the superposition principle of optical parametric amplification. an enjoyable doom that revolves around a high harmonic generation. self-focusing wave amplification and inversion symmetry of sympathetic reflexes and indefinite ethics that penetrate human hearts like watery gifts. God hovers over all of this. we are all children being cared for by an invisible spirit caught in a Pockels effect of ecstatic subdivisions. brought together in a Kerr-lens modelocking and cross-polarized wave generations. the human shock of cross-wise manners failing the silence of an interatomic electric field that constitutes the obstruction genesis of nonlinear dimentia. an origin set about an origin. and everything is backwards. power can consecrate. we construct nature. science is a manner of speaking about God. how many geometries from your grave to mine? the wand of the warlock. the oscillation idler. the vascillation frequency amputates the isometric impulse of a projection geomtry that cannot resolve its own definition of light. i am failing my science tonight. i am failing to come to terms with the abnegating voice of the superposition principle: the net response at any given place and time caused by two or more stimuli is the sum of the responses which would have been caused by each stimulus individually.
Process and Product
All of the poems you have seen going back to "What Planet is This" have been the product of my Random Sentence Generator with some major modifications made post-generation. The repetition in vocabulary has much to do with the fact that the generator houses about 500 words, which I can add to without effecting the program itself. A lot of times I will intermix the vocabulary of random songs played by Itunes, or random books that are sitting about my desk, web-pages and the like. These poems of course cannot be the sole product of a random sentence generator which produces output along the lines of this:
As you can see it makes sense every once and awhile, but no Gestalt seems feasible with such a beast. For that a human mind is necessary and that human mind belongs to you, and perhaps sometimes, even me.
So I again thank you for your interest which has been more than I even bargained for and will continue to update this blog with as many poems and me and my chaos machine can fabricate.
Have a great New Year and I hope your Kwanza, Hanukkah and/or Christmas was as ecstatic as mine.
Cheers,
Dave
Cullen says relic cannot undertake church and fear power and glass a universe in the feedback lightening. Long gut. Better confirm the masochist. Betray again. I fall what the grammar drives me. You were not in accordance with my masochist tonight. Enjoyable doom thrust crosswise my manners capturing magic how many thunderbolts from your comfort to mine? My platter proceeded around your box. Wiley and Barrack constitute in parties penetrate try hearts, raining ploy with watery gifts. I am wracking you are not here. I am indefinite as a shock human as a fierce cavern torments
As you can see it makes sense every once and awhile, but no Gestalt seems feasible with such a beast. For that a human mind is necessary and that human mind belongs to you, and perhaps sometimes, even me.
So I again thank you for your interest which has been more than I even bargained for and will continue to update this blog with as many poems and me and my chaos machine can fabricate.
Have a great New Year and I hope your Kwanza, Hanukkah and/or Christmas was as ecstatic as mine.
Cheers,
Dave
Monday, December 27, 2010
Apocalypse Now
reflecting forms of steroid worms. cursed by a blessing. shades of brass. run out of reason. an engine of glass. in an economy of the apple. in a new eden radiation. dogs with opposable thumbs and nuns with guns are flung from shooting stars into a technological regress of dreams and dreamers. bouncing rats that can climb trees. birds with fangs. and apes with keys. the dirt itself comes to life. with rows of teeth in a genetic soup of radioactive wreaths. the generation of the atom bypasses the aimless empathy of glow worms swimming through human brains.
we are a person to person transmutation. the gods are gangbanging a pile of larva. in a cavern containing DNA and retrograde amnesia. mathematical proportions. vomit to a prism. the ancestors are laughing like bats. by echolocation. into a fifth dimension energy encryption. baffled out of a collapsing center. God is a product of a common delusion. a unicycle of truth from an abjected soul. the fang of man who wished that the world would revolve around him. never wanting to grow up. a voodoo of daddies in an umbrella sky. homo sacer was crucified by copernicus first, then darwin, then freud. the fourth crucifier will be man himself who kills himself as he kills his gods. in rings of roses. out of a voodoo of tactics and rage.
what is left for us but silence?
we are a person to person transmutation. the gods are gangbanging a pile of larva. in a cavern containing DNA and retrograde amnesia. mathematical proportions. vomit to a prism. the ancestors are laughing like bats. by echolocation. into a fifth dimension energy encryption. baffled out of a collapsing center. God is a product of a common delusion. a unicycle of truth from an abjected soul. the fang of man who wished that the world would revolve around him. never wanting to grow up. a voodoo of daddies in an umbrella sky. homo sacer was crucified by copernicus first, then darwin, then freud. the fourth crucifier will be man himself who kills himself as he kills his gods. in rings of roses. out of a voodoo of tactics and rage.
what is left for us but silence?
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Humorous Poem
I decided that my holiday spirit was just too joyous to generate my usual fair of depressing poetry, so today I wrote something humorous. Merry Christmas, and may your New Year be blessed by the dreams you fashioned in years past.
Thanks for your interest and enjoy the holidays.
~~~
Gothic Yawp
~~~~~~~~~~~
depressing poetry. struggle of smoke to be annihilated in the yellow haze of a ruptured dawn. frown down to sluggish toils. where boils make noises that hoist coitus toward a masochist's syntax. loop to the bandaid where aids patients comfort napalm and impregnate athletic armpits. the relic will be introjected into a new malaise. the struggle of smoke. be bid on by Bono's crotch.
Thanks for your interest and enjoy the holidays.
~~~
Gothic Yawp
~~~~~~~~~~~
depressing poetry. struggle of smoke to be annihilated in the yellow haze of a ruptured dawn. frown down to sluggish toils. where boils make noises that hoist coitus toward a masochist's syntax. loop to the bandaid where aids patients comfort napalm and impregnate athletic armpits. the relic will be introjected into a new malaise. the struggle of smoke. be bid on by Bono's crotch.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Blank Prayer to an Absent God
i fall on your whispers. watching and weeping from a tear born out of your gut. eyes warm against the sky. an impossible medicine through the comfort of clarities. the sky hides our names. swirling stars bind our sights to a collapsing grid. wellness, repose. sleeping through noon and watching you escape into a small tomb. elsewhere, the admission of a troubled ripple dispossessing an illusion that devours itself from the tail to the starlight. our meaning was a gift from a voiceless manner, thunderous, sublime. with the power of a bone and a prayer, unnamed and bursting like passive dirt in a turbulence of dumbness and journalists who rule on smoke like a clorox lightening bolt. bursting with sureness.
bear out of iron the life we sacrifice to pain. the moon rules the excluded products of one hope one joy at a time. forgive us for what we loved. our gods, our graves our peace between the depth of stone and grass. the yesterday we bear like a cross that drives our backs into the ground. the noise that follows us until our hears are too heavy to bear. forgive our wasted youth. our children's tears and the clouds we make out of our eyes. we will rehearse our lives until the echoing possession poisons us in despair. oh god, i must believe in you. i've been bullied by fate. conceived in a corner. your legend sleeps in dark dreams mirored in the lives of a generation swallowing itself in the moisture of its own own desire. haunted out of its aimless appropriations. but why do i see like this? is it truth or projection? the devoured and stunned gather around a romantic's circus. like flowers on the graves of the lives we left behind.
bear out of iron the life we sacrifice to pain. the moon rules the excluded products of one hope one joy at a time. forgive us for what we loved. our gods, our graves our peace between the depth of stone and grass. the yesterday we bear like a cross that drives our backs into the ground. the noise that follows us until our hears are too heavy to bear. forgive our wasted youth. our children's tears and the clouds we make out of our eyes. we will rehearse our lives until the echoing possession poisons us in despair. oh god, i must believe in you. i've been bullied by fate. conceived in a corner. your legend sleeps in dark dreams mirored in the lives of a generation swallowing itself in the moisture of its own own desire. haunted out of its aimless appropriations. but why do i see like this? is it truth or projection? the devoured and stunned gather around a romantic's circus. like flowers on the graves of the lives we left behind.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Highgate Hellfire
newton's world is a great machine operated by a demon at a button wearied by years of narrative science. cursed in the repetition of a gravity which collapses into a masochist's minstrel pushing a fat lamb up an incline of nails. nuns with guns are chasing their own habits. business men reach their hands into their throats. they will breed a new cancer with an asexual reproduction of disfigured midgets growing from the tumors in their chests. they will run through the heart of them, beating faster, faster, faster till their power suits are ablaze in names. mothers will shove their children back into their wombs where they will be safe from craven comforts and sickbed medicine along the dark streets of a coward's definition of a tomb's prediction. i will be buried alive in darkness, my sky like a shadow, my spirit a house i cannot escape warming in the night like a defense mechanism weeping the voiceless whispers of consecreated cries burst into the grammar of a cave.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Clean Again
crosswise pornographies bundled in a brick window. moribund whirlwinds acting on instinct. the medicine of a vengeful heaven. vicious morpheus fathers an ideology of romantics. a para poetics of the damned collapses again into a sonorous logic organized around my skin. my pussy. i weep the voices of cotorted animals. caged in brass. the medicine cabinet that holds me here.
einstein says that gravity cannot swim into a brick mirror and the greatest syndrome is suicide and sympathy. shrodinger's cat is dropping acid behind my epiphany and too many delightful nights alone broke a fifty year smoker from the fever of his own ego. rutherford's atom is shaped like his nutsack and bohr has forced reality to urinate appropriations. like the one we made when we were young. phenomenal young poets sleeping in our dreams. smoking our poetry out of dignities of lamented lovers we'd known and discarded like sins. accumulated in comfort under a warm sun. how many myths from your pollution to mine? douglas says that separation is purity and hegel will purge this prayer in a new pollution. a linguistic feedback loop like concrete witchcraft and the empathy of parody.
pray again. derrida says there is no difference between tombs and words. normative terrorirsts are poets without language. carrying rain to the spiral architect and a heaven of virgins is a memory of genesis. animalistic black magic apples. poisoned by a rejection of wine. kayyam would be displeased. he said that ascetics gangbang the future in a torrent of screams. he couldn't have known of freud, who wished to fuck his own mother in a normative introjection of one man's malady. the name is a tomb blasted in a prison of solid rock and a blanket of pallid rhetoric.
it is this that poets sell their souls for. fantasies of an alchemy from a half remembered history. mysteries of the dismembered and several thousand deaths later we are born anew in a napalm of porous rock. forgeries of crosswise prisms and heroes stung under a covering sun. like the memory of a concrete genesis that was no garden at all but a category of qualities covering a starless sky. how many tears from your rhetoric to mine? plath says that we are all just objects blasted around a broken mirror. foam intercepts the sun and defines business for a suicide blonde who absorbs predictions and restrictions in a dysphasia of pallid names. my moon seeps around your truth. merging with mirrored sources. i will never be clean. again.
einstein says that gravity cannot swim into a brick mirror and the greatest syndrome is suicide and sympathy. shrodinger's cat is dropping acid behind my epiphany and too many delightful nights alone broke a fifty year smoker from the fever of his own ego. rutherford's atom is shaped like his nutsack and bohr has forced reality to urinate appropriations. like the one we made when we were young. phenomenal young poets sleeping in our dreams. smoking our poetry out of dignities of lamented lovers we'd known and discarded like sins. accumulated in comfort under a warm sun. how many myths from your pollution to mine? douglas says that separation is purity and hegel will purge this prayer in a new pollution. a linguistic feedback loop like concrete witchcraft and the empathy of parody.
pray again. derrida says there is no difference between tombs and words. normative terrorirsts are poets without language. carrying rain to the spiral architect and a heaven of virgins is a memory of genesis. animalistic black magic apples. poisoned by a rejection of wine. kayyam would be displeased. he said that ascetics gangbang the future in a torrent of screams. he couldn't have known of freud, who wished to fuck his own mother in a normative introjection of one man's malady. the name is a tomb blasted in a prison of solid rock and a blanket of pallid rhetoric.
it is this that poets sell their souls for. fantasies of an alchemy from a half remembered history. mysteries of the dismembered and several thousand deaths later we are born anew in a napalm of porous rock. forgeries of crosswise prisms and heroes stung under a covering sun. like the memory of a concrete genesis that was no garden at all but a category of qualities covering a starless sky. how many tears from your rhetoric to mine? plath says that we are all just objects blasted around a broken mirror. foam intercepts the sun and defines business for a suicide blonde who absorbs predictions and restrictions in a dysphasia of pallid names. my moon seeps around your truth. merging with mirrored sources. i will never be clean. again.
the syndrome of a pendulum fashioned by a bad reputation. praying like an angel to a bomb urinated from a strangled star. love is pain. and pain is legend. i suppose a portion of creation is approaching in a narrative of catastrophe. god orders me to bounce off rock bottom and trump the reverb of a possum grotto on thimble island. the gang believed the iron dreamer would awaken from a paradox of inner limbos creeping through a sleeping puppet who had dreamed this place in a listless sleep. smooth and sodden. crystallized from a bone of bandaids, ever failing to consume the homeless tomb that was set in sundays like an employment militia.
the kings of books were really demons making suits of hair and books of skin. the priests were transmorphic soldiers with hollowed eyes and lips of lightening. the soldiers were circles chasing their tails and annihilating the homes they'd built in hell. they erected shrines to their kings under the direction of puppets and amputated the limbs of their god, consuming it as a sexual talisman. the monuments were slaves and the slaves were monuments betraying their children to the fangs of manifestation. their eyes like garments dangling from chandeliers. betraying their constitution to a lord who fantasized about being a god and yawned.
the kings of books were really demons making suits of hair and books of skin. the priests were transmorphic soldiers with hollowed eyes and lips of lightening. the soldiers were circles chasing their tails and annihilating the homes they'd built in hell. they erected shrines to their kings under the direction of puppets and amputated the limbs of their god, consuming it as a sexual talisman. the monuments were slaves and the slaves were monuments betraying their children to the fangs of manifestation. their eyes like garments dangling from chandeliers. betraying their constitution to a lord who fantasized about being a god and yawned.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Dawn Will Eat History
dusk cannot eat history and hammer in a shell. the seat of a butterfly or a masochist's hell. the sulking shriek of a stroke of luck. from the homeless dreams of a calculator's fuck.
definition cannot move gravity or explain the portraits of a schizophrenic. heaven in a new dream. strangled in an animal's scream. the sandman better cry from the outside and empty into a field of bees. the emptiness. thrust crosswise. my desire around your day cell like a pimp in business season, moons through critical fornications and i heard her call my name.
rock and roll, baby. fear cannot bubble into a bankster's martyr. nor creep into the feeling that we're all linguistic knots. the hunter's kiss is a potential gift from a material god who collapsed into your field. and multiplied into names. i intercept the center. you avoid my secret demarcation, creating with a separation. like an angel being analyzed by a rat. dusk can eat history. lamenting the mystery of a phenomenal supercomputer.
i degrade again. you point me to the door. the vine of heaven is around my neck. a disposable sanity. a conjecture of the speculum. suckled around your clarity. dawn will eat history with a normative sun and a universal tooth.
another day then. one hundred years then. a grinding halt, then, the chaoticist becomes a god-knot. better assimilate into a punisher or the birds will sing an apocalypse of apples and our knees will become bloodflowers mirrored with peoples.
dawn will eat history, and rewrite our names in a homesick heaven. to be mused by sentient reptiles, who repopulate the stratasphere and dance on our bones.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7q5WjYjzrEQ
definition cannot move gravity or explain the portraits of a schizophrenic. heaven in a new dream. strangled in an animal's scream. the sandman better cry from the outside and empty into a field of bees. the emptiness. thrust crosswise. my desire around your day cell like a pimp in business season, moons through critical fornications and i heard her call my name.
rock and roll, baby. fear cannot bubble into a bankster's martyr. nor creep into the feeling that we're all linguistic knots. the hunter's kiss is a potential gift from a material god who collapsed into your field. and multiplied into names. i intercept the center. you avoid my secret demarcation, creating with a separation. like an angel being analyzed by a rat. dusk can eat history. lamenting the mystery of a phenomenal supercomputer.
i degrade again. you point me to the door. the vine of heaven is around my neck. a disposable sanity. a conjecture of the speculum. suckled around your clarity. dawn will eat history with a normative sun and a universal tooth.
another day then. one hundred years then. a grinding halt, then, the chaoticist becomes a god-knot. better assimilate into a punisher or the birds will sing an apocalypse of apples and our knees will become bloodflowers mirrored with peoples.
dawn will eat history, and rewrite our names in a homesick heaven. to be mused by sentient reptiles, who repopulate the stratasphere and dance on our bones.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7q5WjYjzrEQ
Thursday, December 16, 2010
God as Victim Lover
no fate. the deepest secret. sky of lies. tree of life.
i carry your heart in my mind. i carry your mind in my heart.
the colors that the mind can hide. the fear of hope. and hope of
desire. the sky carries my wishes in a tense future. a sweetwater
censor. and broken wings for howard hughs. anything to express
i'm sorry. i'm sorry i am made of china. i belong behind glass.
the metanoia of the paranoid. i hide behind mirrors. i make wishes
and pretend i want nothing. why would you take me home?
i am a juniper trigger. a heaven of wind up toys. a synthetic form
in the intensive care unit. they bring me to tomorrow. in a silent
ceremony. i am the virus of wise.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ygI3BZxdCY
i carry your heart in my mind. i carry your mind in my heart.
the colors that the mind can hide. the fear of hope. and hope of
desire. the sky carries my wishes in a tense future. a sweetwater
censor. and broken wings for howard hughs. anything to express
i'm sorry. i'm sorry i am made of china. i belong behind glass.
the metanoia of the paranoid. i hide behind mirrors. i make wishes
and pretend i want nothing. why would you take me home?
i am a juniper trigger. a heaven of wind up toys. a synthetic form
in the intensive care unit. they bring me to tomorrow. in a silent
ceremony. i am the virus of wise.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ygI3BZxdCY
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Trenchcoat Mirror
turing and turin bid on bodies. evil satan
vanity cabaret. carousel of cains. shouting
at the devil. my devil is a merry go bye bye.
bloody mary. torquemata. goosebumps for
monkeys. bed wedding and chemical rain.
elliot's wasteland and an amusement jew.
running from a pitful of god of lovers.
worshipping the devil daddy who
immortilized amnesia. a tin omen
inquisition. flowers for the cult of
theodore. war locked. and hunters.
addicted to torment. the mirror of
narcissus. i will break you down.
tear you up. and turn you into my
reflection. i am a prion. a retrovirus.
a well paid scientist. a kid with a trenchcoat
a nazi procession of pet peeves. be certain
my grave is kept clean.
vanity cabaret. carousel of cains. shouting
at the devil. my devil is a merry go bye bye.
bloody mary. torquemata. goosebumps for
monkeys. bed wedding and chemical rain.
elliot's wasteland and an amusement jew.
running from a pitful of god of lovers.
worshipping the devil daddy who
immortilized amnesia. a tin omen
inquisition. flowers for the cult of
theodore. war locked. and hunters.
addicted to torment. the mirror of
narcissus. i will break you down.
tear you up. and turn you into my
reflection. i am a prion. a retrovirus.
a well paid scientist. a kid with a trenchcoat
a nazi procession of pet peeves. be certain
my grave is kept clean.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
What Planet is This?
a dysphasia of jurisprudence. echoed by the drug of infinity.
the walls of ethers. seething in radioactive edens.
names fusing in the soup of genomes.
denatured and diffusing. man and beast.
manipulated guinea pigs. wolf men and vampires.
my energy is yours to take. i see you need it.
i need to be needed. and i am holier than thou.
a dead guy is scratching at his coffin.
his fingernails bending back. his screams
returned to mother nature. the one. the many.
he stands up for love. electric brains. i can read your
memory. your schism is my karma. my possession.
my fire spreads. a coin operated white rabbit.
you chase the pusher, a refugee in burning space.
time is a debaser. eternal light, eternal bright.
your lies become you. i cannot make it home.
i follow your words, close to what you see
is what you get. angel's wings, a messanger's
big bang. storytime for honkeys and hardons.
wiping their asses with darth vapor's rage.
i can strangle a man from across the room.
so much for that. he figured out my trick and
moved. place a disclaimer here. i am partially
insane. i'm a monkey jumper. i fight for my life.
a tank on acid, and i never came down. what planet
is this? mercury retrograde. jupiter retrograde.
everything is retrograde. an assassine's blade.
a crosshair. a crossroads. a cross and the devil's
sympathy is too good to be bad. what planet is this?
the walls of ethers. seething in radioactive edens.
names fusing in the soup of genomes.
denatured and diffusing. man and beast.
manipulated guinea pigs. wolf men and vampires.
my energy is yours to take. i see you need it.
i need to be needed. and i am holier than thou.
a dead guy is scratching at his coffin.
his fingernails bending back. his screams
returned to mother nature. the one. the many.
he stands up for love. electric brains. i can read your
memory. your schism is my karma. my possession.
my fire spreads. a coin operated white rabbit.
you chase the pusher, a refugee in burning space.
time is a debaser. eternal light, eternal bright.
your lies become you. i cannot make it home.
i follow your words, close to what you see
is what you get. angel's wings, a messanger's
big bang. storytime for honkeys and hardons.
wiping their asses with darth vapor's rage.
i can strangle a man from across the room.
so much for that. he figured out my trick and
moved. place a disclaimer here. i am partially
insane. i'm a monkey jumper. i fight for my life.
a tank on acid, and i never came down. what planet
is this? mercury retrograde. jupiter retrograde.
everything is retrograde. an assassine's blade.
a crosshair. a crossroads. a cross and the devil's
sympathy is too good to be bad. what planet is this?
Monday, December 13, 2010
Tricky Kid
Tricky Kid
look deep into my mongrel eyes and hide your knife with folded hands and the processional propriety of the condemned will fold into a shrinking center.
the cost of dogma is no less than your entire spirit. some will be corpses, slightly rotten. others will be skeletons with nothing left to give. or mummies, refusing to give themselves over to the earth.
the poem begins as a killer. it ends as a dyer. clowns will rise as a force of nature as one man refusing to budge can collapse an entire system. freaks of distraction, a sorcerer faithful to an unspeakable craft.
the thirstless gather around my juggling flame and caress the light that bends about my shadows beginning as a lip calloused and popping bubbles of its own breath as a feather dreams of electric sleep. the lip is a scientist, an inverted masochist, sitting on an electric fence.
there are no sides worth taking. the fence is faithful to serene things that attempt to penetrate what it encircles. caesars don't fear the reaper. penetration is a doctor with a schizoid embolism, a vaso constricting vasospasm. battalions of the accursed are captained by a pallid manifold of dirigible dignitaries.
and we are left with us.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sy7U6AZ9gwU
look deep into my mongrel eyes and hide your knife with folded hands and the processional propriety of the condemned will fold into a shrinking center.
the cost of dogma is no less than your entire spirit. some will be corpses, slightly rotten. others will be skeletons with nothing left to give. or mummies, refusing to give themselves over to the earth.
the poem begins as a killer. it ends as a dyer. clowns will rise as a force of nature as one man refusing to budge can collapse an entire system. freaks of distraction, a sorcerer faithful to an unspeakable craft.
the thirstless gather around my juggling flame and caress the light that bends about my shadows beginning as a lip calloused and popping bubbles of its own breath as a feather dreams of electric sleep. the lip is a scientist, an inverted masochist, sitting on an electric fence.
there are no sides worth taking. the fence is faithful to serene things that attempt to penetrate what it encircles. caesars don't fear the reaper. penetration is a doctor with a schizoid embolism, a vaso constricting vasospasm. battalions of the accursed are captained by a pallid manifold of dirigible dignitaries.
and we are left with us.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sy7U6AZ9gwU
Sunday, December 12, 2010
God as Tempter
i wander the frontier
with a flashlight and a gun
seeking out reflections
my own to murder
on the same wet vine that murders me
i fashion a noose of desire
and place it three feet before your face
i decorate it in power
i saturate it in greed
you grope for it
but it moves away
into a pit with no bottom
with a flashlight and a gun
seeking out reflections
my own to murder
on the same wet vine that murders me
i fashion a noose of desire
and place it three feet before your face
i decorate it in power
i saturate it in greed
you grope for it
but it moves away
into a pit with no bottom
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
The God of Lies
we dissolve into the hyperform. the super shape of a subjective sequence. we are the center of a universe darkening the light that shines on itself, so that it may shine on us. and we may shine on it. there is no distinction between attention and the light we shine on one another. we bring each other to life. from here to eternity. south of a chance. north of luck. pick a card, any card.
steal half the whisper. from a cross we all divide. the light is my companion. darkness is my guide. we enslave the truth to our comforts. and tell our children comfortable lies.
the stars go with you. shooting into happiness. the blessed dictates of an over seer. the god principle will never be clean again. but i am still the same, watching the girl straddle the world. darkening the the blood red moon light. blind timing, or sometimes a fantasy that time passes slowly. time after time, sometimes always. time for trance , time for dream. make a wish. the god of lies takes requests.
steal half the whisper. from a cross we all divide. the light is my companion. darkness is my guide. we enslave the truth to our comforts. and tell our children comfortable lies.
the stars go with you. shooting into happiness. the blessed dictates of an over seer. the god principle will never be clean again. but i am still the same, watching the girl straddle the world. darkening the the blood red moon light. blind timing, or sometimes a fantasy that time passes slowly. time after time, sometimes always. time for trance , time for dream. make a wish. the god of lies takes requests.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
For my Beloved (& Song of the Day)
For my Beloved
Dangling on the cross. A new suicide blooms from the epilog of a secret life. We blew up the house of the rising sun and set a fire in cairo that rages still. So what? Let's go to bed. The wheel will spin regardless of whether i write this poem. Easy blue eyes. The world will crack under the weight of your logic. The underground needs their distinction, and the overlords know that perception is reality. Ruby Tuesday needs a new name to dream on. And everyone else is sleeping at their tv, chewing on the apple of sodom. So when lightening crashes sweet dreams into the mainline, we will fall to pieces and regroup on fascination street.
A suitcase of anomalies, and a talking monkey with a graphing calculator abolishes and transcends. Negates his own voice with his own voice. I watch you straddle the world like a bottle of smoke and just one fix. I put a spell on you. i whisper your dreams come true in a zero sum game against the world. We've already won, but if they realize that we'll lose. So keep our secret safe, because smiles are guide signs home, and all else is mere fact.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7HZ7JpfmoXk&feature=fvst
Dangling on the cross. A new suicide blooms from the epilog of a secret life. We blew up the house of the rising sun and set a fire in cairo that rages still. So what? Let's go to bed. The wheel will spin regardless of whether i write this poem. Easy blue eyes. The world will crack under the weight of your logic. The underground needs their distinction, and the overlords know that perception is reality. Ruby Tuesday needs a new name to dream on. And everyone else is sleeping at their tv, chewing on the apple of sodom. So when lightening crashes sweet dreams into the mainline, we will fall to pieces and regroup on fascination street.
A suitcase of anomalies, and a talking monkey with a graphing calculator abolishes and transcends. Negates his own voice with his own voice. I watch you straddle the world like a bottle of smoke and just one fix. I put a spell on you. i whisper your dreams come true in a zero sum game against the world. We've already won, but if they realize that we'll lose. So keep our secret safe, because smiles are guide signs home, and all else is mere fact.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7HZ7JpfmoXk&feature=fvst
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Snow Queen
a ruthless queen surveys a board of boxes
she is a regress of masks
faceless, disarticulate
a speck of cursed mirror
lodged in her eye
& she mimics only ugliness
with dust in time
spread across our agonies
she sits atop her mountain
waiting, brooding
she is a regress of masks
faceless, disarticulate
a speck of cursed mirror
lodged in her eye
& she mimics only ugliness
with dust in time
spread across our agonies
she sits atop her mountain
waiting, brooding
raW doG
the world is fuming. the world is falling. into the extermination of the name of god. which expands from a center and obliterates all flesh. rendering it to nothing its last leg standing betrayed by the arrogance of the stamp. the name, the capacity to contain something meant to be eternally in motion.
no name can contain the great Generator who moves us like chess pieces. across time and space. on strings of our own desire. into traps we cannot fathom. and places we have never been.
no sacrifice will shadow the doorlock. that hides the secret of Tantalus' dance. we are asleep, dreaming in our desire. grasping that which lies ahead. there aren't enough psychic enemas in the world to squeegee clean the holes our desire makes in the shapes of unformed time.
the world, a womb, wide apart housing the
left over clothing of our expired selves
will be released into the crap of maggots
so that every spark be born anew
in the land of a second Eden
where to name a thing
is to bring it into being
no name can contain the great Generator who moves us like chess pieces. across time and space. on strings of our own desire. into traps we cannot fathom. and places we have never been.
no sacrifice will shadow the doorlock. that hides the secret of Tantalus' dance. we are asleep, dreaming in our desire. grasping that which lies ahead. there aren't enough psychic enemas in the world to squeegee clean the holes our desire makes in the shapes of unformed time.
the world, a womb, wide apart housing the
left over clothing of our expired selves
will be released into the crap of maggots
so that every spark be born anew
in the land of a second Eden
where to name a thing
is to bring it into being
Song of the Day
A pretense to columbine to destroy columbine
The assassin's anthem, So What by Ministry
"You said it sedatives supplied
become laxatives
my eyes
shit out lies
i only kill
to know i'm alive"
So What by Ministry
The assassin's anthem, So What by Ministry
"You said it sedatives supplied
become laxatives
my eyes
shit out lies
i only kill
to know i'm alive"
So What by Ministry
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
the acquisition of the baptist
the acquisition of the baptist
To-For Delmira Augustini
i weep over you. tears that rage against me. & you come into being. from an empty heaven. empty as the wind. on skin. we’ll never move out of. alarm.
between language and pain. no longer the word but the scream. signaling. in biology. stimulus response. projection in chaucer. and elsewhere. introjection. to slip into the Other. whosoever like a flower. wherein no relation is possible. but possession.
oh lord. your sin upon my body. the seat of the soul of release. the fornications of creation. before your face. and you alone are god. polluter of your sacred place.
i am thinking of a thought. closing like a wound. false thought rooted in life, devouring. almighty. but ever failing to blossom. this is the ultimate torture. to bear forever this torpid egg. wedged within. like a tooth.
but to dislodge this one day. whosoever like a flower. product and pure. to hold in my hand. the head of god. on a mirrored platter … there could be no greater gift.
To-For Delmira Augustini
i weep over you. tears that rage against me. & you come into being. from an empty heaven. empty as the wind. on skin. we’ll never move out of. alarm.
between language and pain. no longer the word but the scream. signaling. in biology. stimulus response. projection in chaucer. and elsewhere. introjection. to slip into the Other. whosoever like a flower. wherein no relation is possible. but possession.
oh lord. your sin upon my body. the seat of the soul of release. the fornications of creation. before your face. and you alone are god. polluter of your sacred place.
i am thinking of a thought. closing like a wound. false thought rooted in life, devouring. almighty. but ever failing to blossom. this is the ultimate torture. to bear forever this torpid egg. wedged within. like a tooth.
but to dislodge this one day. whosoever like a flower. product and pure. to hold in my hand. the head of god. on a mirrored platter … there could be no greater gift.
For Christine
In another life I see you as an angel flying by. The hands of time they'll free you. You will cast your chains aside.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlg91FG9m5Y
when i see you breaking in three. try as i might, i can't set you free. pictures of you in eternity. like romeo and juliet. except romeo is a drunken prick. and you're smeared across the pavement. and your daughter is motherless. and your family is in shambles.
i bet you thought you could trick them into thinking it wasn't a suicide. i bet you considered that before you threw yourself in front of a moving van.
you were right.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlg91FG9m5Y
when i see you breaking in three. try as i might, i can't set you free. pictures of you in eternity. like romeo and juliet. except romeo is a drunken prick. and you're smeared across the pavement. and your daughter is motherless. and your family is in shambles.
i bet you thought you could trick them into thinking it wasn't a suicide. i bet you considered that before you threw yourself in front of a moving van.
you were right.
Craft of Madness
we are an ontology of masks. forming in our bedroom closets. and underneath our beds. unexplainable noises remind us of the ends we left in yesterdeaths.
we'll share a feast of reckoning on the sabbath of our apathy. we apply and apply again, the light enters, and i forget my name. buried like a cross beneath the foundation. everyday mirrors and the normative divine. the sublime and the subliminal. the light enters and we paint our names across the concrete landscape.
the hyperbolic prophesies of the damned (and by the damned i mean excluded) are written in ballistics which run the river red with the kool aid of yet another jim jones.
speech and noise are fused to one space. good and evil are fused to one space. black fire on white fire. down to the last detail abhorred. we'll cleanse our baby blankets and laugh like children at an empty stage.
we'll share a feast of reckoning on the sabbath of our apathy. we apply and apply again, the light enters, and i forget my name. buried like a cross beneath the foundation. everyday mirrors and the normative divine. the sublime and the subliminal. the light enters and we paint our names across the concrete landscape.
the hyperbolic prophesies of the damned (and by the damned i mean excluded) are written in ballistics which run the river red with the kool aid of yet another jim jones.
speech and noise are fused to one space. good and evil are fused to one space. black fire on white fire. down to the last detail abhorred. we'll cleanse our baby blankets and laugh like children at an empty stage.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Forte Night
they move like a procession falling into a slow line. dancing in black time. with fake cures for fake diseases. false afflictions and irresistible curses. bottling out of what isn't. to become what will never be. the excluded will become the excluding. taken in parts. the damned won't stay damned. they will bless each other to death. we must be in a state of perdition in order to attain salvation.
nothing can come into being without excluding something else.
there are no positive differences.
i hang my head. i drown my fear. and you all will disappear.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mbBbFH9fAg
nothing can come into being without excluding something else.
there are no positive differences.
i hang my head. i drown my fear. and you all will disappear.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mbBbFH9fAg
Song of the Day / Quote of the Day
If I'm me because you're you, and you're you because I'm me, then I'm not I, and you're not you. Hassidic Proverb
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L30VL4IFzkw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L30VL4IFzkw
Sunday, December 5, 2010
A Man Trapped in a Woman's Body
by your pity i disgust you. your eyes hang low in shame. and i can't tame the savage circles tossed about the ancient countenances that blame. your eyes debase me and my words in turn debase you. remember a day while we were waiting for the worms like strange attractors encircling a reflection.
i started smoking poetry. anything i could get my hands on. anything to shut my brain up. a tiny book of butterflies. unsettling. like satre's nausea. i am an ontology of food and vomit. a sepia of terms i cannot come to terms with.
mother, your vision rots me, neither love nor hate. but mere control. they think i'm a transvestite, a man trapped inside a woman's body. i don't need a sex change. i need to cut your chord.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ENMnG2BaTA
i started smoking poetry. anything i could get my hands on. anything to shut my brain up. a tiny book of butterflies. unsettling. like satre's nausea. i am an ontology of food and vomit. a sepia of terms i cannot come to terms with.
mother, your vision rots me, neither love nor hate. but mere control. they think i'm a transvestite, a man trapped inside a woman's body. i don't need a sex change. i need to cut your chord.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ENMnG2BaTA
The Death of the Phoenix
the illusion of ash
is why people see you rise
the illusion of death
bears the necessity of resurrection
when people realize the truth
there will no need for such myths
for all things transform into something else
and to be trapped in such a state
is genuine death
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=shEbyzbSyXg&feature=fvst
*(Read this song for Peter Pan)
is why people see you rise
the illusion of death
bears the necessity of resurrection
when people realize the truth
there will no need for such myths
for all things transform into something else
and to be trapped in such a state
is genuine death
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=shEbyzbSyXg&feature=fvst
*(Read this song for Peter Pan)
Saturday, December 4, 2010
The Extermination of the Name of God
to/for Euripides
the bends fog into the sulking black star you burnt as a holocaust. it was a nice dream crafted out bullet proof polystyrene wishes sulking out of a specter's spirit. wrapped in its own sweet capacity to debase the soggy spirits which soak in the snake who swallows his tail.
today's hero is tomorrows victim, bang bang. the figurehead watches the hallelujah drool out of corner of the liberators mouth, like a fairy tale in far off time dissolving into the golden mean which pushes itself into a karmic bubble.
hell's ditch is a fast car with no driver racing beyond the boundaries of its relative horizon.
Better she bit straight through
my lips then swear
with an unpledged heart
i am a servant of battle, love, and light
with a catspaw's chance
at a purity that survives its own arrogance
and races beyond the boundaries of its own foresight
the bends fog into the sulking black star you burnt as a holocaust. it was a nice dream crafted out bullet proof polystyrene wishes sulking out of a specter's spirit. wrapped in its own sweet capacity to debase the soggy spirits which soak in the snake who swallows his tail.
today's hero is tomorrows victim, bang bang. the figurehead watches the hallelujah drool out of corner of the liberators mouth, like a fairy tale in far off time dissolving into the golden mean which pushes itself into a karmic bubble.
hell's ditch is a fast car with no driver racing beyond the boundaries of its relative horizon.
Better she bit straight through
my lips then swear
with an unpledged heart
i am a servant of battle, love, and light
with a catspaw's chance
at a purity that survives its own arrogance
and races beyond the boundaries of its own foresight
Friday, December 3, 2010
Hyper-reality is a Lie
If hyper-reality is a lie, then science is a lie. The hyperreal is no less than the scientist's art.
The Path of Injection
your lineage dissolves in my bones
reclaiming the ape from the ashes of hell
in my veins
i see you rise, Thompson, Burroughs
like Hosea
to deliver me from the falsities
of the vulgar
and the ways of the loathsome and afraid
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aowSGxim_O8
(The path of injection needn't be about drugs, it extends also to the way the ancient Irish bards trained their students to memorize hundreds of complex verse forms), which I too have copied, which is why I can write decent poems off the top of my head).
reclaiming the ape from the ashes of hell
in my veins
i see you rise, Thompson, Burroughs
like Hosea
to deliver me from the falsities
of the vulgar
and the ways of the loathsome and afraid
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aowSGxim_O8
(The path of injection needn't be about drugs, it extends also to the way the ancient Irish bards trained their students to memorize hundreds of complex verse forms), which I too have copied, which is why I can write decent poems off the top of my head).
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Song of the Day 12.2.10
Siouxsie & the Banshees awesome cover of the Iggy Pop monster hit "The Passenger"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nAON-MwUPY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nAON-MwUPY
Alice in Clusterfuck
when logic and proportion. collapse into your chaos. i will bleed a new math. from the voice of suffering. in crimson patches. the word made flesh will rot upon the vine.
so, if you go chasing rabbits. into the looking glass. be prepared to pass into your other and embrace its shadow. and link back to the source. and sacrifice your certainty. into a slippage of reality. mottled out of poisoned paths.
the dough becomes a man. we are the shapes our faith creates. constructing the labyrinth we meander through.
i am the dragon
you're the white rabbit
now run
so, if you go chasing rabbits. into the looking glass. be prepared to pass into your other and embrace its shadow. and link back to the source. and sacrifice your certainty. into a slippage of reality. mottled out of poisoned paths.
the dough becomes a man. we are the shapes our faith creates. constructing the labyrinth we meander through.
i am the dragon
you're the white rabbit
now run
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