Peter Panic [Part 4: Augusta's Boy]

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by the lamentations of the nauseous. a man fails with a boy's cry. the tears of his mother fill tubs with blood in which to drown her young. her menstrual cycle was patterned on the radial velocity of the moon and so her son became a necromancer. a failure, who fetishized the body into pieces.

deeply paperlike kisses
blowing ashes in the wind
and then he would whisper
his torrential teleology
to the tinman, an alchemist
a shell of a man
a moribund effigy
awaiting translation
in the moisture
of his undead mother

Your Lies Become You... Afterall

Bringing back the song of the day! YAY! This is a great one from the last Acid Rock band Monster Magnet.

Peter Panic [Part 3: The Condemned]

the boy would look at us
see nothing but phantoms
blips in the radar
of his imagination
haunting about him
immaterial, and impossible
to touch.

when he began to fear us
we began to fear him.
we sensed his eyes
did not see us as human.

flesh at this level of fabrication seeks to rip itself from its spirit. a creation that damns its maker. a confession made behind the eyes as the barrell of a gun. a man, a judge, who could not see other men but only the fear of their judgment.

Peter Panic [Part 2: Parametric Genuflection]

what made me most afraid was not that the man looked like a monster, but that behind his mask, there was a human being, vaguely similar to me. it always seemed like he was kneeling. being haunted over by an overprotective mother. only pretty sure, that he couldn't take anymore. repulsion begets compulsion, vestal virgins carry strap-ons and masters of psychological warfare don't need to show their faces.

though we were strangers from your inner world, you forced yourself through the makeshift bloodshaft for any pretty face to beg you pretty please. picture my face in your hands, and you will see the freakish simplicity with which i fake my smiles. and you will smile too, by reflex. it is an architecture of plastic. a domain for shapes. imhabited by only reflections.

i can be anyone you please.
i am the new face of the machine.
the genuflection that ebbs into you dreams.
so don't you cry.

in the moisture of midnight,
i come to an end.

when you look in the mirror,
it is my eyes that stare back
i've been given so many names
that i've forgotten what i call myself
do not believe that you are ever alone
in shadows, in darkness, in the deepest pit
there are voices, like echoes
in search of mouths
to make their own.

Peter Panic [Part I: The Downward Spiral]

an indigent appeals to the sedentary arguing that their world is an illusion of boxes. the fact that they can make it real hides the fact that it was once a dream. they hide their memories in boxes, store them in the top most enclosure. their children are lured from their bedrooms by dreams they've acquired from TVs. when their parents are put into coffins, they will find these memories. their tears will wash them of dust, and their hands will slide through pages, and they will remember what they used to believe would be.

when they have learned to fear the reaper, they will remember being visited by peter pan. perhaps they've sacrificed their dreams and let matter play their rapture in wormy dirt. at midday, when the heavens collapsed and their enclosures could no longer satisfy, they fed their regrets to the child they saw in pictures and what they would do differently if given another chance.

who will come to their window now?
a goat man with the head of a snake
extends his hand and convinces them
that they can fly

but when they try
the cold call of gravity
lures them down
into that bottomless pit
inhabited by the broken shards
of a midday heaven

When the Eyes Seek to See the Eyes

the bend of yesterdays. so young and vain and willing to forget. that the eyes can collapse into a waking dream. pointing inward and forever closing. till the dark days saved us from the blinding of the light. and those who refuse to cure will cure themselves of the desire to feel sick. and the necessities of sickness will prevent us from being poisoned.

my coiling tongue was born of the discomfort of a vertigo
spindled in the oscillation of a sky i could not name.

your self-portrait was like a blanket to a dream.
an umbrella in the rain.

and we would stare at our lives
through the concave lens
of a descending sky

and watch tomorrow
content in a mysery
that cannot be shared
or named.

Love Suicide

you were always the prophet
of someone else's god,
an atheist seething at the women
who dismissed your kisses
and the men they loved
on moral grounds
till you crawled back into
your mother's womb
touched by the swallows
of her mouth
that release you silently
from the burden of caring
about her.

The Language of Projection

sooth's cells
tails in tailpipes
twisted trusted
flushed abyss
catching lightening
in our spiral signal
the rains turn in
the staticky curse
of words
which can look
and laugh
at only objects.
it ejaculates mysteries.
phallusies. almighty,
monoliths of security.
it envelopes like a womb
everything it signifies
encasing it on all sides round
until, like a seed
it breaks its walls
and expands
its nervous tendrils
throughout the abyss.

Tiamat

so we must force it. mutilate the tissue of our children's remains. set them as symbol. impale them on their shadows. here there be dragons. they portend the end. the grammar of sacrifices produces the devouring worm, susan smith, and the oedipus complex. the curse is now murder. murder anything that restricts us. murder the world itself, when we are sure there is another world waiting somewhere, beyond the squallor of matter. murder our bodies to release our souls. then murder our souls to free our bodies.

the father's heaven is overgrown. the mother's body is earth and sky. their deaths produce the mechanism of our multiplication. the rebel now is called devil. his war is vain and hopeless. his enemy, being. his eyes harbor spiritual toys to demoralize his reflexive father who breathes into him the very life he seeks to destroy.

even a god cannot kill a god.

for there are gods which are also stars. stars which are also atoms. and atoms which are forces of nature.

Interactive Fiction

I am currently working on an interactive fiction which is based on a short story I wrote many moons ago.

Eris [Part 7: Penis Injectus]

it enters through the spine
slinking its way up
and now you're like
a string of beads
on a bracelet.
separated in spite of
burnt puppet clandestinies
that pray in narrative grids
across each other's bush

in delight, order is a snake
a fat chicken to grease
on the meat of your tongue
entering through the eyes
and making a nest
in the retina.

you become what you behold
but you can only behold yourself
with eyes either looking
down from heaven
or out of hell

Eris [Part 6: Vagina Dentata]

reflexive my puppets
reject to return, invert
an imaginary hand reintegrating
its fingers along the barrel of a spine
moving like liquid toward the brain
and you are suddenly bathed in light
bright eyes begin to make it up
as they go along.
a dark brown sludge
cries out of the corners
of the eyes. let it go,
let it all go. your eyes
are made of light.
and your heart
is light as a feather.

the orange glittered void
of the ultimate spiral

resonating reptile with its tail
in its mouth

ancient acquired void of vicious sympathy
with a sawblade mouth,
in the anti-breath of dark night

a secret
that competes with fear
for its very survival

on the other side of every black hole
is a baby universe
in imaginary time.

Eris [Part 5: Sex & Death]

would we be puppetlike then
sell our glow and have it repelled back
if we are convicts against fiction
then let our trackmarks be shown
in the pictures you hide on your hard drive
we are waiting
fresh red trackmarks
too delicious for rejection
what would the use be,
if we were to hide it
it is a fashion
for negating fashion.
ultimately it is abjection
a musician in prayer
ceremonial regresses
blushing in their own transgressions
knowing that memory is rewritable.
innocence is riddled in holes.
no longer bending against the rituals
that rush open and see us flee.
what would a dream be
if we were dreams to it
blankets, beds, pillows
no longer sleeping beneath the bodies
of penetrating bone

all over perdition the joys are contracting
and pain is relaxing
nobody's going to echo
in a static
in a mouth heart
it is time to panic
it is time
to put the children in ovens
than watch their dreams fall
one by one
like leaves on a dying tree

it is time to offer your burnt dreams
to the gods

Eris [Part 4: Survival]

Part IV: Survival

tend on their nurturers
nontypical torturers
what noose?

the burial is always covered.

to suffer rejections
like products
open to fashion and constructed
by the craft of a craft
they make as you fashion
your creations
creating the product
they will fashion
a fashion
out of created products
and fashion.

blushed in blood.

who hasn't opened a closed thing?
the sins of the beast are his blessings.
in this revelation
you preach before forgiving
you fuck through your teeth.
here come the throats again.
the contracting touch is fear.
but apathy can also seethe.
we cannot long for passion.
my very satisfaction will thirst.
devoured contortion
in things beheld swallowing
nobody's sitting, and nobody's going to sit.
we're watching the listener laugh.
we're listening to the watcher.
nobody attempts to get out of a whisper,
nobody explains the principles of survival.

Eris [Part 3: Worms]

Part III: Worms

my myth book is a bite dictate
my resurrection advance
is nearly in the black.
nobody saves
to get out of the pit,
nobody believes in the confusion curse
nor questions the dissection of the echo
even my watching mother competes
banging from the threat of fleeing
predicting like a predatory panic
tingling along a wire of spines
the minimum silence
this ice, sliding and dancing
in a body carrier
of blood like lava
from a poisoning victim.
there are echoes on either side
and you are standing in an elongating line
you are standing inside an esophagus
you can smell gastric juice
the walls are oozing with slime

martyr martyr.
sin like an epiphany fiction.
my fiction lied.
my fiction is now lying.
rewritables pile up.
tell a fiction enough times
it will evaporate into thin air
it will hush like noise in a whisper voice
it will cradle over and over.
it will turn on itself.
it will begin with itself.
it will end with itself.
here is my sphinx riddle:
my name is this.
my name is this.

Eris [Part 2: Possession]

Eris

Part II: Possession

“that twenty tides of obscure suicides
force themselves towards your toilet,”
my encryption said,
“Such burials for my cover, let us encircle (for we are the mainline) .“
That should I after wrongness crosswise sin,
Or, sinfull, epiphanic hence, in praying sin,
analyzing for alarm and lover, sulk to them my restraint.
an epiphany in seven pieces
sacrificing and dismembering
kill the bend; the miracle cannot get;
fantasy is halved upon reflection,
the memory of songs is washed;
fashioning the making product
the catch cannot sell
if the crafted are full
of a productive construct.
is ticking its diurnal Springs, while all around
machines fashioned into products to be generated

as she contorted I was surrounded (of becoming bound)
in her appropriation and being a burial for it, until her
arts were only apocalyptic ultimates with a receipt
for forgiving.

I was dislodged by pure symptoms,
mixed at each stung soul, relaxed solidly
in the balanced pasts of her swallow, sacrificed by
the school of uncomfortable knowledge
with opening blood practically burning
a stream of crumbled releases
narrated by sheep
and I listened to my mechanism
like a categorical
yesterday.

As she organized, I was in her face and being
devoured. fixed forever
in the waiting days of her past, ticked by
the moonlight of a dreamlike rewinding
a night had past. we waited for midnight under
the dimness.

burials so lifelike they can kill shades,
shadows dying nighty into moonlit snakes
like gods dictating and haunting
their tombstones.

words are seeds. they roil with potential. if they are put in good soil, they can rise to life. they feed on invocation. they focus our thoughts like a lens. restrict the symmetries and dream between them, for they are the seeds of Eden.

Eris [Part 1: The Illusion that the Illusion is itself an Illusion, is itself an Illusion.]

lie re[PRO]duction.

turn patheticly and crosswise and no one will hear you scream you a believer.
stand yourself on an end out of a mythology of parsers.
sacredly and quietly and no one will curse your system.

come nausea.

project yourself once at moonlight .
create yourself once a night
then debase yourself practically
by day.

compel yourself where
you can be subjected.

disappear yourself where
you can be rejected.

signal: you forgive
your fading.

unless you select
to be survival to a devil
obliterate yourself where
you can be seen.

truth, I laid your illusion.
to beyond the urinatation of the spirit.
Spiritus Mundi, I glimmered your stagnance.
I am the one who sleeps, the one who dissected your night.
in a spring of starlight. i await your cradle.
by the skin of the sky.
by the skin of the sky.

Tammuz

the symphony of biologies,
behind the resurrected Spring
& my demons are bereft of mythologies.
knowledge's cave crumbles from within
a pit that preaches its own darkness
in the moonlike mainline
that glazes beyond the whimper
a mouth that must bury its kill
then dies while you disintegrate.

all these years
encrypted by a deranged impressionist
patterned on a fading song
the echo of your rapture
muscles that will contort her skeleton
and all the while will my biology be
the explanation of an eye and a lip
the science of a sinful resurrection

in Babylon, the sky is made of monsters
tombstones blaze over one who lays
if they are not taken, sought dreams,
carry it to the burial with a nobody.
mythological paths come with suicide
it was just a soul, then, to be resurrected,
angelic messenger of rejections
and what he formed was sadistic
swalowing the ceremony
of seductuctions
in faces
trying to erase
their own expressions.
like a trusted beckon,
experience always covered it
there is no forgiveness
for a warehouse swallow
and buckles bartered
to fit in.