Friday, August 26, 2011

Lust


Lust

I don't believe
in censorship,
I choose to see it all
and by default I allow myself to feel it all.
We must each allow this
in order to move forth
stepping onto a new path
we must step out of the circle that is history
in order to truly stop this repetition
of hatred,

of bullying, of segregation,
of prejudice, of intolerance, of ignorance,
of cruelty, of crimes against the natural order, of narcissism, of greed, of baseless wars,
of fear minus love.
Of fear minus love.
Of fear minus love.
It's all so plain to see, so why can't you see us?
I choose to see it all as it is, for what it is.

And in this
there are
still sharp strands of light
caught in clear crystal;

snapshots of beauty almost too grand to imagine
anylonger
like some far away dream we don't deserve,
and yet they're there-
as fragile as enigmatic petals to the bruising touch,
beyond our disillusions and hysterics
there are corners to our surprise-
left, untouched.
And here we dwell in the disease filled filth
of our basking,
growing as large as our ego's
as we try to consume the world whole
in unison we dislocate
our distorted and monstrous jaws in one massive bite power
we gnaw it away, burp out the cries,
excrete the destruction.
We're the human machine, can't you all see?
We're just living out our final days
in grandeur,
we bought into
lust,
from the super mass chained
megacorps that imprisoned us with their conveniences,
chaining our wanting mouths
to our transmogrified bellies.
We live now in the porous and cold
concrete skyline
we traded country windows, daisy crowns and bird watching
for plasma screens, porno and smart phones.
We walk under the shadowy figure of a man called capitalism.
We sold him our soul, our hearts, our bodies
our hope, and we took the money and ran, thinking we were made!
And now we're addicted to the toxic smog
of our seductive
and destructive desires,
of fear minus love.
Of fear minus love.
Of fear minus love.
We're all lost, in lust.


Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Cobalt


Cobalt




Blue.

Blue,
blue,
blue,
blue-

periwinkle,
cobalt,
cornflower,
turquoise- numb,

cool,
arid,
gem,
iris,

the hurt water- is,
the sweet dripping hands full- are,
the pith- is, the bruised petals- are,

the iridescent wing is- blue.

Blue,
blue,
blue,
blue.

The dead heart on ice- is,
the veins in her forearm- are,


the mind like Neptune- is,
the indefinable magic- like a cosmic screen,
behind the universal static is- blue.



Stones & Star Stuff


Stones,
and their fixed ways
carry no superficiality
like we do-
they are elementary.
When we wear rings made of them
our digits become submissive lovers
of the ancient world,
we become stone
silent,
mouthing mutable shapes
porous, facetted or polished smooth-
our eyes like medusa
change you with a glance.
Goldstone, garnet, citrine, peridot, tigers eye-
we become closer to actuality-
to finality,
and immortality too,
we become the ghostly negative shape
like smoke
we furl and curl seductively around
the universe herself.


[present] participle [past]


[present] participle [past]


Whatever you do
Don’t write about me-

us-

like we are participle things
fleshing out the fleshable

and discarding the rest

we fight with adjectives used to describe the state
of our verb

we slide in and out
between the lines

we’re decks of cards
fifty two to a pack

nearly an hour to be
what it is that we’re meant to be?

Each card has a number
and a character to fulfill

a word for each,
and each-

participle that’s- yet.


Melon field


Melon field


I needed to rinse
this of me

this immense sorrow
that I’d been carrying.

It was there
in the dewy pastel melons

under a molten summer sun
over the crackle art of dried mud

after I’d swum
dripping wet

I’d wandered here
wringing myself over the melons

my hair, my eyelashes too

I became dew,

watched sorrow evaporate
into a fine vapour

watched it shimmer
on the wings of red dragon flies
fluttering past

like a susurrus of lovely autumn leaves.



What is left after all the hoopla of rhetoric's dissolve

What is left after all the hoopla of rhetoric’s dissolve


{Take me out of myself,
breathe me
into something that is closer to nothing-
a shape for which nothing can pretend it is everything,
because- it is.}


We sat out
in the long grass

the dandelion seeds
in their pappus’s

like white silky feathered stars
carried,

and tangled in the sea
of gilding green
blades

that moved thick
in rushed currents of breeze, like seaweed-

they’d tangle under the weighted air of salt or water
and eventually they’d fall and settle down,

jut- yellow sunny flowers
coined as weeds.

We’d stay here and watch
the supposition of natural things moving along in perfect procession.

And I envied the way you see,
even in the stark blue daylight

you could trace the outlines
of stars and their constellations

and I almost believed
that I could see them too-

under that perfect veil of powder blue.

The river at the bottom of the farm
like green amethyst

drew from memory, its way
to the glittery sea-

the same way I used to map my way from this modern mess,
always to you.

I remember the day before you left,
you kissed me

in that field we loved.
You kissed me with such urgency

like your mouth was a slip-knot of flesh,
and my willingness to lose myself, surprised you.

You untied my corset lips,
and I felt the rhetoric’s dissolve from my tongue,

I watched the exodus of people moving along in their usual way,
and I felt the insignificance of social contracts, as they faded to vellum.

I felt just how far into the universe
you meant to go

that day,

and how those moments moved
without a word
so quietly

and so impossibly slow-
just to watch you go.



Confection


Confection



He’s staring into the habitual allure
of those candy glossed screens

that are always telling, selling,
gossiping, proclaiming, advertising-

and categorizing levels of
supposed societal normalcy,

sprinkled with commercial foil wrapped
lemon drop lollygaggers.

He is: becoming addicted to the lie,
and maybe? So are you, or are you?

His eyes fondled her red sugar glass heart,
yes, he subscribed to the notion

that she is: an image
dusted sweet

she is: red sugar glass
perfection

and that she indeed was: pure
confection.

And don’t you see?
That he is right-

she is: the perfect break down in society, the perfect distraction,
from what is really going on.

She’s held up high on a pedestal for all to marvel at-
and for all to see,

as their blood glucose levels
rose higher and higher,

and their true voices like worked blades,
grew duller and duller.

And maybe she is-
this superficial ideology of modern day perfection

maybe she is less
shatterable and more sweet-

but not in the way he was shown,
not in the way he was told,

beneath it all,
she is the frail shell shrapnel,

beneath the ploy-
she is the image of a financed war,

because-
behind the scenes,

there’s a puppetry of hearts
a carefully orchestrated mirage being shown,

because they realized that if you want to make a nation of people complacent,
always strike the heart of the matter,

to make young men fall to their knees,
to keep the masses entertained, and never truly informed.

The media told him,
To never unfold

his accordion mind.

-To never look too far into things,
and they give him just enough education to keep him satisfied,

and they feed him just enough garbage to keep him full,


as the central bankers get fatter, so do the politicians, and the corporate pigs from the media and television networks get taller, as they become the city and now, we live in squalor.


Dear young men-
young son,

if I could say something,
from my unframed grotesque natural stagger-

please be the question mark,
that makes them scatter.

Dear son,

Listen to your mother, as I do listen to you-
and teach your daughter, with a listening ear too.





Gulled

Gulled


See
what I've done?

-With these small fists
I own

the red brick-locked walls
that reach to scrape the knees

of Celeste,

of cumulus
as they trundled quickly past

were punched with questions
guised in cracks of polarized light.

They have crumbled, fallen to the surface-
with this quake of mind.

We become the gaps we fall in,

and now we're respondents
trading shapes,
in piles of heavy red
folding under the rubble.
We possess borrowed blood,

yes,

we always forget
what we've been leant;

regardless of acknowledgement
it carries on within without consent,

until spilled,
then we want to give everything back

cup loss-
for another to drink as joy.

Because origin
is as far away-
as its
meaning;

and so is
rhythm to its reason.

We flash freeze
our minds cold blue,

to try and contain
a wayward clot,

pretend it is something naught.

We try to preserve the flower shape,
That’s fanning pretty petals out-

just hold it in place
this bomb about to be triggered

by some forefinger-
[not your own, of course]

because perseverance pays
the bills,

and so does redundancy,

and life less lived, a little while-
will give a lot [before we die a little more]

with every tick off the clock
means we've paid the debt of history,
once more-

in every moment it takes,
it gives, just like this.

We live under their thumbs.
we are promised a future,

by the same hand whose appendages
are holding us down;

this is such child’s play-
the way they pull and fleck the wings from our backs, turning us flight risks,
flightless.

Until our words and thoughts
like fluid between the digits

spill
faithlessly-

out of hand.
And the pages written

flutter over the ledge
confounded like gulls,

soaring fringed with white and grey,
landing on street corners,

criss-crossing through soles
gathering into strategic clusters,

hunting,
for a meal to sustain

their oscillating flight.

In our gulled
skulls-

we crave equilibrium,
we yearn for cracks in brick-locked walls, too tall-

and wish for the frosted flower petals
to thaw,

and fall.





Coral

Coral


Do as you will;
as you might

without the barbed restraints
that were holding your wrists down,

you’re capable of just about anything now

both lawless and law abiding,
it’s all about having the power of a real choice.

You’re a citizen of the universe today-

So float on by this simple blue yonder
and this smoggy urban plain.

Drift far away,
swim up higher,
dive down farther.

Because you deserve so much more,
you’re better than this place, and that’s all this life has to offer

so long as you stay.





I see you there
up on the coral horizon


you're trying to fill
a loveless void-

eating stars,
you fork them in,

a belly full of them,
they prickle as they spin.

Scales and fins,
metallic and salt,

Fill you now.

Your inner chemistry begins-
where you end,

and extends
beyond you.

The temperature- it cools,
Is it a dying reef?

(That marked this collapse
within)

You interchange- and some think it’s a chemical reaction
that’s taking new shape,

brings you deeper in, with every
star you ingest you become even more unkept.

A sea of glass orbs, like corked bottles- they bob
with messages you left yourself at the end; above you here as you begin.

Your imaginarium fills this pandemonium
crumbling down.

The desert,
it rushes you back in again,
to the sea-less shore

to desolation,
grain by grain,

piling up-
you return to your former resignation.

You turn terra cotta orange,
turn into a fragile ecosystem;

into a frail architectural
organism-

Lending itself to others as a house,
to make their homes within.

Your bones turn brittle as the dead coral fades,
and cremation white fills the orange
like bone death,

this shade leaves you hollow now.

And you’ve long since began to resist the life you hate,
as you remain your only death.


It’s all because of your heart,
you must know this now-


She crosses and she fades in the most usual of ways-
Into the fire works-

taking the hill of blackberry bushes,
she changes them to sparkly candy red-

the ones that once painted the hills deep and black
like her outer space

you doodled sweet notes in
Leaving them for her to find, with sarcastic clues all over the place.

So-
now you must,

do as you will;
as you might

without the barbed restraints
that were holding your wrists down,

you’re capable of just about anything now

both lawless and law abiding,
it’s all about having the power of a real choice.

Remember-

You’re a citizen of the universe today-

So float on by this simple blue yonder,
This smoggy urban plain too.

Drift far away,
swim up higher,
dive down farther.

Because you deserve so much more,
you’re better than this place, and that’s all this life has to offer

so long as you stay.




We are origami


We are origami



We are origami:
when we crave source
we open out,

when we fear expanse
we seek out ultimatum.

We fold in contrary corners,
become shapeless; shapeful

until the infinite and infinitesimal
share this sameness.



You and I, live in a lemon grove


You and I, live in a lemon grove


I see you


in floating specs-

a face

embryonic
and aglow

hope

I put little bounty
into fictitious sounding words such as that,

or
at least I pretend-
this is true.


But hope is often a dream,
it can be the premonition of love
still shapeless yet.

And-

love is a pinioned thing, it flutters and perches within the breasted cage and bathes in our soul's green fountain, this love is bound yet not confounded,

it will soar away,
yet always return fate-filled
to perch within, and bathe in your clear green waters again.

If I fail hope-

I may dissolve this heart matter,
into this social contract of moderne sameness,

and that my dear,
is a loss too grave.

So while you're a realist-
I'll be the optimist, this day.

And while you're off-
I'll revert to silent inwardness,

because-

the greatest influence over an artist
is in fact that of another creator;

we extend our openness, to theirs,

we are curious children climbing fences to see the view in
from the other side,

and there is a forwardness to looking back.

And you and I,
live in a lemon grove.

We have enough sun to sustain
the days about to come,

here-
inside the boughs of green and yellow

we'll be the shadow show

comprised of primary
colour-

making confetti out of
undressed rinds.




Electric Weave


Electric Weave


This silk web we've weaved
electrical and neon fibers,

ultraviolet euphoria,
then the spectrum fanning out-

that connects us poetically;
to this change.

We resist with the strength of steel
what we wish was naught,

and we are countered with that same
strength.

An internalized revolution of words that threatens to balance scales,
sweeps across and gets tangled in source, as it enters the external world- of
what’s: actually in place of what should be.


It becomes both, the predator and the prey- in it’s fight,
and the polar air that surrounds both
holding up their shapes.

We are lovely fruits ready for consumption,

gathered at the bases of iris stems
and crushed green leaves,

under short wide trees, and rotting rubble, catching whatever illumination
we can before we return to where we came.

Because saffron sunlight turns to black,
and someday- it won't return again.

The womb and the stomach are the same,
we are eternally in need, until we are nothing.

We're-

-Digested in the belly of creation,
and of likely- destruction’s potence too.

You see?
Love, is not meant to be worked,

like wood or metal-
into something manipulated, made into something unnatural.

Love is, the natural unworked state of the metal or wood-
left deep within the earth, or in the cores of trees
- that is love.

We are not hate filled beings, we aren’t-
our worst nightmares, not really;

we are waiting on a love-
To be unearthed within us, to nourish our fears.

We are like tender fruit split in half-
to reveal its one of a kind galaxy pattern of seeds within,

take one half away-
and it is unbalanced for the rest of its time

there is not another with it's exact same shape, but if the mirroring pattern,
were returned, puzzled in place- it becomes whole again.

Nothing can be taken, only misplaced.

These webs we weave need to catch our platinum dreams-
before they flutter away with the falsism of sight,
to realize the power we hold over the modern world

when the imagined becomes more
than the real ever hoped for.

This love, is the change we need to become,
in order for future succession to be.

It's alright-
to fall to pieces,
there is nothing to fear-

in here, or out there,

So-

scatter and gather,
and start over.

because,

this life is too brief to really contain all that
we really are.