02 by a baldwin / photodharma.com
pen & ink, acrylics, on aquarelle
Please...do not ask me what it is...
LiveJournal for Mind Sigh.
|Saturday, December 27th, 2008|
02 by a baldwin / photodharma.com
pen & ink, acrylics, on aquarelle
Please...do not ask me what it is...
|Tuesday, July 31st, 2007|
woke up with my contacts still in
feel hungover thogh I drank
a whole lotta nada
the nova should have left a neuron star
(she should've left her number)
but there were only faint ruby rings
(she steps out of the pool)
a convulsing aura
pulsing and ticking
tickling your timing
a universe of nerve endings
all vulva'd out
but it's gotta end sometime
(halting skies, a hesitation in the waves)
WHILE YOU WERE OUT
she called to see you
wants to see you
will call back
while you were out
getting sloshed and tight
smudging your thoughts
creation could never contain you
no arms could ever hold you
bitter clay boy
boy moulded by heavy black gloved hands
and you just squeezed out through those
leather fingers twitching and kicking
what a rebel!
you repulsed them all
you repulse me
throbbing like a strange body in the deepest seat
of deep space singing a simple melody
a shakey record needle signal for lonely astronomers
to decode, rejoice over; they sift through your
turds with a fine tooth comb, read your indecypherable
hieroglyphs with magnifying glasses
they pick out the lice and smooth out the wrinkles
they calm the bad magnetics
|Tuesday, July 24th, 2007|
chains of sleep are the best thing to pretend with
paint myself in stupors
it's a habit
painted stuck and fucked into a well worn corner
violent tapping jaws in stale beige waiting rooms
a bland gnashing of the teeth
spitting and bristling
you grind your salts at the bottom of the sea
(you've got too much water in yer nose, blow it out)
someone's peering in on me
spying in cold cold shade
a sneering carnivore itching to bite
a low greasy hate
a snoring bore
leave the luggage
it's too late
the girl, too
fuck it, then
|Monday, June 11th, 2007|
I sought to make amends, to right my wrongs.
I reached out for you in the night over landscapes of empty pillows and I really wouldn't know what to say anyway.
No fair. This place changes everytime I wake up. Each morning it takesme a while to figure out which law of physics has been usurped, inverted. Sometimes it takes longer than others. It's not fair. Foul play. A place where there is no work, no reward, just silly empty play. Kick up your heels. Kick a bucket. Punch a ticket or two. The movies all use blue. A one note bone flute solo to soothe. Being blue will never be blown quite the same way again. Now all your blues are a drag. Father Time in drag is hesitating in the garden, indecisive as a woman.
She asks why I swear so much. A spoiled sheltered man that's trying to sound streetwise? A dumb peasant attempting to be phlisophical? More likely a vaguely educated socially inept boy that's seen Scarface too many times. It's time to surface. Dreaming in submarines. A black barbed shark sinking in inky crude oil seas. Some wise ass actually stacked nine full size replicas of the Empire State building in the Mariana Trench and I'm scared to think of what type of ape climbs those from that depth. A publicity stunt. You be the judge. You be the author, I'm tired of writing. By now you get the pattern and you can stop reading. Get out. Do something with your life. Don't worry, I'll still be here when you get back. Go on.
up so go on
on up so go
go on up so
so go on up
write your name on heaven's slate
She poses as aparabola and I'm golden and arching over her, just hamming it up. Just humming and strumming one note, stringing my bow to thread the needle. Glad glad relief and we'll rest now. Letting the sweat dry and eating ice cream. We'll pray together now.
By the way, before I forget...nevermind.
Who pulls the string that pulls from my chest. Who put this hook in my lip? How many more miles of bad road being dragged from this shitty truck before the line snaps? Someone up there is a mighty shitty driver if you ask me. Someone's asleep at the wheel, out to lunch. Time to wake up.
I'll streak your funereal.
Pen line over the sky, spooling threads from yes-stars to no-stars. She loves me. She loves me not. Playing pinball in the heavenly firmament, bumping up against the Belt of Orion, making his sword swing and the three great pyramids of Giza light up with the sound of three girls sighing. She loves me. She loves me. She loves me.
Michelle once said I made her feel like a bug under a microscope. At the time I was putting my fingers in her, reading the slippery Braille. I was sitting up and she was lying down with her white button down shirt still on (sleeves rolled up.) I wore the same uniform as her and still had it all on. I just couldn't get close to anyone back then. As the song goes, "touching from a distance." I'm getting closer all the time.
Cargo bones burnt and tired.
A heavy hand behind my head pushes me down, breaking the ice with my face and the frigid water gets red. Someone else is taking a hammer to my spine, using the end that you use to pry up nails with. I'm breathing cold cold water. A meticulous razor is cutting the skin on my fingers into ribbon; it feels like they're being tied into faggy bows. Another someone else is chewing my strips of skin like way underdone jerky. A nerve jumpy jerky sashimi. Another mouth now. A lip smacking toe tapping good time! How many people are in on this operation? Boy, what a party! They'll be talking about me for weeks. A nice suprise! I'm tired of fighting; I can't even swim. I don't want to fight the river, go headstrong against the moon pulled tide. I'd rather lay down and let the current ride over me. I can feel the water stroking my chest now. Feels good. I'm heavier than you and I love to see all of you just float away. Cheers! What a party!
Had a dream that Sean was skipping and laughing, throwing dirt from a pail as he went and I swear I saw little plastic army men in there. The park was lit in drowsy afternoon light. His laughter was contagious and soon I was scooping up handfulls of dirt, getting it under my nails and throwing it around. I fucked up a few floral arrangements. I stuck a few wet dirt clods underneath picnic tables like a dirty car bomber. I ruined a few wasp nests and ran. Ran into a few dog turds. Sean returned from his third lap and explained that the Romans did this wherever they went and they sure didn't invent no cuckoo clock. I almost tell him that he's Irish, not Italian, but then I get the joke. Punchline is that the Centurions carried the soil of mother Roma wherever they went. Guess they planted Roma tomatos in all the lands they conquered. He takes off for another lap when these two pretty girls swing down from the trees and assault me with tickling kisses. Their hands travel and I'm feeling miles tall. "I'll take this moment to my grave, ladies...but first let's take it to my bed!"
"Thought you said you weren't getting high anymore?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Isn't that what you wrote in your journal?"
"Do you believe everything you read?"
to be continued...
Mama and Papa Cuckoo sittin' in bed. He sat up and begged and she rolled over and played dead. This is what was said:
Genesis and a sister.
It could have been so good. You and me. So happy together. No matter how you toss the dice. Meant to be. But you did toss the dice. Gambled on a boy's love for his God. Your carelessness put a thorn in my side, cut a chip into my shoulder, pierced me until I bled water. You took my rib and made another me. Someone to share the limelight spotlight. You guessed we'd just split your love, Old Boy. You sure do move in mysterious ways. It's enough to make you dizzy. The world is spinning too fast around the sun and I'm feeling sick; let me off here. You are so strange, so lovely. I can feel your touch in the daylight where as this new creature here is all moonlight. I hear you whisper in the wind in the palm trees while she sings in water trickling in. You quiz me in birdsongs and belittle me in catcalls, but I don't understand. I heard your voice in the garden and I hid. It wasn't until I tried to avoid her that I discovered that paradise was not boundless, but surrounded by an endless waste. A desert. An endless summer. What a bummer, man.
You made me from pieces. All that I am was once dust. She whispers to me that we were once made up of stars. At night I wonder how long until all those stars become people. My bride is also a patchwork of dust. Our ashes mingle. Her black hair sticks out in freaked out directions, streaked with white. You made her like that. It took me so long to appreciate your craftsmanship.
I saw her sleeping in the garden.
It was time to bring light to the world.
Are you yourself?
Best part of waking up is the thirty seconds or so after you wake up, still half a cat in a bag, two sheets to the broken wind. When I don't remember who I am is when I'm happiest. Before I know who I am, what I've done or what I'm about to do. How about you? You remind me so much of your mother, God rest her soul. Who knows what barstool in Milwuakee her ghost slouches on. I need coffee. Best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup. Your mother would've said my mug was half empty, where you would argue that its half full and I'd just shrug and say who gives a shit anyway?
Sometime the TV just don't move me. I'm so tired of knowing what happens next. Miss the sense of mystery, a childish sense of wonder. Like a boy walking into a dark theater and asking someone to recap all that he'd missed while in the bathroom. If I could do it all over again I'd stay in that fucking bathroom. Then I'd leave five minutes before the film ended so I wouldn't have to hear all the men pissing and coughing and shitting.
I used to breathe ten times with my head between my knees (twenty if it had been a LONG day if you know what I mean) then hold my breath, sit up and plug my vessels with my thumbs, blocking the arterial flow to the brain thus depriving my brain of oxygen. I'd laugh like an idiot. A simple caveman downsyndrome joy as old as galaxies. Nothing made sense. My blood all tingley like a million microscopic triangles were bounding through my veins and bumping the walls as they tumble and go, making sparks; reluctant to return to the heart. And then: show's over. A spectacle of myself collapsed on the floor, nesting in myself. Whatever the man on the TV is saying, I'm beginning to get it. Then I remember to resent it.
My girl is putting the rubber on using only her mouth. Look, Ma! No hands! Where'd she learn a whore's trick like that? Maybe back when she used to strip. Not in clubs, but made house calls, sold herself door to door. There was a bouncer, but he would wait in the car outside where he could be oh so much help if things got ugly with the frat boys or drunk ass Marines on leave. One of her parlour games was "feed the kittie" where she'd have some guy lay down and put a lolly pop in his mouth stick first so that the candy end would go inside her as she squatted down. What a waste of his money and her time.
I'd asked all summer for a bunch of army men. I already had some, but I needed more of those that came from the same mould in Hong Kong. Little plastic frozen green men that hurt when you stepped on them with bare feet in the sleep eyed sandy groggy morning. On my birthday we were out on the porch, sitting in lawn chairs behind the wall of bottlebrush and next to the hot tub where we had goldfish swimming around in it. The adults were drinking beer and I had a cherry RC. After unwrapping a giant pail of army men from my uncle I declared to everyone, "this isn't a very good present." My uncle said nothing, but Mom chastised me immediately. I had asked for army men way earlier that year and now all I could think about were GI Joe with all the multicolors, fully posable articulated limbs and removable gear and interchangeable weaponry. What a drag! Life of the party even back then.
In bed we were parallel: two points of light continuing into infinity, yet never intersecting.
Never cross me. This is how it's done. Head. Crotch. Shoulder. Shoulder. Next verse, just reverse it. The chorus is a Big Spin. Buy a vowel. Make a vowel movement. Beethoven and all his movements. He had a diet rich in fiber and low in saturated fats. Back when fat really meant something, man. Back when peace actually had a chance. Now it's all about a piece of ass. The human ass hams littering the debris of the bomb shattered storefront. The skyscrapers are falling, Chicken Little. You'll just have to take a rain check. A check for the two cents that you badly want to put in. Graffiti your initials on the Book of Life. Unabridged version. Better save your dough, keep your broken bread. Those two cents are for eyes when you sleep which is a dress rehearsal for the big hasta la bye bye.
Building my slow something.
Swimming out to shore. Yours.
Dreaming about fucking like shadowboxing.
to be continued...
"Give it to me straight, doc; how long have I got?"
"Straight up yer ass, you degenerate prick! Yer gonna die tonight!"
Next round is on you. One round in the chamber.
Bend over, I want to break nausea.
"Leche?" she asks, looking over her shoulder with a smile. Her halfbuttoned button up shirt is half off her bare brown shoulder. Head down, ass up. Nice. I just might. Just one more push. Tingle tingle, lights out. Someone knocked over the canteen and that last swallow of Mexican brandy is soaking into the carpet. Lush plush.
Rolling marble eyes. Getting pupiless like an ancient Greek statue. A genetic hiccup.
Share in your weaknesses? You've got to be joking.
slows the evaporate
sustains the exponents
I destroyed aching and focused you near
shyark kissing slave in heaven
|Wednesday, May 2nd, 2007|
Starsburg, Stressburg. Strasburg, Colorado was half an hour east of Denver, but it might as well been on the fucking moon. Not even a traffic light. The pizza place I'd cooked at before had four tables. The horizon was so open. Damn good homegrown weed. Waking up to train noise. Stars splattered out everywhere in the fields at night.
My third job in four months was at a gas station. I was stalking sodas in the cooler with a coworker when I came across a bottle of Tommyknocker soda that has this dwarf miner character as a mascot and I joked that it looked like one of the regulars. He was this short runt of a guy with a long red beard and mellow nature that was always buying chew. My coworker told me that he'd been in a bad wreck where the engine had been been shoved out on his legs and it was burning him and crushing him. The pain was so bad that he kept hitting his head on the headrest to knock himself out.
Alone in an ancient laundromat. The soda machine doesn't work. I had been in the bathroom trying to jerk off to some women's fashion magazines that had been left behind, but someone came in to do some wash. I stood out side the backdoor, having a Camel and listening to the machines. I was waiting for the rain to really come down. It might. Might not. You can never tell on the plains.
One last night we sat together in the doorway of our apartment and smoked and talked. No more scotch, I was still recovering from an act of god hangover. I still had something lodged in my foot from when I'd been wandering around in the fields at night. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of somebody fucking in an open window somewhere, but there was only television.
"No matter what happens I will always love you."
"You shouldn't love me."
"You're such an asshole."
"I know. I'm sorry."
Denver to Atlanta with transfers in St. Louis and Nashville. While waiting in line we endured some nasty rotten fish smell coming from a mystery puddle on the floor. This one black guy says out of nowhere, loud, "it smells like a dirty woman! Everyone else thinkin' it; I say it! I don't care." It was hard to keep a straight face. This black girl is bitching to her friend that, "it smells like period and shit." Then it was back to lugging around the guitar, two suitcases and a large box.
The last time I saw her was against a bland blue and gray wall before boarding the bus. We'd just had a smoke. Her double rows of eyelashes like shark's teeth were holding back tears. She looked beautiful. Her plum hair. Freckles. Black rimmed glasses. A brown Etnies T-shirt and jeans. She offered me some smokes, but I said I was alright, which was far from true.
"I love you I love you."
"I love you, too."
It was only too appropriate that the sun was setting as we left Denver. The buildings in half shadow passed away, passed on. Everything looked like a Hopper painting. This nutjob next to me had brought his own seatbelts. Later that night I overheard a conversation between the nutjob and some other guy.
"I can read minds."
"No, you can't."
Tried to read Life: A User's Manual, but just couldn't focus. Hands turning on lights, stretching like sped up films of plants, plants that activate their own day. The ceiling is silver and all else is black. Streetlights and signs are sketches through the scratchy glass. My head shadow on the seat in front of me looms like a tunnel, like a cannonball hole.
Waiting for the next transfer, I sat on the hard floor of the bus station with all my shit. The intercom speakers were buzzing and hissing with muffled bumps that sounded like a microphone being dragged from behind a boat. People clapped after it finally clicked off after what seemed like an hour. Time flows differently at four in the morning when you haven't slept yet. To tell you the truth, I kinda missed the sound; it soothed me. A low blue moaning drone.
This one bus driver had a ball stud under her lip and would say at every rest stop, "if you're not back in ten I'll leave ya." She was always cracking up the guys in the front that would get loud and wave their hands like a bunch of alley cats on a fence in an old cartoon.
After St. Louis we went through the very southern tip of Illinois, around Mt. Vernon. We were surrounded in streaking walls of green; tall trees sheltering us that reminded me of the view from the Amtrak observation car back when Mom and I were moving from LA to Chicago. At times the dense groves would open up to patches of open fields, some with cornstalks. The setting sun sharpened the greens of the trees and the golds of the dead grass. I felt a temporary peace, a sense of God.
Nashville had a ton of strip clubs next to the terminal. One stop shopping.
By the time I met up with my mother in Atlanta, I was dust. No sleep and barely any food. Then the interrogation begins. Grilled. What a thrill!
My brain no longer jewels
wouldn't hold down a boulder in a breeze
I refuse your sleep
I leave it kicking in real density
I tore a hole in the sun and tarpapered
every blank face in shadow
I tore a hole in silence
a ringing gaping sore
Angel, you are an excruciating witness to all that I'm not.
Went to sleep and woke up old. I'm a naked old man on a giant banana leaf that's floating down a river. My skinny arms and legs hang off the sides, stroked by the passing water and the occasional shy nudge of some fish. She's there, unaged from the last time I saw her, naked and beautiful in the waist deep water. Her blonde hair is sparking like an aura, backlit by the dawn. Birdsongs clash in a lovely chaos. She's got one hand on the leafstem to steer and the other is on my chest. Ocasionally she plucks out one of the meager gray hairs there. I wince and she smiles.
"You need to call in sick," she says.
"With such short notice?"
"They'll be fine without you. Don't worry so much. You aslways worry."
The canopy of trees overhead causes the daylight to flicker. I feel an odd nagging ache, a nostalgic sadness that I can't quite pinpoint. I'm forgetting something important.
"If I don't go, will you stay?" I ask.
"Ofcourse. I'm not going anywhere."
She leans over and kisses me. Its like being a teenager again. My heart pounds and my hands shake nervously while tongues slide slow, switching mouths.
I tug at her. "Come here. Come closer."
"There's enough room."
"We'd sink, dummy." She smiles.
"True enough. Then, Captain, I suggest we find a friendly port for the friendliest of shore leaves."
We've got to get out of this river before it dries up. The water is already to her knees and her shadow is stretching over me in a great yawn.
In the village we can finally stop to rest our tired feet after so many miles in the muggy jungle. We're in front of a bonfire, shoulder to shoulder with the natives with our faces framed in the black black night. She's passing a bottle of cheap wine and I have to keep giving the kids cigarettes to keep them from pestering me. I'm nodding off where I sit while she's just warming up, dancing with the men to the insistent beats; headless in rhythms. The simple mathematics lead me to sleep like an usher with a flashlight in an impossibly huge and bodiless theater.
You'll fade change again in your vacation away from me.
|Tuesday, May 1st, 2007|
a bride of slippery heavens born orange red and rubbing warm into honey cores dwelling in full head charge head bliss in great radio curls in full belly
my beautiful fish, swim me a sream
filet yourself on a blurry bed and
bury your pretty face into mine
wriggle in apostraphes
until the evening sits in quotes
it lays over you
heavy and waterwarped
the metal cord is tapping the flagpole
the trees are bending
it might rain
it might all go to shit tonight
you marked me permanently
your ink was so sharp
you'll fade change again in your vacation away from me
some older material cut and cleaned...
slows the evaporate
sustains the exponents
I destroyed aching and focused you near
picture perfect daughter doll
shark kissing slave in heaven
your pussy dissolves all into echoes
dreams of fucking like shadowboxing
open faucet over great ass
no wet sink eyes for agent devastator
cresting killing manipulator
sounds of rusted arteries like machines coughing underwater
winding clocks until they snap
gripped by boiling fog
burnt by longing
smashing and humming in poisoned sleepwalk
shaterred jaw running; smasher blooms, blushes
lit only by bourbon; bitten too much
I don't fight the cutting
I shut up alone
An echo without a sound
you gleaming clean thing
|Friday, April 20th, 2007|
A Silly Symphony
making shadow puppets across her back
making a song of paper dolls
her bra makes a fine coaster
though the neighbors are begining
to talk about the coffee rings around her tits
and god bless them too
I hate to pull my fingers out of her
like a chess player hesitating on a piece
and she's got her finger on my pawn
making a move
while I play
her chest like an accordian
keep yer eyes on the prize
...tapping in the aisle...staggering...fidgeting...flicker
...crumbling and thin...a dusty sootman...smokeman...mirrorman...salesma
buzzed red and close; focused in on ovens
jaggedly leaping; I was bridging the distance
calm as processions; precise in blurs
boiling motionless drunk in spacious lazy ache
stubbed blunt; a moody drunk
a bleating wraith; sobbing in smoke fog
a sinkinhg seed hardened by waiting
fucked in stutters of shrugging gray ballads
vomit songs that loop in a babbling bitching
like most buzzes, this was one to be endured
again with the stuttering ("get a new script, prick!")
dip in deep down into the underground where it's warmer
let a lower god tuck you in for bed
sleep on slow coals
listen to the arteries of magma heartbeating all around you
breath deeply into the meat of the earth
really be the salt, kid
Can't decide if that last bit would fit with this next one. The same theme, but I'm not sure if it would work. Any suggestions?
sleeting static scrapes up fog
kicks up dust in falling fronts
ashes that smear
that smudge your neat lips
adjust your dials and hide
load up your ark and go
float your home and glow
pull in your antennaes before the sky's vault shuts on them
close your eyes before the doors slam and trap your
butterfly leg lashes
strobing in blinks like a moth
the record skips and you're stuttering
(antennae clicking rhythms in crackling random static)
|Monday, April 16th, 2007|
The landscape was cut in half by a flat horizon and a flat sky; wind blowing through miles of distant caves, creating a moaning drowning chorus. The modulations came in shrieks.
There lies a boneless man in a heap. He still breathes and sweats; the eyes frantic and unable to focus. It's amazing how long frantic can be kept up in such a featureless slow place. His bones had long since worn away, ground up by incessant walking, a compulsion he could not resist. He had even walked in his sleep. But that had been long ago. He had lost count of the tedious blinks of night and day. The growth of his nails and hair no longer interested him.
One sunny afternoon a dot appeared on the horizon. The boneless man had nothing better to do than to watch that dot, focus on it as it grew. Closer, slowly closer; veiled in shimmering mirage. It began to take shape. It looked like a terribly, impossibly skinny man, but with his damned nearsightedness, he couldn't be sure. The details of this day ghost were long in the coming. He expected the vision to disappear like the others that had visited before, but this one did not. Sharper and sharper yet.
The wireframe man had brought the sunshine with him, the steam of last nignt's rain turning to steam around him, haloing him in vapors. He juggled the warm invisible air as he went, grinning like solar panels. This wirey lanky guy had so much raw energy, so much pizzaz that sparks crackled off him like static and the sound of it surrounded him like the muffled roaring of a crowd or someone running a thousand water faucets upstairs. He was all wire bones intermeshed, twisted in close and always rubbing; always changing and shifting yet staying true to the same basic shape. He could really keep himself together! Hot damn!
It was immediately obvious what a fantastic team they would make. Him the brains and the other the flab. One being sheer personality and the other a fullbody foreskin. The idea really warmed up the wireframe man, really got him hot, turned him on. The boneless man was beginning to smile, which without a jaw is a really unpleasent sight, but the wireframe man understood the other's joy. He was starting to remember the old days of movement, the glorious path yet to be walked and walked and walked. He'd wear the soles off any steel boot. He'd circle a thousand globes. To what goal? Nevermind. Don't ask. Never wonder. Just go.
And so the wireframe man squeezed himself long and sharp and wiggled his wormy way into the other man's ear, singing the whole way in. For those keeping track at home, it was the left ear. The saggy flesh began to inflate and the skin cracked from the sun rushed to meet itself and sealed in miracles, the pores oozing a oily slick to soften the leathery texture. The shiftless limbs now started to fidget with a joyous ferocity. Schematics and charts to unimagined fantastic machines raced through the atrophied synapses. Hieroglyphs of a strange language strobed in the mind's television. Formulas, recipes, curses, manufactured memories. The teeth that were once yellow and blunt from grinding together now lengthened and sharpened. The wireframe man had forgotten how good it was to have real teeth again; it tickled his fancy, tickled his ivories.
It was time to eat, their shared belly rumbled and complained. Time to go! Time to blow this joint. Maybe even smoke a joint. A joint? The boneless man had almost forgotten about all that. Next town they would definately need to find some absinthe.
Later. Soon. Later. First things first. The wireframe man whispered the way to the valley where all the water in the wasteland gathered. A great gaping grinning slit in the middle of nothing. Sounds good. Time to wet a whistle or two.
It was a long, hard walk, but it felt so good. These two were like brothers, like old lovers reunited. It was grand, baby; grand as a good piano. A piano falling to the street from a great height, but who's counting? Never had the wasteland seen such a hero. The real thing. A white god of shivering glee, a writhing unquenchable sexuality. A new being that would fuck anything that grooves.
In the valley women were bathing, their webby gaudy clothing splashed out on the rocks. Their sunbrowned skin was seal slippery glossy. Gold jewelry ornamented them in glinting streaks as they played in the muddy water. Curious fish darted around their feet, sometimes tickling toes.
They noticed the muscular man watching them and they smiled, whispered to eachother, giggling. The siloutte above them with the sun behind him was saluting, a salute without hands. One thing leads to another.
When one appetite was satiated then came the next. After some vigorous, needy sex, after they went around the world a dizzy many times, the man attacked them, biting and chewing. They fought back, but it was inevitable that they became bones. They had not gone gentle into the good night (it was still daylight anyway) and had torn chunks of flesh away from the wireframe man. The pieces were bleeding and falling away. The last of the boneless man fell off the bone, tender and moist.
The wireframe man was alone again and he felt fine. Felt good. Accomplished. He snagged a cigarrette from one of the discarded calfskin purses and had himself a good puff. The blood oiled his joints, he was glad to be rid of that annoying creaking that had been dogging him through out this foul desert. Time to go. Move on.
He looked to the far off mountains and sighed in smoke. There was quite a way to go still. He was bound for the upper peaks that hide in clouds and always snow. He craved the thin, cold air. At the highest point he would shape himself into a ladder. He would be the highest ladder, intertwined with tree branches he'd gather at lower reaches of the range. Good solid wood. And how long would he have to wait for his guest to climb him down? He ached to feel the touch of chalk marking his every rung, to feel those heavy steps shaking him to the very marrow.
|Thursday, January 11th, 2007|
stinking high on the way to heaven
my fucks fur coat catching in the
silver diamond buddied escalator
escalate up on high
levitate like a harp tinkling schweinhund
twinkle toes farting in sparks
in B.O.s of halos
up so go on
on up so go
go on up so
so go on up
double rows of thighs cutting and kicking
rows like sharks teeth
I'll follow the bubbles when you drain.
When you drown.
floating in aches
a loosening nest
echoes in mud
shining big heartbore
|Thursday, January 4th, 2007|
Shoreless. Without a coast in the world. Landlocked to the brim, to the lips. I pray for the faults to snap, to drop off and leave the land exposed to the ocean, raw and red. Please. You promised me.
Pack up the scorching daylight. Roll up the road grinding at my tired feet. Fold up the second rate hollywood backdrop that passes for scenery. Drop the ink in the water; let the night fall and let me sleep. Please. You promised me. Wash this wound out to see.
The director yells cut but I'm one step ahead of him.
LiveJournal for Mind Sigh.