Category Archives: Uncategorized

BABY PASTE

Hey boys go get yourself a soy drink & cut the bottom of your pants
so true so sad
betray the roots of all that’s nature & lay down the dog and drown.

As you were; keep yourself in the dirt and create castles of mud
cause you don’t know what it means you don’t know what it means.

We can have a chore; some say nature (like more)
is more — whose song sang drowning the right way?

Sometimes i scream so hard
i shoot myself through the throat
and take words and ghosts and make
baby-paste for women.

oh right. haha. so right.

So lonely i cry at night all the time.
Wee can ask for more fate is more
(nature as a whore) who is fruit
who is poison? aaaaaah! This is a
song about losers and losers gain
so much more. Especially when you have
no idea what is more. Righteousness is God
and Righteousness is horney wanting more.

:: 12.30.2020 ::


PEACH BURNT SKIES

EATING peach burnt skies today while aching from the pain i
caused you______ i never wished to bring a frown
or the tears that drowned our voices.

i never wished to mark your skin with my lips.
i never wished to lay you down and scream in your face —
the pain you showed in taking that fall.

i never wished to live with you, though i was living with you.
i never wished to cry out in pain over your body before,
and i sure never wanted to put you through this.

All i ever wanted was to make you happy and in doing that,
why then did you leave me?

i know that i love you no matter what,
and i know that i will always hold you close to my heart,
but today is not about the love that you have for me.

Today is about the love that i have for you, the love you gave me,
the love that i have for your Soul and for your life.

So i think i must bid you farewell and leave your eyes closed.
Until the next time when we meet.

Smile through your tears for us to be together forever.
EATING peaches burned skies today.

:: 12.12.2020 ::


STRIKING IMAGE AND RHYME

THIS THING called Tourette’s
where I sometimes stop breathing.

TONITE, HOW I AM I…
Good morning, my children. This day shall soon be
filled with wet wind, droplets of rain,
birds beginning their morning call,
snatches of birdsong from nearby trees.
Rain, our god, provides for the earth
With its rhythms. And yet this
drenched car park, unshod and
mucousy, here I stand. We are
all here on a rock. We will always
be here on a rock, as we continue
to flow, endlessly, into the ocean.

Together, my children, let us remember
the former days. The days when our words
were ragged and unsavory, language was crude
and violent, full of striking image and rhyme.

O, yes. Today we shall honour our words, as
we pick through the words. They have so hurt us,
and we leave them sodden in the rain.

–>FIRST MY OWN VOICE ::::::
It seems the air i breathe and touch, when walking
alone in the city has given me a disease
like Tourette’s.

I’m beginning to turn red or green, or blue,
sometimes not even my face has become a fault.

Lately, my head seems to be filled with ocean tides,
titian squid, clams, mussels, sand, ice;
specks of some faultless fish.

And here we stand, wet and lost, looking into the garden.

O, only the garden.
O, only the garden
–>SOME HEROES

The stars were dying in the night
when I woke to find my brother dead,
from being driven by a steamroller,
into the ocean.

I miss him.

They were here, on the island, back when the skies
were blue and the seas breathed their contented
voices.

(Oh this hillside, what color is it with my words?
O, only blue.)

:: 12.10.2020 ::


BLACK CLOUD

The same black cloud that rested over the field the morning after the mower put out the haystack floated over the tops of the silver-trees on the edges of the rose-garden. Through the silver-trees it turned slowly, lowering itself to the ground; and, coming to rest, settled again on the rose-bush, and raised itself high into the air to sniff the atmosphere. I should perhaps seem to be speaking about two roses; but they are not. The two roses I have in mind are of the same kind, but not to be compared. The one is a white rose that came out of a grey-green pot that lay for seven years in a drawer, which probably no one noticed or cared about. Its title is new, unknown, to many, and cruel; and its smell is not the smell of any known rose, nor of any olfactory attraction.

The other is a tall, straight, dark-red rose with a peculiar odor; but which is still admired by young men for its beauty, and in the old age of some is planted in the centre of their friendship gardens as a memorial of a lost love. Both are rare, and will always be rare; but the dark-red rose of the shadow of its twin is a seedling of an old rose, and nothing of its own. It stands tall, straight, and, in old age, very angular in the clover-field, in the darkness of its own cottage garden. Though it has lost all its fragrance, and every leaf of its branches is a stark white, it can still present a pair of great dark, shadowy leaves to a tender, young heart, whose troubles it used to inspire with its peculiar sweet perfume. That is its own, and it can never gain its other title.

It is a rose which grows alone, with one thing its sole delight:–the memory of a lover.

Next morning, in the garden, after breakfast, and after I had written a letter which I had forgotten to write the night before, I stepped back from the garden-wall, and looked over it, with its rose-garden lying before me.

The same, overhung, dull light as had filled it the night before lay thick upon the field, and sank, in the distance, through the silver-trees into the water of the stream. I could not see the water, or the island, but I knew that there would be no change. The earth and air were as heavy and thick as before; and there was no desire or intent to move or to stir; the nature of things had not altered.

The same cloud lay over the field and the island, and seemed to pass with the shadow, in the nearer atmosphere, over the path and over the garden wall, as it had before. I could hear nothing of human life; only I knew, all the same, that people walked in the distant streets of the town to and fro; the hollow claps of the shoes, the speaking, snatches of words, the idle voices of men and women at their workplaces–all these had ceased to catch my ear, and the silence that they engendered closed upon me; and I went back again to the only object which my eyes could make out in the darkness. The night before I had noted the footprints of the man who had cut the hay from the field the day before. He had put them carefully in a nameless direction, in the hope that it would be the path of the threshing-machine. I saw that he had only tried to follow the track that he had made; and, instead of going round the field, he had gone straight across it. That was all!

:: 11.08.2020 ::


FIGHTING FOR COMPLETE UNDERSTANDING

i held my arms, sleeping, around her breasts, bending, allowing myself to fall, the ghosting, dark wake, the fiery sands burned by a storm of thorn trees, burned by the march of sea and the keys of incense that hang near her bed. Soft and fiery sweetness, a book of songs that didn’t affect me, a white dress with a tattered hem, elegant skin whose breath has already evaporated.

There is no physical reflection on her breasts, my love, the fluidity of a river in the shadow of the heron’s head. There is no destruction of a dead river in the pale water of her beauty. Your eyes, the depths of their ravines, the fire in the dark, your hearts, holding mine, their tornness, the loss of a companion, in the silence of the corridors where the footsteps of strangers run.

From the raves I must admit I will never feel intoxicated, but I need so desperately to feel intoxicated, to finish my life in the warehouse,
under the light of an old beveled mirror with a knife propped against the square of glass, the light of the ghost, of the burning card,
of the ghost of unimportant dreams, of the funny dreams I dream every night. I would like to exist like the strange creature that thrives
in the laboratory of an art dealer in an abandoned warehouse.

Held her ankles, enjoying her existence, trembling, embracing, trembling, our breath circulating the smoky air of a kiss.

She only exists when my back rests on a cold polished floor, in the darkness, in her natural state, my brother, my pride, my hope.
To touch her, to feel her breasts, her lips, her hands, all the parts of her body that run all over mine, that brings me nothing, for this expression
is simple, low, they do not consider her existence, my love, to raise her up or to lower her, to grab her legs, to kiss her lips, to kiss her nose.

Everything but the head, where she is still touched by the forehead of a stranger, from one of the corridors, one of the cracked doors, where her
lovers walk, from the stones and shadows of cold halls, the one that is lifted from the depths of a world of books. You only exist, my love,
with the touch of your palms.

From behind my childhood wall, I have met the daughters of stars, from behind my own walls, the girl that lives in the corridor, has warmed up my life, there with me on the cold polished floor, my passion.

Everything is there, hidden in the dark depths, revealed by the hallway, the fading curtain of candles, the evening light, a kind of passionate romance,
my love, whose bones are growing every day as if they were long-dead, those young girls, the memory of the last night, the abandoned street,
the shadow of an old bed, a memory of the night that passed, but only lives in the room where I am lying.

Leaned against a window of a skyscraper, red-eyed, like a demon, muttering, covered with a black apron, sobbing from an open wound.

What was that, love? What did you see?

Those eyes of the future, seen in the silence of my mind, in the chaos of my thoughts.

It was dark, I have left the house in the street, I have entered the house.

What was that sound?

I can not go further, there is nothing here, it was dark, it was closed, the doors were closed, it was dark, the house empty, but it was empty as
the city when the people pass through fighting for love, compassion, and complete understanding.

:: 10.21.2020 ::


LOVE CAN BE THE BEST TREASURE

Love can be your best treasure, and all the rest after that—by that I do not mean money, that is after all in very short supply in any society that places more of value on family and society than it does on money—do not compare.

My treasure is a bit of you and a bit of me, a scattering of memories, of places and sights that speak of us.

When I am old, and if you will still be with me, I will hold up my pocket knife and let the tarnished blade drag against my body and stare into the wood, as if to study the grain, so that I will know you better than ever before, so that I can tell you a few stories about our days, our strolls along the marshes and the rain-swept fields, and we can close our eyes and remember being together, like in the days when my name was Cassie and you called me Jennifer—at least for that night, when your name was Silvio and I called you Toma—in my dress with a jasmine moire ribbon in the back and a couple of velvet braids going to the middle of my back, and you in a white dress with ruffles at the collar and a buttoned-down plaid jacket with velvet trousers and stockings. We are wearing white hats, white gloves, and white shoes and holding each other by the waist. I love you very much, Toma, very much—so much so that I fear I will fall, if I close my eyes, to that dark, cool, damp land, which has been calling me for a long time. You love me too, you say, but in the way that one loves a mad brother—you love me in a way that reminds you of a friend you once had, but you don’t love me. You love me in the way that a child loves her father: you love me unconditionally, and you tell me all the time that I am beautiful and that you can’t live without me, but you don’t love me like a woman loves a man.

You tell me to get a head start if I want to get home before dawn, so that you can sleep without your fear waking you up in the middle of the night. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wake up, thinking of you. I am lost in dreams of you. In my dreams you are waiting for me, standing in the courtyard, waiting for me to arrive.

:: 10.21.2020 ::


TRYING TO SPEAK THE UNSPEAKABLE

Is it a society of wicked liars?

Is it a race of contemptible malefactors?

Or is it, instead, just a group of people coming to terms with their lives in a different way?

A growing number of people are choosing to live—and die—without judgment, without the reward of popularity, without the flattery of public adulation.

Most people—without much fuss—are choosing to die quietly, often in comfort, not coughing up blood, losing organs, gasping for air. Rather, they do the things they like, they have their lovers, fall in love again. They experience as many experiences as possible. They have children, watch them grow up, let them out. They do the things they love. In fact, they do as much as possible.

Maybe they are only one of millions who will die this way, quietly, without much attention at all. But for those who read about the Swedish model, maybe they’ll read about this man who, when he was ten years old, decided to end his life when his family wouldn’t let him live the life he wanted to. Maybe they will read about one of the last people on the planet who were given the opportunity to kill themselves.

Maybe they will read about the first person.

Whether he knew it or not, it was Doran, the poet, who led us here. In 2020, when he was 36, he pulled his wife and a friend onto a commuter train in Paris. They sat at a table, drank wine, and ate wild boar with the train’s conductor.

After that, he had a drink with friends. By 2:

Then they all took colors all within their head. And they tried to say the unspeakable.

:: 10.21.2020 ::


DEVOURED BY THIS NIGHT

THE other day i was passing a certain gate as rain fell as it will in spring ropes of silver gliding from sunny thunder into freshness; as if god’s flowers were pulling upon bells of gold.

i looked up and thought to myself:

Death.

And will you with elaborate fingers possibly touch the pink hollyhock existence whose pansy eyes look from morning till night into the street unchangingly? The always old lady sitting in her gentle window like a reminiscence partaken softly at whose gate smiles always as the chosen flowers of reminding me?

And it felt as if life as a curtain caressing the bottom and i realized that the back of my head was already the red rose but i laughed aloud and when i looked behind i saw a horrid twin with red hair from some diseased shade: who was standing watching us from the wood side until she saw her wayward twin and from the trees spring a golden fruit made of bitumen with hair whiter and flowing like ravens feathers whose bright eyes saw exactly what they looked at.

And one nagged black beauty who had apparently lost her black beauty as soon as the white back of my head turned white then all black beauty fell in sync with the waning sun devoured by the night.

:: 10.17.2020 ::


HAMMERING NAILS

I like hammering nails and speaking in foreign tongues
cause it doesn’t remind me of anything

I like holding my hammer in my hand
cause it doesn’t remind me of anything

I like bringing fire and singing in churches
cause it doesn’t remind me of anything

I like crunching bread and all hell breaking loose
cause it doesn’t remind me of anything

The things that I’ve loved the things that I’ve lost
the things I’ve held sacred that I’ve dropped:

are my deepest shameful behavior

All I have to do is stay off the quiet roads
i will continue to drive slow

cause I like repeating words and knowing what I don’t know
cause I like me and I like me and I like me

sleeping inside a fitful sleep and dreaming of hammering nails
speaking in foreign tongues cause it doesn’t remind me of anything

nothing at all.

:: 10.17.2020 ::


ENGRAVER OF MY SOUL

ENGRAVER OF MY SOUL (Part 1)

OCTOBER 16, 2020

From as far away as she can see, let it come to her as a hand’s span of her whiteness. Even so is she without color and not wholly white— everywhere, without color at all. when she lifts her veil she sees— let it come to her as a hand’s span of her whiteness. The third definition, one almost completely made up of related but incompatible concepts, has also inspired a certain amount of speculation, from thousands of artists over the centuries. Of course, the representation of all of these concepts (white, black, pale, dark) would be exceedingly difficult, though the distinction between “polished” and “lame” façades seems particularly interesting to me.

ENGRAVER OF MY SOUL (Part 2)

Who is the Malay in the sky? …it is not he who remains seated. The one who sits there is the wind; It does not recognize this? It will not recognize. He is the Great Ocean! She is the loyal girl of a house on a plane; the goddess is the daughter of a King— She is the goddess of luck!
The one who sits there is the Star! She has no name for this! No Name! The name of the one who Might be a dragon-god is a brown stick with ink stains and scratches, which she gives to her faithful. When the maid ’s back begins to move, a sleeping; when the hands of the god begin to move, the Girl of Flowers, many-faced, comes into his possession and is made his wife.

ENGRAVER OF MY SOUL (Part 3)

How much noise there will be with what she will say! How much nonsense — If the moment comes when they cannot shout a thousand echoes of this shall roll up into, a hall of destruction! It is not he who remains seated— the sky is the dragon! For the god, if it does not recognize his Self, for the mysterious parent, and for the spirit of the mother’s the deity will manifest as a day.

The rule is to have a day?

A day, he will say, the gods create when you look into my sky—I frayed by the water of my heart I am and even if you build me a heaven, are scattered to and fro, which I must If any returns to this world to say that the earth is firm in this, what do you In spirit declare? Or what do you say? If anyone says that the heaven is firm, the earth is like its “skeleton,”
What do you say?

ENGRAVER OF MY SOUL (Part 4)

No—it is very clearly this:
When it is the Earth’s sky or any sun which he has made solid, it is like a day to the god of night; when the sun is at its zenith it is no longer a day to the god of the night. But once there is a day for him he tells, when he sets the “sky” against the “earth,” as it were “like a hole on the back of my head,”
It is like a day to the god of night. Or he breaks the body of his father’s house—
“It is not as you imagine!” he says/ And once, as when someone, for whom we are paying in advance, tells us to go/
“How much he owes me!”—he stresses that much.
If the day which does not recognize him is like “a child’s drawing” the night— from as far away as she can see let it come to her as a hand’s span
of her whiteness.

ENGRAVER OF MY SOUL (Part 5)

And if she lifts her veil she sees— let it come to her as a hand’s span of her whiteness. Is there a gesture or a facial expression? There will be, shall there not? What can be a look? Her head will shake for a moment—she can neither speak nor breathe as all her ears hear.
She runs, has no way of knowing how ro bow down and be moved by the peace. With what language can she come to you? If it is not through you and through your ears? You desire to hear her dream, the storm not come—let not the rain, the lightning, the storm, or the wind: will come to you, and should you hear the shrill sounds of the night-jungle and so strange

The dragon that has risen from the soot, you would not want to go back into the Earth and not the old Earth.
THE WOMAN’S SPIRIT /// in the beginning, after the virgin egg was laid the Mother of Paris took hold of the fertilized egg
and, suckling it, held it in the darkness between her thighs. when the egg was filled she laid it before her Sucking and smiling and laving She called it as it was coming to life:

ENGRAVER OF MY SOUL (Part 6)

“Morning Star!” “Great Fable!” she sang.
Then, when she’d stopped her work, it was deep-Came out of the ground, and as it appeared It was
looking down at her with opening Smile, and the sound of it, and the light: The clear breath—he said, “It is Morningstar!”
The World’s Greatest kiss- no :://}|| THE NOBLE WIFE AND THE NOBLE GIRL — “He is someone who is beautiful—one is surrounded by someone. For him the truth exists, when it does not belong to his will. When his the warm breath of him is flowing. He puts everything else aside and The word “beautiful” no longer pleases him.
‘And I shall not agree to serve you, dear wife, B ut I shall be your servant, woman.” As long as I am the bearer of your children, I shall suffer the scorn of others. I will not stop long in my calling: ‘Those who despise me are the ones to envy; Those who praise me are the ones to fear; All the difference, if I am honored, Struggles not to get at me. Of all the groans that cause me pain, the least is enough to make me rejoice. If I am the bearer of your children, I shall suffer the scorn of others.’

ENGRAVER OF MY SOUL (Part 7)

Is there an idea there that needs breaking through, something that should be beaten down with nails,
A thing that would last and give strength to your will and make you see with your whole being that it is true? The man’s wife: nothing is the sum of itself, what he thinks of her has nothing to do with her,
Her mind is something in itself that’s ever here in the seat of his thoughts.
So you should believe in her—speak her name like the apostles of Christ; you should shout it, like the Jews in the desert; you should think of her, like the French, the day after a liberation; you should admire the last flowering of the human species. When they approach a woman; when the head of the table is lifted to receive the cup of life, when the name of a woman is humbled by her history, when all the chains of the past are broken and thrown aside. So you should love her, so that your heart and mind are awakened by the beauty of her existence and show her the warm smile of it.
THE TOYGYST

ENGRAVER OF MY SOUL (Part 8)

“I can keep time; I can wear everything.
“I’ve learned how to hold something up and it goes in a circle. I can come to each house in the town and if they are a poor family. We can eat for less than the cost of a meal. If they have dirty clothes or not, or they have to walk— We’ll do it in a half-hour.”

“I will wander through the forest, thinking of the empty street, where there is nothing; will come to a corner and there will be a lady and her children.”
KONNICHI (FILICOW)
“I got a big experience when I was studying
In a medical school.
“I couldn’t go. So the universe died.”

:: 10.16.2020 ::