Brainwashed, face-lost directionless aggressionist
tenderness forever spent on tissue, opportunist
graced the keys for inconsquential betterment
by fast gains, dog-lease, chain-gang, insane
Eyes-plucked, glued out, shown-up already
wasted, no luck, just tune out
like a nozzle jet set to distraction so
fractioned attention don’t own what’s not yours
it’s theirs, the emerald wizard mean
lean fucking machines teleported show-boated
bloated sexualities unreal so feel the
ache of lack of taste satisfiable by humans
made not of pixelated hate.
But I do not want stunted marionette
market-share blunt boiler-plates
singling out vignettes of a greater
play the stage of sweat and leering
gazes fearing “we are on screen
we are never alone we are never alone”
a script written in flesh and touch
pressed into shape by reels of tape
stripped machine actors dip treated
and seated on the throne of
the massive corpus of stone-etched
living images, teachers, script-writers
no, I want unshaven earth-laden bumping
laughter rustling anti-professionalism exhibitions
because actors are the most respected liars
and this is the most truthful game
because I have no time for shameful
gainful picture perfect maimed twists of plot
invading a space that is not to be tamed
by industry names alientating
but masquerading as pleasure more real
than real, symbolic exchange — short change.
Hardcore — what a bore.
Yellow-bellied fellow bloke-choker
smelly tallow rope-weaver
Scheming game-maker sweat-breaker
girl shame her – Fuck off!
Rubbed raw erasure time-taking
Boot-licker! Mother fucker! So damn
Sodom, Moloch, Moloch!
Sky-watching augur luster
liver cutting bone-caster
congenital mutilator earth-shaking
promise giver – break them all!
one-eyed map-making land-scaper
Mono-lingual translator turpentine
brute lover, push! push!
Goodbye peace, Goodbye peace, goodbye
bleary-eyed window washer,
Goodbye conveyor belt operator
Goodbye automobile part placer
Goodbye robot future sleep dreamer
Goodbye sleepy sweet child wonder
Goodbye hydraulic Americaner
Goodbye solipsistic nay-sayer
Goodbye watchmen watcher
Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye
If I knew a dozen languages
maybe I’d have the sense
to never use my own tongue,
because there will never be enough
to capture even
into a bubble air-tight
if that’s what accurate means.
You can’t blow bubbles in a vacuum,
and you can’t breathe in a fire
than I can say what I mean
when I say
“I don’t understand”.
If you could write a novel
in four words
“we were already there”
but that would be fictional license on your part,
because there is a bay
spanning from one toe to another,
A grand challenge.
Even the smallest puddle can
be an ocean
when you don’t know how to swim.
Yellow-brick lead stacks
so dense they were used
as the model for
the curvature of my ear
bristling back hair
stuck between my teeth
a signpost for forever
Ashen face waiter
put wings on your feet
get us out of here
I have not slept in nine days
The drone so constant
remote in the couch
words are not needed
I wrote a letter
to the minister
hiding in the bath:
your snorkel’s on the nightstand
"I stopped going to therapy
because I knew my therapist was right
and I wanted to keep being wrong.
I wanted to keep my bad habits
like charms on a bracelet.
I did not want to be brave.
I think I like my brain best
in a bar fight with my heart.
I think I like myself a little broken.
I’m ok if that makes me less loved.
I like poetry better than therapy anyway.
The poems never judge me
for healing wrong."
One of the Sufis’ names for god means “the nothing”. It’s like if we categorize and categorize proceeding ever outwards in a sequence of arbitrary (but incredibly useful) external labels eventually there is nothing external on which to hang a label. We’ll be outside of ourselves and everything else and we can be nothings too; we’ll have won the god-ship that we all lusted after so damn hard.
I want to build a mausoleum,
in which to bury all the things,
that I should have thought,
And I’ll find
that after building this monument,
there is more of me that never existed,
than I could ever hope to make real.
The last hour bleeding out every last minute
atomic clock anticipation,
Of surrender to plates and forks
and a parade of same-faces,
all looking for that little bit of dominance,
dirty apron, bright voiced,
Same voice Same game No shame.
There is a window the-thing-by-the-door
Unlocked up-stopped let the air out,
It’s so cold in here that I can’t breath
Without being reminded of each and every whisp
That passes out of my body gone
To find its elsewhere Eldorado.
You’re a super-sub-human Salome
And you’re in my dreams only
Because you couldn’t make it anywhere else,
I found out I’m naked,
But at least I still have my glasses.
Bad attitude worse-verse versed-well
In all things self-indulgent rambling
Shambling spin around until you vomit
Part-of-me not-part-of-me cold spit
Five moments later, five months later no delta;
Was it ever warm in the first place?
Pens for every Illiterati,
Houses for every drive-way park way
Park-bench where I gave a cat some names
But later forgot them and now it no longer exists
but if a nothing can’t be summoned
Then we’ve come pretty far.
But god-damnit if I haven’t only come far enough
To see that I’ve hardly gone anywhere at all
But fortunately nowhere is a pretty big place,
Spaced out, measure never cut forever
Blink once for yes
Blink twice for yes.
I was once told that movement is impossible
But in their right mind would believe a fucking tortoise?
They are rarely correct.
A change of pace, not space.
Making the switch to primarily original material, mostly written but some visual.
"I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds– but I think of you always in those intervals."
Salvador Plascencia, The People of Paper (via pureblyss)
American Collectors (Fred and Marcia Weisman) by David Hockney, 1968