Hardcore

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.

Invective

I.
Yellow-bellied fellow bloke-choker
smelly tallow rope-weaver

Scheming game-maker sweat-breaker
girl shame her – Fuck off!

Rubbed raw erasure time-taking
face-shaver money-changer

Boot-licker! Mother fucker! So damn
Sodom, Moloch, Moloch!


II.
Sky-watching augur luster
liver cutting bone-caster

congenital mutilator earth-shaking
promise giver – break them all!

Prophesying organ-hater
one-eyed map-making land-scaper

Mono-lingual translator turpentine
brute lover, push! push!



III.
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

Fluency

If I knew a dozen languages
maybe I’d have the sense
to never use my own tongue,
because there will never be enough
words
time
to capture even
the smallest
bit
of
life
into a bubble air-tight
and true,
if that’s what accurate means.
You can’t blow bubbles in a vacuum,
and you can’t breathe in a fire
any more
than I can say what I mean
when I say
“I don’t understand”.
If you could write a novel
in four words
it’d say:
“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.

Instruction Manual

Yellow-brick lead stacks
so dense they were used
as the model for 
the curvature of my ear

Gingivitis home
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 
Silence; unfashionable 

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."

Clementine von Radics (via aliveforthelasttime)

(via theincredible-polygon)

babbling

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,
said,
wrote,
loved,
touched,
held,
cried,
burned,
been,

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. 

loresseintes:

“Orpheus”, by Pierre Amédée Marcel-Beronneau (1869 - 1937)

loresseintes:

Orpheus”, by Pierre Amédée Marcel-Beronneau (1869 - 1937)

(via goddessoftheblackcoast)

(via weareallstarstuff)

Before Work

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.

Untitled #1

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,

Graveyard being-in-the-world,

I found out I’m naked,

But at least I still have my glasses.


I think.


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?


I think.


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.


I think. 


"Ursa Minor" (1980) - Ross Olney

"Ursa Minor" (1980) - Ross Olney

(Source: halogenic, via penetrates)

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)

(Source: cratur, via fashionandmilk)

arthistoryeveryday:

American Collectors (Fred and Marcia Weisman) by David Hockney, 1968

arthistoryeveryday:

American Collectors (Fred and Marcia Weisman) by David Hockney, 1968