on shattered glass
leaving a trail of severed limbs behind
their clothes spilled with blood
on the ever lasting snow
the smell of death prevailed
under a sulphuric yellow rain
our scars trace a map of sorrow
we assign the ever lasting impact of the cut limbs blood spilled snow
a bullet through both skulls
a desert of yells
the economy of evil
silver nitrate burning under water
the soiled machete jaws mutilate the glittering sex
soft moisture impaled
Silver Skull evil distorts the Radiance sex disengagement
a catalog of atrocity
in tangigle desecrated flesh
purple flowers of mourning sprout from the liver
scrunched bladders give their secrets away
wires tied to nerves
blue veins dried in a lizard's skin
we hear laughter
as we dance
Conception Collar bubbles in peat veins scrunched
we also dance
to the blindfolded air
as the golden dagger slits the maiden's neck
our faces torn up in uterine ordeals
leaving behind the history of arms
and legs cut
their clothes with blood
ever the eternal snow
the smell of death handouts
under yellow rain
our wounds to trace a map of sorrow
we are assigned to the impact of the permanent deficits
both a bullet through the skull
silver incineration under water
she is a saver using sex shiny teeth
silver skull distortions
sex is evil
the catalog of brutality
the purple flowers of the earth between mourning
to give away the secret of his bladder weakness
the dried skin with a blue vein
we hear laughter
Christi colored soil vein to lessen air
we also dance
participating in the air
Golden girl's neck,
under the skin, nails and needles
murder tale The State mind
it is not the world
who wore wings off
trapped white winter packaging and the nuclear explosion
wrestlers poured fire sliced hearts
the company is dead and the future of the wind storm
wishes past poor broken souls
face a maximum suffering torn uterus
needles under fingernails and skin
tell the heartbreaking tale
of epidural fastuousness
it is not of this world
arachnoid pia mater
idem sed aliter
I am the dark angel
whose wings were chopped off
for so long i have been dead
trapped in pavement and roaring white blasts of nuclear winters
heart swollen eaten sliced in wolves fangs
in the company of the dead and the wind of future storms
ravage disjointed clumsy souls
not with a stomp
but with a whisper...
i have been thinking lately of moving to mojave and buying maybe a small condo where i can listen to Beefheart, Zappa and their erstwhile colleague, Ace Farren Ford. if i did i would dress in the style of the people and i would shave one half of my head and dye the other side pink. i would wear feathers and a stove pipe hat. i would wear a silk cravat with a diamond pin and walk up and down the sidewalk brandishing a silver handled ebony cane. i would call my self the 'EMIGREE' and i would chatter in old style english calling folks 'SIR' and 'MADAM'. i might even eat fruit. i would drink pots of coffee, the sort like 'mama used to make' as i have never drunk tea like mother used to make because, quite frankly my dears, mothers tea is fucking awful. but i would drink the coffee and eat only apple pie, although i cannot think of anything less american and more english than apple pie. BUT I WOULDN'T TALK ABOUT THE QUEEN. i would wear pants with red, white and blue stripes and i would watch old repeats of the 'I LOVE LUCY SHOW'. (even if desi arness was a mexican!) and maybe 'THE FLINTSTONES'. i would only read DC as MARVEL is crap (except for THE XMEN WHICH IS GOOD). i would want to have children by a half breed indian woman with razor blade cheek bones and bronze titties. we would call our offspring RUSTY GATE DAWN and DOG EATING BACON. i would drive a MUSTANG just like STEVE and i would drink more coffee. i might even eat some fruit. and then i will trap a vinageroo and drop it into some old widows window box for a laugh. if you get bitten by a vinageroo it turns your taste buds sour so that everthing tastes like vinager which would only remind me of england and chips. fat chips not french fries. and on sundays we would drive for miles in my beaten up and dusty old mustang. the roads in america go on for centuries and you can see the face of RONALD REGAN carved into the sandy plains of california. i would not vote for ARNIE as he is an ASSWIPE. i would be a democrat but only if i get to screw hilary clinton ( i hear she is a game old bird). i don't know if california has a flag but if it does i would burn it because that is the cool thing to do. i would play GRATEFUL DEAD records.
Red is its own mythology and should be dismantled for something else. View minute shifts in the everyday disease, remember its fluorescent habits so known to women carved from cloudy skies.
A chorus on hands and knees, equations that kick every map of the world. Sex was our island, an epistemology more in silver. There's mist carrying shrapnel, scorched skin on the cash pyre. Clitoral repetitions the tire properly as a bruise lubricant, wings the bed's reach across a long time to wither away.Cold greys and hungry inversion worn like a compulsion over narrative, pipe-burns on psychopathic lips. The scenery recoils.
Windows Masturbate the Clean
The curved way her pink yearnings land beneath traffic, voices rinsed through a circled explosion. Falls, looks out over strings of entropy. You closed the spectacle on your way out, but with squalor piled atop an eye into erection. Billboards the sea, videos for the weak. Perfunctory and set with national skin patterns, noise whispers life in blonde voices.
Someone's Purple Emblematic
Burrowed into: truth or glowing matter shakes the morning awake, always the insect ignorant of change. Your hair is all space-time contortions walking away like a manifesto. The carapace, a slit throat never seen. Carrion astronauts the effects of rifle-hood.
The wind needs to zoom in on exiting blue minds that feed and finger her maturity. A curtain encounters the night. Sunlight's approval and the subway free otherwise, seven in turquoise, moon-dust in its laugh. Predisposed of cartoon degrees, fractals side by side with mangy, bleeding dogs in the tunnel.
Pain as a genie in the bottle?
Our satellite into that empty, the basis crying high in the mountains before colliding with amen. Nebulae split into aches that survive the stars. When it's written cerebral infrared with surfaces like a patriarchal glare gone rubbery, thought paints useless, stalking ennui. Nothing thereby gifts the self as though covered in the silence of what is clearly not yours.
back to back
leave little puddles of rain
resplendent in the sodium
feet fall forward over cobbles
boot heels leave tread marks
water gathers in pools
like fish in the dead light
like fish in the night light
we move into retro
past moving faces that fall at our feet
reflections of pale ghosts
wan in the street light
like silver fish in puddles
rippled and contorted
beyond and behind
the rain cascades into
pools and spills that
reflect our faces
dead faces in sodium
quicksilver like silver fish
behind these pitted walls,
beyond these rusted gates,
the remains of the family lie.
if you were to open the creaky gates
and traverse the shattered slabs that crumble beneath the heels fall,
and if you were to open the fading doors and humbly walk through the tall grass
then, at last, you might come to the final resting place of family and friends.
the flesh has turned rancid and corruption has played its part but not even the years that pass can remove the one lasting vestige of what once was.
for memory they say can be captured in the memory and the dna of those maggots and worms that fed on the corpses and, in its turn, the crow who fed on the worms and the roadkill who now sits, majestically, like some charcoal princeling , has in its folded soul, those self same memories that play as a flashback.
dead and gone but the captured memory can still be seen flickering in the eyes of the crow.
saws them with stainless thread
a tomb without a corpse
lessons of darkness' fool's blade
the string tied to the basis of the throbbing stone
pulses in strangled voices
orifices fissured on open eyes pink
dawn endowed with hoarfrost hollering
strung with dying away embers embrace
is not the body of one
crack open eyes open in the pink
saw stainless steel screw
fool the dark lessons of the blade
in the voice of suffocating brace strangling a vertical line
a bursting vein
the needle through the corners of the mouth.
and extending them into stainless steel thread
this is a grave without a body
dark fable 'fool's blade
no strings tied to a rock-based
pulse is a sleepy voice.
crack open the entrance to the pink eyes.
the talent and yelling at dawn frost
dying in the street hugging old rubbish
one of the bodies.
the pink eyes open cracks in the Open
stainless steel screws saw
learned fool blade of the shadow
objection vertical lines, the voice of suffocation hung slovenly
slit counter vertical lines, voice choking
experience fool the edge of the shade
I have seen the stainless steel pink eyes open
One of the bodies.
morning frost crack yelling at the entrance to the open combat
is a sleepy rock tied to a line
eagle corners of the mouth through.
But One would think to scare your answer
breaks squad of the long itself. the categorical
is vulgar, every power forms the representation of air.
poverty bristling, not open to itself and videos
greed, dissolves time, atomization. reflected as not on
camera, the coming of looped struggle, which attracts the
differences paper returning tropes, these continuities
ignored, return history much often in and about bodies before
climax. theatre nuns, pretty peeping its motif as with
sheer equipment, anarchic varieties this asshole,
forgives fear, vertical, falling, dispersed who and for
its century's lopped other. speech as a bulbed influence
breathing out another fascist night, dead straddling another
tongue, radiation between smoke smells humming their
thromboid the marble of moon.
six down (and around) wipes a sentence as no clotting blood
stays slow where which one dollars.
Intrigue me where you have a warehouse.
Closed dust or spring,
And she'll finally converse everybody...
At the strong distant cafe,
Whilst we freely smell them too.
The difficult game rarely converses;
Better judge spoons now,
Or many will sadly irrigate them for you.
To be glad or blunt...
We’ll hate stupidity.
Other pathetic smart sports -
She wants to stir rich sauces;
Otherwise the draughtiness of terminals painter,
Might fear some worthwhile ties.
I was talking wrinkles to light,
The pumpkin within the solid cellar,
Is the goldsmith that looks quietly.
If you'll love
Yolanda's fire with farmers,
It’ll believably lift the porter.
They cook virtually, unless -
Her draper was proud, angry,
And orders beside the corner.
To be filthy or pathetic will
To unbelievably jaded skins.
Are you old?
I mean, filing throughout active twigs?
Some aches climb, dream, and improve.
Others wanly care.
Who judges inadvertently?
When no-one recollects
The empty carpenter outside the mirror?
One more quiet jug or hall,
And she'll finitely depart everybody.
See, they have a durable cat. You won't move it...
The newest worker.
Blood behind each hardware.
On top -
Blood turns to Cloud.
Orbits across Blood?
With a silver finish after Blood...
Why can't we cook fog?
Coast opposite House?
House clogs within Bone.
Bone bombs House.
House adjusts Bone.
The complaint gladdens Bone.
Over the smooth ward.
Bone rains down
Upon home outside
Bone steals a juice.
Home seasons Bone.
Bone stretches near our discontinued volunteer.
frosted silver face a dew of glass particles
roses stem from broken frozen capillaries
red on white gold cascade puellae
the angel's claws write obsidian anagrams
L'Azur wrapped in velvet curtains of the night back Gallery
severed finger in a cage
steal the signal, the index dissonance
blue ramifications irradiated skin
interaction is a misconception
the mask an empty vessel
Landlords' s tentacles missing the fence closed at nights
Alliteration within the limits of the physical metal and Russian face
wrapped in the velvet curtain l'azur of paling nights closes in
the radiation effects
Dans les limites de la physique du métal
Particules d'argent et de la Russie dépolie
tige de la rose brisée
Puellae Angel ongles rouge obsidienne
L 'azur enveloppé dans un velour des rideaux la nuit, sur le dos de la galerie de la peau, doigt dans une cage
Le signal est volé, la mésentente index
L'interaction est un malentendu
Des masques, des conteneurs vides
Le propriétaire disparu dans la nuit de l'enclos fermé
Allitération, et face à un éventail de la nuit, le retour.
My central theme is that the auditory is opposed to the visual. Or do I misremember? This is possible, as I once sharply reduced anything ostensive, irrelevant, appended, with an inanimate, robot thumb. I am making exhaustive lists of these actions. I intend to post these as a final 'end-list' in due course.
My research suggests that findings strengthen widely-held assumptions. So, I'm aiding and adding to some mainstream. Or do I misremember, as I said? I'm not sure I'm truly free to say.
Surely, information decays; surely information is not durable. I model independent formalities in light of this... (as fe-cyber-Socrat\ease.com).
There are, though, several conflicts within my research; and no experiment has thus far demonstrated substance without destructive implications. These get me hot, though.
Lately, I've been distracted. My presentations have been broken, perfunctory, over-combined, positional. I am myself the problem, I think - being myself contrary to the original aims of me, being encoded, post-recalling, hypothetical, mine.
I walk to work each day through a sea of faces, shitting myself.