Twelve guitars that failed to teach me enlightenment,
milk-crate furniture that failed to make me cool or edgy,
(but nonetheless has been very practical so far)
encircles my reflection, that serene surrendered moment,
and ah, 12 photographs that remind me where I've been -
lately my identity seems to have been slipping.

Laughter sounds in another's rooms
whose doors have erections at crotch-level.
In their hemispheres of shit, they seek love,
or pass the time pretending to.
I live out a lie: repositioning my posture in pathetic mimicry,
while I attend to the grace of falling.

In the uneasiness of alone, I ride large the storm
electrifying myself with a science of scienceless aesthetic!
This, I have elevated to the status of a god-concept, sacrosanct.
But neither it nor l can be fulfilled,
or have not yet figured out how, or why.
Under whose will do we leave the womb?
Perhaps I was born to fight things, for some people.

A number of books I have not yet read
point at me and laugh from up high,
depicting the portrait of my failures coming closer.
I take it all in my stride,
and make a decision to decide to defeat them.
Have them inside, a deicide, as I eat them.

Short one.

I'll wash the taste of your lips
away with this gin.
After our last kiss,
yours was the love
I knew I would miss.

Wars.

Shin stabbing, rip apart
the pieces of the flesh.
A rough-headed roustabout
who's sure to leave a mess.

What you could do wasn't good enough -
you left it half-finished, now it's ended.
Broken in two like a cigarette, alone
with the torment you have tendered

I mistook pity for love -
love for myself, not another.
Washed away in my own blood,
I stopped accepting the other.

Welding on the steel to the bone:
the strap came and made me quite stroppy.
Answering, these ten questions of hurt
the voice that answers seems to be choppy.

Girl, you can put anything you want there
as long as the feeling is right
Stick in some scissors and tear it apart
so you can see the wound in my light.

I couldn't walk for a year or two...

I couldn't see...

Yes, I am still publishing.

6 months in the making, I bring to you a poem that is over two years old.

Nothing, Nowhere.

Nothing: as in nowhere.
Bleeding in your underwear.
Coming through the fucking front door,
forged in absolute bliss,
was the ever-permeating kiss.

No, I don't feel it,
I can't see it,
I cannot hear it,
yet I can be near it.
Let me just lick it up -
but won't it just fuck me up?

Let's do it all day long;
sit on my face, get to my sweet place.
I'm so fucked up,
I don't even care:
I'm still bleeding
in your underwear.

I'm spaced out, darling,
and I want something to eat.
Well, I know of a food
that's sweeter than sweet.
Do you want to get drunk with me?
Or do you not have the stones?
I got a feelin',
you've been waiting to jump my bones.

I'm so fucked up,
it's morning,
and I know I shouldn't feel this way
when it's late
in the evening -
but the sunlight is my disarray.

You bent over
and I climbed up on your back
(we had a little yack,
about that,
about this.
OH! About that ever-permeating kiss)

You are like a terrible joke,
but where there's fire there might be smoke,
and you treated me like a garbage bin -
I'm just something for you to throw things in.

Waiting (anxious grief)

Sometimes the only thing to do is throw up your hands and say "fuck it! I am a little bit nervous about screwing this up, because this girl is just that special" - even if you don't necessarily want to feel that way about anyone.

"Waiting anxious Grief"

Waiting, in my anxious grief,
you had the nerve to steal me like a thief.
I wonder if I'll get less nervous in time
as I walk this burnt and broken line.

These girls (who want to sleep with me)
I can only hope they'll set me free,
because a worry fills my lonely cell.
Yeah, love has come and sent my head to hell

In gold an in brown my stomach heaves -
Emergency: we'll burn these dying leaves.
What should I say to who I should ring?
Self esteem lost touches ev'ry thing.

And I am outside, all the time
brandishing a stupid, empty rhyme.
Wherein no truth or tact is found
and hope lies bleeding, helpless, on the ground.

Perspective

A song from a dream.

Perspective.

Getting some perspective on perspective (from a distance).
Giving good time a run / a break from your money.
Chasing up cloud dreams / a storm for your body.
Exhaling perpendicular to parallel and all there is in between


I was never born to float this bubble
I was never born to float this dream
I was never born to feel this troubled
I could never muster enough steam.

Retro-compiling consciousness in an exegesis of psychology.
Multiple divergency: the error of the psychonaut.
Undefined consequence - cororarily cancelled on a mis-fired synapse
I am one, am all, am one, am all, am one, am naught.

I was never born to float this bubble
I was never born to float this dream
I was never born to feel this troubled
I could never muster enough steam.

Wandering with a wanderlust that's carving out a sermon.
Breathing in the shadows that flitter through the time-crawl.
Far away, on a distant star, a cosmos sighs relief
and fills a honeycomb with a wonderment that beggars all belief.

I was never born to float this bubble
I was never born to float this dream
I was never born to feel this troubled
I could never muster enough steam.

Experiential insight (now you're in for the whole enchilada),
drawing close the things you know and people have said to you.
I wonder through the misty haze (that burns a shadow on my brain)
whether all is one, or one is all, or if I've misbehaved.

I was never born to float this bubble
I was never born to whip this cream
I was never born to feel this troubled
I was floating lost within a dream.

Obfuscation

After all we went through, you left me, and the only recourse I had was to write this stupid poem. I remember the good times we had together, and they make me hope you're going to be happy.

Obfuscation.
A journey through a broken love.

We're all guilty of loving you:
of having brushed our hands
against the litheness of your back.
All we'll be guilty of afterwards...

I'm guilty of having liked you;
of having had you; of holding you.
Guilty thoughts: "I love you",
"I await you", "I destroy you".

Whilst the obfuscation syndrome
(that shadow from beneath my skull),
crawl'd across the floor
through the dust and the mud.

We're all guilty of loving you -
of dreaming you, exploring you.
Setting search by starlight
for the intimate delight.

The promise of your politeness
and perky, chocolate nipples -
enough to send me mad, quite mad!
For joy is rare occasion'd.

Empirically we think we search for obfuscation:
yours within the word (and smell), with mine beneath the eyes.
Yet I miss you, and I'm begging you,
return to me at once!

Of this, I must (Confessed, and flow allowed under the sky).
All you'll be guilty of afterwards...
All we'll be guilty of afterwards...
All I'll be guilty of afterwards...

is letting you walk by.

For weal
or woe -
Goodbye.

Waved Good-bye

Another song post.

Waved Good-bye.

As usual, tonight
I am there,
With casual fingers coursin' through
my casual hair.

With nails being buried
beneath my spine
Oh the blackness is sublime
(and it's all mine).

And I wonder
just where you were,
when the blackness in my head
turned upside down.
Oh the ceilings,
became the floor
(waved goodbye),
and nothing has been the same since then.

I see you turn
away from me,
and I bear the curse.
I bathe my head in treachery
to wash away the sin of my pride
my silent silence
(inside).

And I wonder
(with longing hands on my longing head)
of what it's like
to be
a little more together in the head
I find myself as a supplement,
a sacrifice for a sacrament.
But what my soul was found lacking in
that was bountiful in you.

A little chord prog experiment
(that in the lab bcame intelligent)
turned out to be heaven sent -
I foolishyly fell in love with you.

Haddad on High

Cool kisses,
beneath my skin.
I spread my wings,
you sink within
the storm that rages
between my thighs -
The black then bleeds
from out my eyes.

Because I settle
on the beast
I find
in you,
my dark
and brooding
monster.

Thieves (in silence,
that shell my harbour)
feel so turgid
in lustful ardour.
A raunchy, burlesque
cabaret:
I take them home
I fuck all day.

I fuck the florrid flurry assembled,
In an ocean of organic consequence.
I fuck the ocean, the sky, the earth,
And with my quickening breath give birth

Oh! To the stars! To the moons and the planets!
The liquid cosmos, pulsing alive!
The micro and macrocosm, entwined from the start,
(but all to myself, and all in my heart).

Jars 2.0

Jars is still in progress. A singer I currently work with (shoutouts to K. Taylor!) has helped in the creation of this revision. I call it 2.0. Jars is the only pure-song* that has yet been posted on this site.

*Meaning that it is purely meant to be a song, not a poem.

Jars

I covered my foot with mud
the other day.
It discordantly took me
away,

To the time when i played in the soil -
a little girl
(just a little girl) -
encasing things in jars.

My remorse hangs a horse
it's the bookie's odds that'll kill you.
Like a race-track nose-bleed,
this is a drug that will still you

in my belly ( sharp and poison'd,
deep inside me, poisoned stars).
How'd I earn these empty shoes i walk in?
by putting things in jars

What do we think we keep in the jars then?
Spiders, or a sharp.
What do we think we keep in the jars then?
The losers of our heart.
What do we think we keep in the jars then?
Those that simply aren't.
What do we think we keep in the jars then?
All with which we start:

black, pagan concepts.

The coccoon ( or shell )
might fall apart
from the start,
and will never grow in this place.

But you can't kill a
a dreamer's dream
(it's in his skull).
The infertile decay
saps my strength all away.

One day at a time
is all it'll take
(with these snakes).
They just want to tell me so
I just want to go (far away).

Imaginary photographs
on a plastic shine.
Well my god's got his,
but I still don't got mine.

What do you think we call those in jars then?
The poisons of our heart.
Where do you think we keep all those jars then?
Furthest from our heart.
What do you think we keep in the jars then?
Jars in jars in jars.
What do you think the jars keep in jars then?
That of which they're part:

black, pagan concepts.

Enki Wandered South Of Nan

In disgusting profusity you grow me here a tree
Of illegitimate abundance - the bastard son of a crow.
And Mithras was nailed to a tree by Mithras,
By Mithras, the tree has been stolen.

In lies enveloping Gilgamesh
(enveloping Enki and Ishtar)
Dragging to earth the heavenly bull:
Parading it in nightly paroxysm.

So what would we know from it's bleeding, this crow?
Do we eat it's crow eyes for our insight?
More wisdom than learnt in its cawing, it's birdsong
Is sunburnt by billowing ragtime. We'll dig on this day for it's bones

In a copse of cold cryptomeria,
an antiquity, a black gulf of time.
Petrified pan-spermotopia -
the retributivist roles of our gods!

Outsider Poetry, Music & Art: On the appropriateness of metaphors...

Outsider Poetry, Music & Art: On the appropriateness of metaphors...

http://goprairie.blogspot.com/2008/03/things-in-jars.html