So I skipped a bit more then a week. Sorry about that- But, I have been writing. I assure you that, and I guess I'm inclined to post the fruit of my efforts. It's really long. You've been warned. It's called the manifesto.
Bloated and swift,
Stilltime acrobatics bend round troubled curves and bounce;
Deaf, dead, dense, and moving, forever in multiplied,
growing undertones, we remind teenage boys
that forked twicks of carefree lightening
cannot compensate for a lost,
pronounced lack of grace.
Bloated blue, the rabbits turn heads and stare, bouncing
on acrobatics again, bounding into Ford grills and tires-
country roads in the nightnoon lamplight stretched with
Quashed, the null enforced laws of practice
were soiled the soil of these long dead amber grounds,
with bars of lead and
blue and red sirens flash, paused and repeated
droned and sung like a madman's parade of
dripped ether and canary enchanted voiceboxed noblemen.
We got smashed like lifted lightening
on the November ground, clouds of kicked
meat bled red into some premature ejaculation of snow.
Carl Winter, that man of frost! Oh how he recited the funeral rites and biblical passages
of found homesteads sharpened to the bare ground
while rocks slung entered skulls and flipped a giant acrobat on his
Rocks entered skulls like missiles and flipped our acrobat,
while he balanced on this willed high-wire to return Dandy's underground
nukes with merely a spirit dripping of candlewax and spit.
Half tuned lyres and benches
and kicked dust at theologians who tried to accept
a certain point as absolute, while
Musked masked Rosa sang semen stained lullabies to sleeping teenagers
while mountains dried and fell apart-
Ingesting mushrooms to feel a throat in a face,
Ingesting tar to feel a buzz of concentration-
And Sleep did not extended a lul of passage to those awaked and
vulgarized, and honestly,
Rosa, the drowsy maiden, hasn't traced my
outline me in days.
Bit by beautiful bit we are destroyed- self destructed like
implosions of masked anarchy firebombing some
Berlin concert hall-
To feel a beautiful mind battered and fried in
some popped kernel, KFC breaded and ready to attack,
and to feel a generation overwhelmed by pseudo reality in which
all idols are synthetic and fated to feel as if they are universally fleeing.
In a proletariat hospital seven men expanded the concept of over and done,
and strung out with the spirits, Carl rose
only with the sun, living in some urban trench- he wrote,
"I miss home today, and in some
sexual interest and enterprise, I feel
held to the concept of tomorrow"
"To air!" the essence declared,
And in terms I'd never understand,
he declared a sonic philosophy of
airwaves and lifted new world orders
while the Devil melted a wax heart
in shards of fires fueled
by caches of bottled atmosphere and ATM withdrawals.
And soon, He, that unkind apparition, opened my bedroom
door and with long, scaly fingers,
clenched around my doorknob like
Death after three minutes and
opened my bedroom to his deeds.
He pried open my eyes
to feed me images of his malicious light.
Headlines, for you who eat a flittling!
Nifty and firting, seven overlaps of conscious were
Declared to quite insanely nulled sensical. Quashing
Severed mountains, he fell like a rabbit,
Mad, vlogged and swifted to bloat.
Cured Hitlers justified no good empty prisoners
and were promptly hung or fed cyanide thru containers
of neckled peacepipes.
Crazy, although, deep inside, a
scale collapses and does never level
hair greased with dyslexic desire
dies and scrambles in motorcycled combat.
Read it. Books
smoked salt to pavement while machines cut holes into
wrists. Give a bitch a movement,
rebel, lather, gleam and shim aimed to reduce, repeat-
and she'd want to famous
for tearing up a paper towel in distain.
Never make a wave, dear childish hands, for water
unreliably breaks and spurts. knocks wind out of thrones-
No casual theory- no importance, no great minds
would pull out of pajamas and face a world.
Nothing but pleasure could cure a teenage brain and
flashedfoward motion penned, constant scribbling to idols
or maxed words,
vainly split open for the inside of a candy bar for the hope of
some narrow future.
This bar's poet laureate,
stoned worsed tossed beat battered and spayed,
took some paid lessons from a man of God and
roads less traveled-
aiming to maximize efficiency while
traveling on broken bicycle tires to the epicenter of
down and out, stuttered and sprayed, he reached for
a payphone call to his scrounged home for meals.
A flight attendant makes a phone-call
and flutters an eyelash to duke of airborne,
Paranoid and left behind she
falls asleep to sing song gospels and barbed words, tearing
saviors from the velcro dreams of fisheyes,
cut and bled for God
in some parted center.
Obvious, she muttered, obvious-
marked blue for slaughter and withdrawn, wooden nails lapped
for breakfast lunch or dinner-
carrot flowers poke through the top
of a hill, grass burned brown from sunshine
against the backdrop of some hard sun,
while all the local rabbits hold and swing
forks of dried tar from
the nearby pits,
as Koi fish float,
asphyxiated and writ
to the sludge furnace that is the top of the
electric owlets hoot howls, perched on the wooden plateaus
built to burn grease
in the attics of some wildlife preserved in books,
given to extinction gift-wrapped, for the sake of building
turn your head 360 degrees
Not malformed and misrepresented,
B.K lounged and Wendy sat on a ketchup packet,
while many miles away someone loved a shifted
proletariat girl on a painted blue park-bench-
360, back to start
kept from falling, a redhead plumber
ate chinese food from the bed
of his pickup and would
have loved to smoke a cigarette-
"I would have loved to do it," he said,
"but god has yet to craft people so small,
as to fit comfortably in such a pipe-"
Love you, everyone! So good to me, love you too!
I thought I'd not want to so opposed to sleeping-
Blicked down to black patios, khakied old men spent
hours eating dried culture and fast walkers,
speaking of old times disappeared into air
like sawdust memories.
One such elder
struck at Art with his blue upholstered cane,
capitalizing on his bottled frustration
that bubbled from infancy,
inflated from delayed flights and skipped songs
or halftuned pianostrings that strangled halfloved brides-
Confronted and ashamed, no words in my mouth but
harsh shouts and condemnations,
he mutters some busy apology,
rubs the bust of Aphrodite
and smashes her plastered spine
against the top of this tarred interstate.
Not long to say ungoodbye and bad morning
with no such song daunted by a roseate sleep,
snow comes to growl
in his limited white vocabulary-
Attack! Attack or die! We are too deep for god, too deep for passion,
spawned in the crags of submerged rock
where the loaded harpoons glitter in the bloody folds
of some whaled skin-
leap, jump the gap or feel a chest under rock!
Crush skulls under some lipping tide!
Attack! Attack or die, see or remain blind!
Flat waltz off a globed circle,
pace round some papered world,
I'll be at the center of your footsteps,
wishing I never existed.
I could do nothing better than bathmats
and preying hawks that dance round the tops of palm tree fringes,
flittered in terms of dead sidewalk garden-snakes.
Comfortable constables sat on
cigar chairs, hardwood working
with portable kindles and firewood zapped,
alight and arrested from a falling everything.
Dog eared and dugout, some special spectral spirit
lay like a coffin, inert in the company of god and
He lost a suitcase and literature was changed forever.
She slipped a cigarette and burned down a barn, while the
naked absurdities of man were made electronic-
The day she died, buses were fishlipped and flipped
into fiery rains.
We realized, kissing under the moon on her front-lawn,
that we all will lay inside sawdust forever.
Remind me, once, would you?
Today is not a special day.
Today is no tour-de-force wreckingball.
Today is an existential crisis,
shifting halfway towards tomorrow in some infinite limbo,
always under God and always changing focus.
Crouch on air before you fall, will you?
A 757 breaks the billowed crowns of
the top of some miracle seen through a Coca-cola
eyeglass, the pyramid prisms of
alcoholic perception blurred.
Knifeman said, in song,
Don't murder me, but come on in-
everything is perfect, once again.
For favours, knives, all fucked and shamed-
we await the fevers for our names, and long ago
in concert halls and wooden theaters,
I talked of that famous napkin.
Now, now we talk of a renaissance while
tracked and cultured cancers search
for burial rinds and epithets.
Movement is constant.
Life is temporary.
Nothing ever stops.
Some cleaned runway pushed snow into
gentle side pockets.
Never run easy,
sweated pigs shaking from turbulence-
I have a pistol for a brain.
I shatter mirrors in abstract violence,
I am a passenger.
Automatically brought to knees,
I felt sized and alive with each placemat found-
Acid tipped and lipped with water,
chased down perception and time lapses,
bottled or glassed necessity providing.
I'd snub you out if I could light you up.
I'd write a poem for the cost of blood and pirates
smoked and shown
in a menagerie of fucks not given,
worn like trophies
and paraded to a crowd of
17 in some unincorporated township.
Sweet liberty! Sweet blood! Take up arms,
how you rise,
pulled like a handkerchief
from some pocket's corner.
Life after death, or death during life?
Never stop, oh spraypaint idol,
never cease 'till you read the burned pages 80 years later.
In high school, when the appeal of cyanide suicide
was debated with a democratic boy named Connor,
he said he didn't want to die,
but no street would mind if he did or didn't
jump the rope-
Bloated and swift,
today chokes on the dregs of yesterday.
Nothing was made for us, anyway.
Nothing was made for you or me.
Today is not a special day.
Today was not made for me.