sunlit philosophy flowers sprout from deadmen. the women don'tweep.the hollow head of Horus shouts (with joyful mouth) vaults of twisted imagesin heads salt-spun.and my love holds a candleup to the sun, cryingout Look, this is yesterday, the beautifulthing,but I sayIt's sandwiched between evils,crushed and flush with itSelf gone brokenbetween bits of bitter chuffonce sweetsalvation.we can do nobetter, not anybetter than this thing where the earthgoes dark, back to the bush and the nipple,the lush and silent songwe suck as we fill ourselveswith grain and sin.she loves usand in lovefeeds us plotswher
bringing out no Mona, noMary, just the memory of the darkhammering on the doorto get in, saying Come on man,the sun's almost up and I'mdying out here.thumptha-thump, now the knockingis a beating in my chest that keeps ongoing though I'm yellingat it to stop, but it goes on anywaypleasing itself with things, the waythe necks of kings do onchopping blocks, reaching down intothat heart-hell irregularity,thump tha-thumpshit, we expect too much.it's just a wad of gristle toolong out, too hard and full of dirtso even the dogs won't chew it,a kickball on beach sand,going along fromfoot to foot, wet and sinkingpast
Dog Training Her head lowers, neck rigid, pointed toward the dark hole in the earth. There she smells the foul breezes that blow from the corners beneath the world we walk. They're alive in the air, sentient things that move and settle into the spaces where so few find pleasure. She hears the footsteps of animals in them. She feels their scents like playthings thick enough to take into the mouth. She closes her eyes as she inches forward, nose tunneling between the bright colors of fallen leaves. She strains toward the dark."That's enough," I tell her, and with a glance of reticence she pushes up and walks away.I suppose she might believe me, or under
Hell It was somewhere around 3 in the morning, just under the 30 overpass heading south, the kind of crossing of time and place where you evaporate from the world, winding your way into the recesses of your mind that have projected themselves beneath the road. You just stare and drive and watch the headlights flash across all the yellow bits on the asphalt without ever seeing any of them. They go past like sleeping fireflies, as uninterested in you as you are in them.Your mind needs these intervals. There are things to be moved, sorted, and misplaced. Meanings to be discerned. Tender spaces to be wounded.I was asleep inside myself as the overp
blood, stairs, nine wands, one burning bleed red and think green,for life's wounds turn sleep's themesto cobblestones piled in highWhitechapel walls where dreams(born and broken into rows)find each other; maybe murder; die.two corpses on a dirty shore.one speaks in tongues, one speaks no more.a pregnant belly blackens suns,dreamers dream like loaded guns.the furnace glows and glitters goldas time declares the whore is soldto a man who casts looks right and leftlike dice. regret leaves him bereft.we awaited nights for dreams of sandwhere moonglow circuits fluttered andstuck like cups in the mouths of dogsand cats, and sleep was in the fogthat lay
flocks drop like frostfall,spent necks shouted downpast icicle sheetsaround the surfaces of buildings.those towers rise up in wrath,grey whales from under earththat spit waves from the windowswhere we sit and watch the world.flocks droplike diabetic starlights, space rocksshaven down to dullness and inedibility,strung lines of flight held back, bentand brokenagainst invisible seas. we willbe pushed by microbesfrom mud-bottom gravesthat send us all like zombiesinto sleep.the asylum is shut. the citydroops its eyes in daylight. Godtakes all things backthrough the windows of our behemoths.ducks and doves and broadbillshit like raind
the difficulty of belief one line of blocks up to the ankles,I supervise the up-going of the thing.make it higher and put up that treasured &
one hill there is one hill of many in dishwaterand dumpster blood that I chose to loveas a metaphor for truth. the shapes therebring ruin, things without eyesthat look in the man and tellhim stories where he raisesfists against himself.there I've found garbage art with wings,things flesh-robed speaking from the hill pulpit.they are sick in movement with speechestrembling like stomachs freshly split, squares ofindecency coughed into black bagsbehind that place that served Italian.I like the preaching faces—sad thingstrue thingsthings lefthalf-digested on sidewalkswhere disgusted men pass them by.on this hill I'v
folie a deux she gives him the blue light look,the careless thing they share in dim roomshalf-built. it's a pretty lienot unlike certainty.she's aware of the hate. it boilspiss like lust in her guts under lampslit by gaslight and grenadine.she married without vows ,a promise to never leave thatsticks like litigation. the pulses breakoff,
blue sluice cast off care like bluesnowfields into rigid water,and wash with mud the thrustof earth, our skin soft as salt mines.built you areof bitch and buttercream,of soured elements in the bluedot of a pin-prick spotlightand windowed skull.we can watch the fire fadeinto a black rat canvas,into blue gates that tumble upand loose finger grooves,smear eyes across your face like warpaint,faster and faster,momentum in the race to nowhere.and once done, we turn,we go aground and pushup the lines of blue backsorbiting the moons of thatrising ass, around corners,a shattered life in starshine,the masksbeneath the
Come Death EXT. CABIN IN SNOWFIELD - NIGHTSnow is falling in the winter of 1930 upon the exterior of a wood cabin set deep in a forested snowfield. We can hear the sounds of WIND and TREE BRANCHES RUSTLING as SHIPP begins to narrate.SHIPP (V.O.)Another one down.A hole begins to burn in the side of the wall, spreading out quickly, almost as though it were paper, and we hear the FLAMES CRACKLING. Through the hole we see that Shipp sits at a desk inside, writing furiously with audible PEN SCRATCHES.SHIPP (V.O.) (CONT'D)Another one down...Shipp's notebook has a variety of names written within it, some of which are crossed out.
on being an unwelcome dream there's a darkness some nights that sticksto everything. I'm sitting in warm roomscovered in machines of colored noiseand I feel no health but the black thingthat's stuck to nighttime TV and coffee,to bedclothes and the sweat they'd make,to mottled dogs and the backs of children.I am the dream, I think, another thoughtbrought up by the pair of them, two laughingkings all smiles, tagteams and telepathy,sharing what I can't give because theydidn't dream me for giving. I ama dark heart in a brittle brightness,a sun shining in my own night sky,and in that there is bruising, a spotleprous white on skinthat grins a
passt raining again,grass slidingdown the hillwith its voice gone silly.I rememberthe greener days,fresh like newhope, but whycan't I losethem or forget themembrace thempluck them like fruit fromtrees we passed ten miles backthat smile at red-black skiesbegging new roadto deliver us its redemption?the past sweatsin nirvanastorming heattropics like cancer dancingin a hurricane mind onFlorida coastsforeverand here we are along memorieswhere forever seems so springbut spring, as you said,is a dreamand so are weprobablybliss is plugged up inpipes like fishgutsand here wesit idle, pledged
on pillows now I lay me downto sleepless sweat, to youand I, those fever dreamsthat wake us screaming nameslike sex and the violencethat follows. you called medaddyjust the once, and even thatdidn't stick like the sighing,the sweet exhalationsyou breathed for one birthday,or the crass clouds I chokedback into blacker lungscancered round with hope.now I lay me downon dark paths walkedtoward starry skieswhere there is no grammar,there are no words that wanderfrom the safety of unlostwonderment. herein the dregs, herein dreamed diseasesI run to your forgiveness,feet alive on thin prayerswhispered over pil
craft of country this apartment ismy still bleeding bastiona smoke screenviolation of unsteady truthsa segregation ofperceptions that stickheartfast, overt invastness of villainy. pulpmulch of whatwe ground for goodnessgoodness me, weseem to have made thesemesses, pretty putrescencewe all wear like apple-pearls in perpetuity. goodlet us tear apartthe green and growingand leave the burntbound eideticbecause I have no roomamidst these booksand boxes for anythingless than transgressionhappy are the raped wombshappy are thestone hearts, are the light-less lives lost to ingratitudehappy is that goodnessgrou
The Red Garden The young junkie sat up slowly, sliding his back along the wall to roughly where it had been a half hour before. The edge of the steps had begun digging into his back, a discomfort he felt worth correcting even high as he was.The vial hung limply in his hand, already charged and shot. It had been poorly done. Red leaked from his arm and was spattered over the surface of his dark skin and over the plastic vial's cover that showed the glowing yellow and blue electronics beneath. The liquid coalesced into a rich velvet as it chilled in the morning air. The familiar tingle danced about his head like a hal
written down Armageddon washes in on silk and sand, a cool breezeto refresh the days of death, the dry days we dugdown to suffocate in mud. the gentleman in melet you die first.Hongyan drowned herself in the Miluo, moreblue and youthful than the water, a sad end for beautybarely born. we, too. we, that thing that died in flighton feathered wings that ground down to dust.after the fall, we grabbed branches dropped in river siltto write a chronicle of dying drawn in down-watered red,a hateful article carved on hearts. I still hear thosebeating demons, who pound out new pulp, fat andgratified and rive
dedicatory acrostic 3 Magnificent within the grass,Artful in the clouds above,Resplendent shine you from the eastTo every vision that I love.Into your hair, into your skin(Naught else to seem hence half as bright),Etch you bliss that sweetly growsZealous faith within its light.Man was crafted from the soil.Arid is his dusty heart.Rising from that ground I see,In rains that number thirty-three,Everything you've grown in me.Nevermore a mere man calledI, now that such love I've known.Come, my dear, onto the grass,Onto what thy sweet hand has sown.Love me as seems best to you,Ever down on sod and stone.
water well water water wellwater like a groupie onthe grass, caged candle kindlingbroken on singingsongs that sirens throatwater wellwater deep like a chickenhedgerow cover and coopfor shelling out at farmhandswhile I am waiting on the eggswater wellwater whole in steeping teathat drags the liquid downto comfortable woman's handsrubbing my temples at lengthand charging nickelsfor the softest kisses
earthly treasures within the earth slumber heartsand older things that warm the groundbeside beds of onyx, beside the foundationsof castles long fallen from clouds,and here we part with earthly treasures,buried like boxes of gold, or sea sand in bottles,or crosses worn for years about the neck, thingswe've loved and kept that speakin whispers through the strata.so we bury our machines, and post their graveswith granite sentries that remind us,though we have loved them,to let them rest, and to watch insteadthe skiesalive with the footfalls of our fathers.
the irony is I can't eat we spread the feast of chokeloin and sicksteak,portions piled high to feed us and the witness thatworships the rise of our disaster. the fly-likeface smiles as daylight rolls down through windowsto shine upon the buttered hands we hold out towardour bitter-basted banquet. the sun dances in our wine,a drab bouquet climbing into nostrils and settingthe stage for the flavor of the coming plague.the wine first we hammer down, groaning into glassesas the filth finds tired bellies; so much easierto swallow than to love. the meat is dark and beautiful,cut like coal shallows in the marbled guts o
Sta.sh
