Mercurial Cancer

The upward spiral to a rhetorical question becomes DNA, its pressure spikes our interior, pooling blood fills our eyes still gazing out across the flatlined horizon sienna clouds are visible now float behind chartreuse moon, riddled with cogitation, its dreams pivotal dark, I scour indigent sky trying to fill the void of deaths continuum. Multidimensional plateaus concusss and rattle, pitched veins explode, screaming, intertwined with ruptured organs throbbing bone pushing against the swell of natural formaldehyde, naked lymphocyte imploded strains of cytotoxic assasins, Trypan blue sings our demise the protocal for vital staining failed in the light of an imagined sun, dreaming as the trickle of poison gestates longing, a suspension of life, an illusion of detection, sorrow's conclusion runs, tears cannot escape from eyes so dry, sight a mutation, a visual memory unhinged and declined as to fade completely. In the petals of pressed sunflowers, the weight of the cadaver speaks yellow as the rooks peck out its eyes. We take flight in spite of attempts at extermination, burn through charcoal shadows, interrupt the exterior world of phenomenal reality. The climate of chaos serves the steel fish well, the churn of its concrete irrationality provides an environment of perfect austerity, thot becomes an inexorable stone with which to grind away the tyranny of the object. Authenticity, the serpentine embrace of the eternal now, seethes with undulations of potency- we rise like tantrums of cloud, in the epidemic of the hour, irrepressible, ebullient, alive.

i am i am not

i peel open another bottle of questionable complexity peel back the jagged lable of my rage and tear at its blistering trademarked humanity i'm coming down off the eternal cunt-zero wimpering plasma still unplugged and cleanhanded i am the praxis the hustle the prodigy the myopia of centuries hurled into the protocol of covention the hallucination the manipulation the expectation i am the prototype disgorged by gaping harpy that swallows anima and feeds its afterbirth to vultures and cons who disassemble rape drifting to abyss my termination will conceed my subtefuge i'll go spent into the eternal consequence packing explosives spewing rank immaculates while screaming for conceptual silence making unreasonable demands of infinity there is no real purpose so i bide my time in the repression drinking circles of geometry tipped on the verge of resolve

Little Deaths

I ease beneath the shroud of placid waters, slip quietly into the diminishing non. Infinity stutters, coded time interrupts another cycle of my lucid dreaming.

Once familiar voices fade to indistinct-they are now shadow intervals of rolling pitch, a drone of recycled memories juxtaposed with death.

Incandescent passions wield a heavy discourse, burning synapse exposes my weary flesh and an apocalypse of tender mercies.

The burden shifts to unbecoming-acerbic truths unveil bitter secrets, jagged scars- and cruel vicissitudes. Disfigured trust annihilates the future, kindness becomes an impossible stone, misery bleeds-to-fusion the esoteric reach of something incomprehensible-profound.

The clotted blood of enterprise strips faith bare, sorrow offers me its kill- the stillborn abstract of the soul splits the condemned in extremis twisting from its fetid womb-a lifeless dream stolen from a dying child.

Narcotic Sweats The Injected Machinic Appliance /Justin Lee Brown & Lee Kwo/ PostCards From The Frontlines

Noises are alive with hyper vigilance their discrete movements toward silence signaling the vibrant decay of becoming and eluding the melting ear /detouring the divine illusion of the death circumspect without suspicion/an unexpected absence of affliction marks time/ We confide in each other spinning into a virtual density of delirium / So many resonances / We cross flexed sound of desperation as one would pass invisible through ancient vaulted burial grounds/ Poised for demolition pre-destined to preserve our faltering decay this interval in our temporary salvation of being in life without the definite trace of duration / willing to become another negation of the aesthetic at the end if you choose/circumventing rigid lucidity of purpose we institute a new order of thought / no mystery between the validity of being and nothing / just an interval of frictional ravitude and the fact that I cannot fall asleep with yr scratching the sky in my eyes / Enigma becomes intimate invasive forbidden impediment to impulse of weapon/Who is the most submissive slave?/ the bullet or the gun?/ coded desire murmuring insomnia / grunting male drone jams teknoid wound into psycho sexual circuit / An excess of imagination opens fire with DogMan guns across scorched deserts of Arizona/ you did not know me then my desire to die growing weary too soon/ The unrecognized conclusion of indifference sears the perversely crooked path of births expulsion to the prohibited icon of the Law/ We are not delimited but fragmented/ Here on the Front Line with bodybags as if this moment might reverse itself in the end and become a resurrection/ Time is an atrocity when left to its own device/ We know better by ceasing to acknowledge fuking as a strategy in search of agreement with the invasive protocols of the coupling devices /What abortion might be expelled? / A pure fantasy of the fleshless as in dying does not last nor does it end perhaps/ Divine ignorance spit's the filth of track marks across a tattoo of self mutilation/ Dead navigators at command post stare eyeless at ice cold stars of acid inhalation/ We void darkness pissing the psycho-tropic drugs into the fetid atmosphere of Zuk elemental dementia/ Stretching in to dreams and folding back into the darkness of The Work quietly mourning over lost digital patterns wasted/ Burn out the hard drives short term memory/ Groinal modes of clitoral hyper-activity fade into the virtual Ghetto Dogs predatory nervous system/ We barely leave a footprint so fast We flow across the abyss of collapsing meaning / the dangerous symbol of the Law offers vulgarity and acts unhoped for/ The temptation to name the hated/ She burn with the pleasure of the texture of scared flesh / it flows thru her like time of the NOW/ pushes beyond membrane of imagined non-reality of carnal intentions/ exchanges between us surpass the dialect of what instead flows into non-coded images burning with chroma fluid of neural rush / in depths of streams saturations realized we attain eternal truths as we exceed the surplus that the mind annihilates/ drop by extended drop dying falls on parched lips with its perverse thirst /noise too strident to allow itself to be heard / The madman alone is able to designate what he conceives as paradoxical within the excess of insanity/ to be released from life is to perfect oneself as marginal existing on the thresh hold of the liminal/ not noticed not impinged upon by the terror of those striving to deprive death of meaning / which is escape as failure to confront that we are not living but strategically dying/ We expose death in a panic we bury it/in haste/ We hear that it is forbidden to die from those who live with the invisibility of death/ The marginal live for the time of death with every heartbeat/ Where would we be without you death?/ Living hastens death/ We are listening for you/The acephalic man and his collective pain is unbearable to discern save for the clack of the keyboard exploding with requisite potions/a vision of unintended history undeniable and crystalline/ We are watching/This world is a bleeding wound full with uncertainty and illusion/ Puerile and terrible / The façade of complicity once removed expectorates incoherent noise of decomposition/ as limbs rot from stumps and gangrene blackens the innocent flesh of the naive innocent masses / In death we search for the absence of movement while undergoing the explosive immensity of time as it shuts down the somnolent erection of the Phallic XX/ The skeleton fatigued leaving bone unable to support its crown we willingly decapitate ourselves out of spite / but we will not acquiesce and give control to that which sucks perversely and uninvited at our sublime substance / The gaping sewer of its mouth teeth and tongue rapt strange complicity with the flow of shit / Must forget to swallow the pain of others / the decorticated virgin pukes up a history of dammed horror/ foul defeat precludes your suppurating lips but will not silence ours / Are you uneasy with the infinite?/ its unlimited restlessness ?/ The blood and other secretions of the Midwife of history/ Eroticism is the substitution of interval of the unknown pleasure within violence / We have the audacity to imagine that death will not be a failure/ She has a conclusion in mind and many demands that she deserves/ This is the sharpness of the blade that ensures a morality of decline / fragments coded in a darkness which marks foreign domination of a superior intellect/ The suicide of defiance / we stand face to face with illuminated intervention over this right to our dying/We can only resonate with the devouring of the image / but we can affirm nothing of its possible illusions / of what happens when we look into its depths of infinite changing / from glance to glance into impossibilities of becoming more or perhaps excess/its personal and linked to some undetermined object of desire to express the interior monologue of its creator/These are the effects of invisibility / Who are they if not this terminable question which reeks of the smell of fear on our breath/ Lightening in congested sky punctured the ript clouds of divine thought/ The sound transcends what it isnt /but not what it might become/ given time and patience/We become a witness without testimony/that of a dead thing making a detour towards the cold vicious comment as in :"pardon me I did not recognize you after so many years/ what happened to yr flesh? "/ What lies in the shallows of the pool and clasps at my ankles ?/ Still waters run deeper than the torment we exercise ourselves into believing the contrary/Steel fish in ravenous time/ Listen/In the silence something was speaking/ Calling our names lips suspended from the night do not speak instead signifying fear something of the father that arose in the dread of the night/ The FrontLine is for the ferocious and calls on the sacrifice of something of the self perhaps the selves/Loss is impossible when life extinguishes itself in unselfish becoming.

THE VANISHING

The atmosphere insinuates an element of panic
abstractions of time extinguish my most primitive
desires making me a poison to myself

opalescent mirror reflects a pandemonium of aquaintences
moist evidence of a once textural interface, proof
that's survived the squandering of the elemental fire

a queer vehemence replaces erotic animation
the sweet trechery of the sexual, illusive in its vanity
relinquishes me from impulse, its arsenal
having finally exhausted my frenetic designs

rapture has become an outbreak of terminal pain
my sentiment, repulsion, an antipathy of self
abducent tears rize towards a lascerated sky

peculiar sensations speak remembrances
damask rose euphoria once cherished in its infancy
too soon becomes garish and unkind

imperious youth knows not the connection
between the now and then of the deep,
sepulchral tones that await them, of the
emptiness of a picturesque monsoon
or the howl of the jackal when it crys.

Enola Gay and Little Boy

Atomic child crys mimetic hunger
docile, fluted bodies cringe beneath a pestilent assault
low altitude gesticulate's spew of crimson flesh
ensanguined multitudes writhe
burn, a menageri of gristled bone
twisted steel and tatami mushroom fly
"I have killed a man before you!"
say bastard apostles, lethal men of god
the hounds of war drink deep
from perpetual drift, they calculate deficiency
as they cut the cards between them
to the virtues of the beast
go the spoils of the child
Man, a species
of ethical relativity and linear social constructs
pass executive orders
North by Northwest
festooned with Cardinal rage
lascerated indigo intentions
their reprehensible star explodes to emptiness
cerulean bamboo and saphire skys
paint genetic mosaics, blind
screaming yellow against the firestorm of power
on the surface emotional
gene pool festering
dreams of Joman stone
cut ancient figures against silken desire
blinding light, burning shadows onto walls of terror
plutonium bird carries hybrid morality
beyond the spill of inconsolable tears
a people drowned in misery
bathe their dead in reservoir's of acid
a caustic irrogation of limitless ire.

Fuck Me

Come fuck me all you power-brokers

with your fist full of money and your strangulating desire,

fuck me with all of your violence and filthy success,

cum across the horizon of my ingenuity

smear my swolen, bloodied lips with your own

press me into your service with your flattery and provocative bouquet

flip me into your pandemic bed

then roll me between your superlative thighs

taste me until I'm destroyed

whisper to me your exponential strategy

while you sodomize my dream

split me into pieces, not one, but two, now three

fold me over into your bending time

and let me suck pathetically at what little sweetness you might have there

fill me with your escalation, your reticulation

your display of meaningless effects

spread me out and empty me of all substance

become my instrument of desecration

until my cunt is dry.

The Arcanum of Love

The angel, as a person in every thing

senses that disturbing images want to be felt, not fixed

color becomes the total expression of emptiness

painted images float in suspended time

the archetypal experience cuts a moving figure

against the backdrop of insanity

I move as intermediary

traveling between cycles of animation and destruction

crossing invisible boundaries of systematic narratives,

birth, death, agony, and joy

the spectacle of renewal resounds, then, falls silent once again

a contiguous range of motion sustains trust, fosters hope

existence shifts into phenomena without need

anthropological perspectives hold no sway in shadow lands

embodiment of soul, the basis of energy

transforming desire into essence

speaks to the process of healing ancient woundedness

a complete embrace limits needs for discomfiture

proof of life, creativity enough, to uphold the will

transforming breath as basis, a virtual expression unfolds

a pantheon of creative energies come alive, the soul responds

embracing upheaval, the spiritual equilibrium restored

the fragmentation of unity becomes bond

love takes flight, the kiss of eternity at last explored.

Horse-flesh

The power elite rustle carnal derriere while being seated at the beautifully laid dinner table, not in the least aware of their cloying perspiration, rising proof of their humanity after all--Reaching it's musky crescendo and the chefs nostrils while she slips between them, bends to serve the appetizer plate--Lamprey a la Bordelaise--The flesh of the delicately prepared eel blending one repellant nature with another, flesh steeped in blood and vegetable stock, women steeped in greed and fine perfume--They dine, politely spitting out the pit of their political philosophy in-between sensual bites of their appetizer, and mediocrity.

The gastronomic table fetish of tender haricots and mesclun salad dressed with a glistening vinaigrette is immediately set upon by their sophisticated palates, their glossed, succulent lips, and their refined, well attended dentition. The feeding of the self and the other with bejeweled hand, jingling bracelets escalates, fingers to hungry mouths, pressing in face to face for an exchange of fluids, an abated kiss. Food and intimacy, the pitch of their feral exchange and gasconade wafts like steam and hammers, the stench of their arrogance slamming into sensibilities until hope drains like fluid from its ruined vessel, overpowering the finest promise, the most resolute despair, the most delicious cuisine-- Their entitlement enhancing itself beyond the olfactory properties of the now smoking grill.

Crystal glasses clink and chime, cutlery is chased about the table here and there, the men begin to shift their weight and suave bravado in this dance, growing evermore emboldened with each sip of fine wine--Wine that will be followed by strong spirits, a discreet rail of blow, and a shoo-in business deal. One hand up each evening gown, still, they find time to fondle their disregard for the lower classes, pinching an ass on the way through the kitchen, cupping a breast on their way to the john, their cunning barely perceptible by the candlelight's flicker and dimmer-switch technology.

Faking laughter, like orgasms, is obvious to all but the players--The upper-crust fillies coupled with the down-town American made nouveau riche blow-hards, suddenly asking for an extra linen napkin being as they lost their original cloth between pokes and jabs at the butter plate, bread basket, and the nubile food server---The world and it's great problems so very far removed from their egoist consciousness, protected from their crimes and their moral wrongs here in their private, ownership protected sanctuary. Yes, this is where they do their best undercover work, unrestrained, while still chewing the hostesses favorite main entree--Horse-flesh in a sickeningly sweet port wine and mushroom reduction sauce. As the guests swallow their cowardice, the race is somehow on--They dine unawares as I clean my knives, remembering names and faces. Timing in food, and in life, is everything. Tick-tock.

Secret Pain and the Aura of Technical Perfection:Notes From The Great Alone

thunder and fire in the sky, i see it there circling, crackling, while fingering the rim of my shotglass, turning out my drug induced fascinations, answering no questions, gliding down the stairs and to the ground, down further still to the moist fetters of obligatory swabber.

wind howling scatter, crack, bits of rock, small bites of pain, tragic injured bitter loss and gain, in flurry and plunder, my head split and kicked aside--my secrets bleeding, ambiguous but mine. in glorious anger, with resentment, interest lost and then ignored i exposed my appointment with the fire in the sky, lit my pipe and let it ride.

once back inside of the outside of my mind, oblivious to scorn, taking no heed the confidence tattered, torn. from ineffectual emotion clawed and worn--before i had the chance to mutter clever answers or frowzy contradictions, i was knocked askew by one who thought he knew be better.

balance lost and logic unhinged i stood before the mirror, dilated pupils, dispassionate tears--unattractive times, a good reason to justify lies. soured and remote, impenetrably veiled, i stood my squalid ground--undaunted, brave little junkie, learning quick shooting new logic from rig to straw, being careful not to hotshot my chance to fill completely my artificial void of hysterical impulse.

reality ignites, i lay bleeding beneath a perfect sky, proud of the volume now required to to move me, interest me, animate me--knowing everything, understanding nothing, clinging to debris, i was not as clever as i'd hoped to be--bruised and diminishing, power undermined, strength abruptly drained, dots of brilliant lights fished their way across my brain--no god, reason, no pride, could keep me from enjoying my precious pain.

burried alive beneath needles and vials, not one regret, not one smile, thunder and fire in the sky, in the drain, of an Arizona bathtub my dreams running down, with the filth, sweat, cum, humiliation and shame, with the solutioin to my problems raging through my veins. i watched for weeks the faces of despotic, lunatic men tortured and pale in the light of day--watched their women become paultry and weak, from cruel, thin, cracked lips did they from time to time speak--sweating through transition.

bitten and blamed, fucked and stifled, too high to complain, beaten down slowly until nothing remained--slim, grey figures that barely moved beneath the sheets cast a grim shadow that would rise and then fall, just beyond the bedroom walls, shadows and reflections pale as the moon, seeing our disfigured features in the well of the spoon, living and twitcing through the crust of despair, pulling out patches of our dull, brittle hair--the cost, measured and mixed with affliction and blood, loving the hate, stammer, then deny, offensive and spent, too weak to fix, too strong not to try.

Cry of The Lumpen

Discursive monkey dances, the honor killings howl, hungry for the guts and the grain toiling in hot sun, burning in low, smoking kitchens, sweating out their sacred dreams, giving breath to opalescent hope, transitioning nowhere, the identity politics having crushed, altered, raped, reproduced, and made good fourth quarter profits off of their tender self-effacement. Life on the hard side of the stone has built the condominiums of pain, the mocking towers with great views of the horizon, this is where a prehensile, deluded society enjoy their impaired ideals, drenched in the blood and pork fat of aborted, unaffordable children, and the scalded flesh of commercialized murder. Sated with grotesque amusement, they fondle, then bruise further the dismemberment of youths promise, to no one goes the spoils, all rotting and vain, a culture mixed too indefinable, authentication repressed, the strictures of agony so applied.

Passionate Riposte

Wisdom and lunacy, the serpent obediently poised before the mirror, vain emptiness and clever imagery never made more clear. Passion is alive in spite of fright, through consequence and altercation, recklessness and tribulation--Strained by vulnerability, passion knows only delight.
With effort, in struggle, with freedom--does passion take its flight.

Undifferentiated, yet so direct, however too obscure to predict, there is wisdom in its blindness, just as there is sight--Gleam and scatter, clip away the vesture of the drone, passion is, and of its own. Note the savage elegance, the refinment passion assumes when in demand, the rigorus agony he will withstand, passion is no woman, passion springs from the breast of man.

Imagined in the arms of warmth and spoken love, within the memories of dreaming never felt, so sharp upon the senses, the sword of passion glistens and it tilts, twisting fondness into foe, the tortured human apparatus at a loss, to explain its pleasure and its costs. Venture far beyond the reverance of trust and good deed, intense burning desire impounds the soul and speaks of need, the need to slip between the grasp of furry and despair, be warned by what you define as care--Only when the question and the answer fit, let passion be the reason told.

Set to song the whisper clear, the echo of familiar footsteps near, know devotion, be alert and quick, attentive to the agile heart, it's tenderness. Method and madness, the welling tear, furrowed brow pressed to the mirror, the serpent coils, halt! We bend in the shadow of its threat but find, passion yeilds not to that which is so blind, passion yeilds to pain and pleasures felt.

Nothing felt? Nothing known? Labor on and love and learn, to live and love again. It's far better to take the risk, there is no other way to yearn or know--Passion is as passion does, alive, alive and ever free--Every effort has it's turn.

Articulating the Fragmentary

Anti-social trans-political lip service has exposed the secret of the dark symbolic reality that we share connected without contact swimming in our parodied tautologies so involuted and juxtaposed that we hardly know our ass' from a hole in the ground.

Life, the Event conceived without precedent, wipes a tear from the eye of the collective puppet, tragedy decodes existence while death obliges us time for implications and the illusion of restraint-- All we manage is opposition, violence, and seduction–we become an obscene transparency of selves, a peculiar equilibrium of flesh, something less than our dreams, something more than our fictionalized history.

Blood casts its aspersions like black shadows that rise in the distance, a storm of apprehension breeds instinctual dread, encourages the bleak phenomena of pleasure in pain, coldness in love, absence of conscience. The abandonment of substance brings false bravado, faith distilled and compressed by ignorance, the dialectic becomes an objectification by thought. The broken language of the heart dies in sublime opposition to our ruin. There is no escape from the internal fracture.

You bark sensibilities while slashing at your wrists with your invisible blade of hopelessness. Finally, you lash yourself to the burning tree until your absence becomes the point. Oh, you fools! You don't know what suffering will come!!

Sai Baba and The Sex Machine

Nature is essentially habitual--
So much more than just life and death divides us,
the viscid chasm repeats the traces of our longings
though its very essence remains most ill-defined

The alien presence of our Human DNA
speaks its cryogenic thrill--
Tantric Saints extend our just, idea, of power
brings us to the brink of our waking dream
as we climb the ladder of the benevolent spiral–

The collective Human memory whispers "live"
while the force of sexuality illuminates the kill.

The doubtful voyeur likes to watch
alone in its abandoned hope
only pretending to hide its eyes once discovered--
the habits of biography make its subtle demands
on the morphic resonance of our invisible passions
we decline our essential truths, replacing them
so carefully, with fear

The eternity machine spits formative causation
into its blended sexuality of synthesized chemicals
first wet, then crystalized in the Human laboratory of despair–

Waring genitals rize against the argument of reality,
ontologic molecules cannot be denied

Prayer mixed with magic, mixed with blood
confounds our attempts to mature,
the hereditary bacteria of assumption
strips of us our own becoming, finally,
there is no relevance to our aesthetic spirituality–

We discover new ways to empower the invisible.

The fantasy addiction rides the last beckoning
of its pleasure seeking missile–Self Destruction

IS the contra-religion of the Post Modern socius–
Yet–from the impossible is born the cosmic mind.

Suffragette

Orpheus vomits while Cotton Mather checks the ropes and the kindling--Both take one last breath of howling silence before biting into your tender flesh--tasting the subtle difference between you and me.

I embrace your scent, your visceral power, it reminds me of my weakness, the dread I'll need to overcome so as to witness all the little deaths, stomach my compassion before I take my last stand. In the end, as always, I will taste you long after you have gone, on each fingertip a different story of similar places, yet, none of them my own.

I press my hands against my skin, your history dissolving into each one of my scars–I pay close attention to myself, stop at every sensation, visualizing every slash you made, every kiss you stole, every intention you inflicted, the innocence you devoured, the children you abducted. You cut me to see if I were still alive, removing only the sinew--So kind of you, leaving the necessary intact. I am still breathless from the punctuation of such a bitter memory.

I lower myself into the waters of the damp feminine, see my depth of field rize–I am not your puppet, nor your dwarf, surely not your muse. Your blood I will drink, washing down your seminal dreams. I will devour you, unrestrained, spew your finite, redefine your non-zero.

Your formulae's and sexualization have made a better woman of me, and, a stronger man. I am not linear, I am alive–quantum flex in the dark confusion of mankind.