Saturday, August 21, 2010

Blood, Sweat, and Continents...

We wear out like your favourite pair of shoes. The only difference is that our souls last forever. And we can leave a bigger footprint on this earth than your sweat shop nikes.

Sky Baby...

Bury me standing up, with my head to the sky, like I was born from a height.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Quasar One...

I blur the moon with my thumb,
It seems insignificant against my dexterity,
Though I am just a speck of dust amongst mountains, and to the stars.
To the many feats of mankind I am nothing but a drop of blood in an ocean of sharks.
I got dizzy with your commotion,
The heat rose through me like I was black steel,
A conductor of electricity,
And a fire fighting flying phantom fighting the sun.
I tied a scarf like a cowboy,
And rode your camels into a barren womb, without a gun.
I toyed with the idea of living amongst your foreign bells.
I should've dug my heels into the floor and glued my palms to your tomb.
I haven't seen anything so beautiful in a long time.
It was a shame to leave it behind.
I looked through hotel windows and in my mind I saw everything looking back at me.
Like it'd met me before.
I was where I was meant to be.
I faced an esoteric familiarity, and it was shaking hands with me.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Bitch Got Her Zombie On...

She ate my heart infront of me like we were in a fucken horror movie.

Monday, August 2, 2010

I Will, Make You All, So Beautiful...

I held stars in my palms and saw you holding stars behind the glass of your eyes.
I peered through a cosmic mind to a planet revolving around mine.
Like every distant thing was attached to elastic bands between my fingers, and I somehow managed to catapult myself closer.
Like the world was a puppet attached to your hair. When I run my fingers through it I can control time,
When you run your fingers through it, you can erase my past like it was pencil on paper, like it didn't even matter.
We could spin and not get dizzy, but drill a hole to spend some time in, build cities out of clay, and live our dreams through an improvised role playing play.
When I was young I fell into the woods, I bore witness to a full moon werewolf marriage, and they asked me, what would you like? And I replied trembling and shy, that I didn't want to die. So they took me by my shirt, but these were no ordinary wolves, this one had a Degree, he bit into my neck eating my flesh, he laid me beside a 4ft mushroom stool and said "Now you will live forever, be what you want to be".
I store polaroid memories of wrinkles, floral couches, a green motorcycle and yellow cork tiles, among other things. My head is like the storeroom of God, the library of some other extraterrestrial me, recording things in a grey matter scrap book. Like the time you touched ice and for a split second it felt like hot water, the times you drew your Father with a square head and he put it on the fridge, the time you thought that babies came from the stars, the time you thought one drink made you an alcoholic, the times you sang in class and didn't even care you sounded like blunt razor blades mowing skyscrapers, the time you got your pen license, the times you tried to swing so high that you'd manage to swing a somersault, the times you pretended to be a waterfall on the monkey bars.
There are windows, and then there are windows. And windows within windows.

Like you were staring at the girl of your dreams with X-ray vision. Staring at her bones and beyond those, to her soul.
Sing to the vent in the ceiling, sing to the empty feeling. The fold in the couch.

He won't even know we're gone. He'll be dreaming of mice and birds, sleeping on the curb. Dreaming of street lights, alleyways and fast food trays.
We are far apart, and not much between, nothing is as tame as your tongue.

Sunday, August 1, 2010





I am the saint at prayer on the terrace like the peaceful beasts that graze down to the sea of Palestine.

I am the scholar of the dark armchair. Branches and rain hurl themselves at the windows of my library.

I am the pedestrian of the highroad by way of the dwarf woods; the roar of the sluices drowns my steps. I can see for a long time the melancholy wash of the setting sun.

I might well be the child abandoned on the jetty on its way to the high seas, the little farm boy following the lane, its forehead touching the sky.

The paths are rough. The hillocks are covered with broom. The air is motionless. How far away are the birds and the springs! It can only be the end of the world ahead.



Pitiful brother! What frightful nights I owed him! "I have not put enough ardor into this enterprise. I have trifled with his infirmity. My fault should we go back to exile, and to slavery." He implied I was unlucky and of a very strange innocence, and would add disquieting reasons.

For reply, I would jeer at this Satanic doctor and, in the end, going over to the window, I would create, beyond the countryside crossed by bands of rare music, phantoms of nocternal extravegence to come.

After this vaguely hygenic diversion, I would lie down on my pallet and no sooner asleep than, almost every night, the poor brother would rise, his mouth foul, eyes starting from his head, - just as he had dreamed he looked! - and would drag me into the room, howling his dream of imbecilic sorrow.

I had, in truth, pledged myself to restore him to his primitive state of child of the Sun, - and, nourished by the wine of caverns and the biscuit of the road, we wandered, I impatient to find the place and the formula.