Thursday, December 29, 2011

Not Much, Just Some Integrity!...

Following, following, following.. just, following.
Are there no soul explorers left in this world?
You lowly wandering nobodies make your own decisions!
Your ignorance is unattractive, and your interests do not interest me, for they are just the interests of those that fake interests, because it seems interesting..  until something new comes along.
You fucking soulslaves of fashion. Get outta 'ere!

Thursday, December 22, 2011

A Sequence of Events...

Suede at the Holiday Inn, don't step on my blue suede moods
A token for my grandfather at home, who might die alone
I have five cents in my lip, a quarter in my cheek, and wayfarers in my pocket
In a window bridal vail overlooking hundreds of yellow and red fireflies
dancing to departure amidst my last Victorian night
The page is lit green from a neon palm tree I imagined in Vegas
Carneverous metal birds! And denim blue waters of Northern California, I can smell the West Coast frontier blues through the blood in my nose

I'm so science, so weird, a sphere. In my mattress sanctuary, coming down, down on life! My own experiment. Will gumballs tell my fortune? Of a mutual night writer mind rider? I survived on what was bad for me, it provided my existence. How long could I keep that up? There's 8 billion other she's Honey, don't try so hard it's unattractive
You drag the world behind your chain. See the sea! The sea sees the colour green, how can you not?
We are masters of direction and gut instinct

Who was Zenatillian? Although her name was Melanie it was Alice all week. I'll learn accordion for anarchists and fireflies! Hand me that mountain banjo you soulful drunk, teach me how to play my blues, I'll play them for you

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

[a work in progress]...

can you hear the lands of the lamb cry?
echoes in the golden cup of one blood
the gentle crepuscule skylines
in some Abrahymnic dream

in the new world of my birth
who decides kings? and who is crucified?

Oh, Sleep!...

i love that feeling of being half asleep and half awake, not cold, not hot, just right. Sticking a leg out or rolling over, like being dipped in silver sleep returning back to your dream like it was on pause behind your eyelid cinemax screens

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

My Compass Is Lost...

the mirrors are shattered
the smoke has cleared
we know what matters
so what's going on here?

i need some revelation!
an angel in a tree
a ghost at the station
just somebody fucking tell me!

Exist? Really?...

The difference between Right and Wrong is yourself, and the world is only really what it is to your own eyes. Every revolution is an example of people physically and mentally realising their deepest knowing of what is Right and what is Wrong, each and every one of us have this ability. For those saying "oh yes, but revolutions are violent, and violence is wrong"... With complicated subjects there are always some sort of contradiction, but I agree that violence is not 'Right' in the traditional sense BUT if you have a country with a powerful military force obliterating another that cannot defend itself you cannot expect them to do nothing, to not fight for their Right of freedom, all be it if all other avenues have failed. It is the world we live in, the world we have created, which may make some more sense soon.
Yet we have become accusmtomed to disappointment, to the less-than-average, to mediocrity, we just shrug it off with a "there's nothing I can do" "oh well next time it will be better" attitude.
This world needs one small change- to Love, for Love always wins. It takes much more energy to harbour fear and hate, it will drain you like a sponge through a keyhole. The wildest tiger doesn't hate, it just is what it is. But we have the power of thought and free will, and in the reality of our ultimate existence no law can imprison us from what we already know, what is engrained in each and every one of us - that our creation of the world is exactly that, just a creation. It is not what life really is!
The propoganda of power. We are all chained of mind, prisoners of a New World fiction. The people in suits and ties, chasing the big house the new car, the money, the new gadgets, they have forgotten what it truly exist. To truly exist is to be truly free. But how do we become truly free in this overbearing world we have built around our worst ideas, our greediest ambitions? It takes just one domino to knock down thousands, every individual making one change, one ultimate decision, and we could be free.
We have enslaved ourselves, we are all slaves. Even the people whom make the law, make the rules, make the money are slaves, slaves to their own false reality, their own false meaning of life and of fulfillment. They think they control the fools, when they themselves are the fools. You will decay while your house remains, the worms of death do not discriminate!
Are you scared to realise we are not free? That you won't die Martin Smith, CEO with an 8 digit bank account and a beautiful wife, but die a SLAVE of the world?

Are you scared? ... You should be

*The name I have used does not represent a particular person in mind, if there is a similarity it is purely coincidential.

Music of Bill Hicks- Bill Hicks - Moon Is Smiling...

I had to post this song, I've been listening to it alot lately.
The guitar playing is beautiful, the song just feels totally balanced.
It rests like a heavy weight on my heart filling my body with those golden summers that melted over my skin inch by inch, fresh water streams with that crisp mountain smell filling your lungs with the exhalation of God, the bluest sky of my childhood eyes, and my mothers warmest hug.
The man was a 20th century prophet, and a 1990s arcangel.

I Am Gardener...

I am a gardener of life. Letting my garden flourish and grow, then trimming it back for the new buds, the new growth. Weeding out the contagion of acquiantances to a quality patch of friends. Composting the accumulating drudgery, bullshit, and trivial matters of the world to better suit a purpose; to feed the good my garden has to offer. I am a gardener of life.

Sunday, December 18, 2011


Only the people that want change, support and facilitate change, and can accept change, will be prepared for change, for change is enivitable.
You will be left behind. The end of the known world will be a new beginning for these people. The end of the known world will be chaos to those that do not understand this, and they will be their own downfall. Not ours anymore.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

She Said She Is She Was, No More...

she said life was boring
with her socks on, in bed
there's someone watchin me
watchin you, watchin TV
but she's careless with her chances
they are hangin', from her necklace
with the wishes she wastes
she wastes too many
does she really want that lion?
she knows he'll never love her
so she goes and drinks the ocean
tries to drown a fire, on her own
like she is just a cup
she needs a watch
to stop her rush

you know, that girl's in danger
and now, I'm just a stranger
take me back to the womb
to the true Eden

her faces of pleasure
still haunt me, in the night time
now my feet are waging war
with the sheets and I
just can't beat the heat
like a moth to a flame
get too close and I incin-erate
stop trying to sell me
saliva, sex, and sedatives
you're gonna find yourself
on your back, in the midnight morgue
one disaster after another
thinkin I might be a saviour
but some things, you just can't keep
some things, you just can't keep
some things

now let it go let it go let it go let it go
start it going
if a war's goin on in your head
it's up to you who wins it

let it go let it go let it go let it go

Thursday, December 8, 2011


i'd drape you in silk like you were a feather
no one will have touched you better
i am your undertaker

Ah Inferno, Agh To Hell With It...

 the crimson fog
the cursed snakes in eyes of midnight dogs
earthquake paws
claws as sharp as persian swords
reborn rabid damned and..
large as lords, roaming sore
old as dust and kingdom come
where earth gets hot ,they sleep no more!

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

tonight, like every other night...

my child is banging bum notes
out of that piano in the corner
will he grow up and need an ark
for when his eyeballs bust?
i hope he will remember
the slatefoot kitchen games
and how his father loved him

my dog is dead.

will you be shrouded and feature free
your face still worn by trees
guarded like some holy secret
foreign to my sight forever
small reminders remaining
in my daily reflections
my only map
my only directions
how can it ever feel less
than half of me is missing
have I killed a man?
the question is a sentence of its own
no matter how much reason
i'll never really  know

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

The Nook...

as the tender sun bore down upon your golden threads
melting milky golden hours from your dress
sudden sprung paradise, right from your head!
your garden halo's birth now be your quest

to tred no flower heavy
lordy, it needs to sway steady

love the jagged blades
of mountain spines placing shades

lordy, love the lakes
bathe your jasmine babies!

hail o! the beauty, o hail!
to glimpse this heaven
I believe, o hail!

Sunday, December 4, 2011

all you marbling hearts...

do you have not eyes! nor ears!
we are tired, our sorrow lays with you!

Friday, December 2, 2011

you are careless with your pennies
they are hangin from your necklace
instead of free for fountains
and the wishes you waste
too many
are you sure you want that lion?
you know he'll never love you
he'll leave you on your side
when flesh ceases to be fresh
so you'll drink the ocean
try to drown a fire on your own
like you are just a cup
you need a watch to stop the rush
or you won't last
twice as fast

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Cloud Ponderings of Ant Colonies...

I'm sorry about the serpent
I'm sorry about your purpose
I'm sorry about my brother
I just wanted company
But I was too busy
and now he resents me
It's sad how good intentions
can be someone else's weapons
Everything you are used to
one day gets used against you

Friday, November 18, 2011

There aren't enough doors in this room to get me out!
There is not enough floor in this hall to get me where I am going!

The Delicates of Thy Night...

Her faces of pleasure still haunt me
    The brush of her bone cloak permit me secrets
When she sat high with head to heaven
    And mind in paradise
She takes me back to the womb, the true Eden
    Alive and well, in all women!
Infinite like the projections of insanity
    Or all the worlds graves creating one big void

Sunday, November 6, 2011

There were rocks there, with a thousand hands
Connecting me to the living, directing me to the dead

Thursday, October 20, 2011

They are only eight numbers away, and you have ten fingers

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Avenue of the Americas (The Reformation)...

From desert to city, already forgotten new arrivals in Manhattan.
A rumble came deep and steady screeching like machines of Morlocks unsettling for first time street bench sitter. The underground maze not puzzling the night dweller masturbater and gloomy overcoat prisoners, hiding from howling New York City apparitions of wolves in air vents of bathroom, 13th floor, for the second time. Street visions of Ginsberg in SoHo, I am sleepless and mind lost, wandering, walking with a quarter dollar black plastic bag from laundromat twisting knuckles needing maps. Wide awake in Times Square lights considering month long Canadian nights in the gateway to the rockies, Alberta, Alberta, like the name of some 1920's aunty. Graceful Chinatown newspaper ballet, dances a natural Swan Lake with subway grate, Swan Grate, hooded by tobacco smoke in palms of black gloves while Canal harbours black clad Manhattan Island hipsters with knees greeting leather greeting sheep holding spines from remaining winter chill at 5pm evening, like ghosts we are receding. Simulate midair crucifixion in central Central Park stimulating dance, I'm here and I'm breathing alive in the rhythm of a second. The rock tombs, the microcosmic wombs witness reverence, all in the imagination of the math that makes the crowd, the singular into many, into one, and the two that laughed at roses. Blue blonde by pond the skeletal arms and fingers of trees creeping across the sky spookily, wonder if she's scribbling about her life and what it's all about. I smelt grass down Rambling, felt the warmth between lips and breath of fleeting romance of man and woman in stone alcove.
(On the subway from Broadway to Times Square wondered about mystic similarities unknown unnoticed, they were children they had parents, what do we have in common? The mythic proportions of New York)
Eyes gouged away at grouting between granite rectangular pavement on South Broadway revealing subterranean time lapse backwards through history. I say goodbye and long live New York City, God bless the beggar in Greenwich Village, next time I'll buy you soup, while worrying about records in the belly of a Greyhound bound for the Capital, at least I'm not hungover. The Garden State Parkway somehow reminds me that eights are bound to live long and die alone. It doesn't have to be dark to see stars in America, flag pole snakes stiff and upward saluting a thousand suns above spring red fiery amber tips of branches look like flames, parks and forests are slowly putting their clothes back on after being naked for so long. Turquoise right arm polka dot brunette made inquisitive eyes at Egyptian good luck coin and Aswan octagon over sternum at chest. I also noticed hers. The District of Columbia is a pretty chapter in the story book of Spring. I want to fold America into my notebook and take it home.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

the truth isn't always what you're told, it's what you're not
the truth isn't always what you know, it's what you don't
in the bright night blue becomes you

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

if you believe in one you believe in all and none.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Axis Lumber...

are no golden palms and ancient arms of nature sacred? canyons and valleys under the keeper lune breathe though one breath lasts one hundred years and the pause before exhalation releases seas to the black coral shores of another ruined land where beasts conquered tearing spirit from sky raising tyranny like celebrity or a whore trying in vain to leave a legend though material does not follow the grave and it would be a mistake to assume one is bigger than the sum of parts much wilder than any archetype of man though wild imagination of early may have created a veil for we have cursed ourselves since ships bluntly carved paths through spring bay rains and mist rolling over white shoulders to establish and breed God and steel and steam and factory plumes staining wood hulls in the rivers veins now tarry graves anchoring stormy hearts to the bottom drowning spirits defeated with the knowledge they never had a chance to climb the spine of cloud-dusting totem poles slowly sucking youth and future children of technicolour undoing the great knowing and form through function

The Private Theatre, Comic and Tragic...

a gentle cheek moored to thee, vertically denied from the opposite side of the balustrade
looking on from a perch of nested velvet, at those whom balled and danced
stairs seemed to lead us running in hands, with no backward look
to satisfy the allure of what will be no more
in a great migration of footsteps, swishing softly in pattern past lace of another decade
motion twirling clockwise like a levitating dervish repeated fast-forwarded to this decade
in the warm glow of memories stored, unlocked for this moment no minds lost in ether
to launch into days loved in abundance
the deep valley of the soul
where no sin yet tear you from thine cheek
the fortune of two ever lost in a gaze
through the zodiac with great spirit
through many movements of moon
and planetary arrangements

wake up !
I brought you to me in the secret coma of subconscious
behind the warden eyelids and back before the daylight guards arrived
though tingling knuckles from clasping prevails

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Zombie dicked with big ideas I can't fulfill

Suddenly You Were Alone...

Friends you should remember, they have had mothers and fathers. If you think someone something it be not because of their somewhere. They just are to you, what you observe. Not unlike your condition or mine, our condition is earthly and universal. The common thread unravelling us all in the confusion of all opinions formed and forming in all locations. The weight that pushes gives the momentum needed to continue, in which ever way you want to push most.

Monday, July 18, 2011


the new Buddha of this century
comes straight from the factory
modified and customised
from 1970 sci-fi scenes
hulas halos around his hips
a saucer on his head
a teacup in his lips
birds claw at tin roof dawn
swoop and swoon
A-frames become V-shaped tear aways
naked under my monday
wonder if today's the 'one day' you spoke of
maybe it was sunday, or another someday
sideburns frame cheek stones
I'm sorry mother
for nearly breaking your bones
my feet are waging war with the sheets
winters repeat
the world as a 12 pillar sphere
every rain drop - a lifetime
every moment - a lifeline
to everything known to the heavens
and not to earth
glimpses of virtues to Virgo
there to, goes stares thrown
like stars owed to the sky
oh the virgins of vertigo
look at the freedoms stolen by men
who don't dream!
I had to kill 2 birds with one stone
when I brought the shotgun home
this morning the hills are grandfather beards

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

We Are Oak...

it was a short memory, a seemingly minute occurrence in a seemingly infinite life
a something, a someone
that mentally recalled now is at best blurry
that taught me, that all that was young in me was now grown up
premature- like my birth
the blackwall parapet of universal secret wrapped up like blankets around my tiny body
truth was an ethereal spy glass    a microscope    eyes of a hawk
and although young as blonde and baby teeth
I learnt that what I am, is living
and all that I sense will one day be gone, because we die
I learnt that love and life is pain
to love and lose seemed wrong
it took decades of movies and books
of imaginary maps, puzzles and scenarios of the past
of days that I felt newborn
of anxiety and fears of sleeping
the obscenity of death lingering
in my marrow
of sequential burials
that never leave you even when you sweat
it took all these years to earn a lighthouse outpost
a tidal outlook
I see the sea and the sea sees all
I finally learnt that trees lose branches, they change shape
and like trees we are constantly changing
everything insignificant and everything significant
shaped, and continue to shape, my tree
our rebirth is everything lost, and everything gained
through which we grow
without both we cannot

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Life = Nature = Murder = Nature = Life

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Phosphorus Fetalaterrus...

when your chin points up in thought
she asks what is this sky you speak of
separating my heaven from my son
it wants to fall down synchronized for gold
like your smile all those childyears ago
if you think life is bad you'll be sorry son
"it's just that this world is mad" says your ma'
"everyone's got worries ain't no one got none"
all is not frozen eternal of our portrait in the hall
one day you'll have no family no more
she says the world is your creation
projection through present perception
you are a whale shark, a lions mane
the dark, insane
what you may be as bold to imagine
but this could also be a dream
prolonged life relies on your ability to sleep in
death is the result of an alarm clock
the cycle, the rotation
the fraction inside the equation
the earthquake of your mindstate
welcome to the inside of the light bulb
tame your bones while you're young, son
tame your stones you valley grave soil
blame the homes you cultured one
please dream of Pasadena bungalows

Monday, June 6, 2011

The Accident Exorcist...

[work in progress]

I was thrust into blinding pristine unimagined chaos
sound    colour    warm breast    clean death
dumblocked with lips sewn, everything is new
and there are giants, foreign creatures laying me down!
down on cold cotton in ironic glass coffin (cradle to the grave)
no warm Egyptian threading breeding readiness for gluttony
falling diamond tears sizzling crisp clear breathing
Kew window sills bathing new born babies
sound, excruciating
I fit snug in the clutches of my fathers hands
like a pebble from the beach or a grain of sand
no need to speak just yet no thoughts of life nor death
no ego devouring consciousness
Picasso observed with infant eyes imprinting stillness and movement in frames
my parents heads are made of squares and hair like flames


green flat forest crushed under knee and palm
I'm Goliath in Galena feel my wrath
the witches pointing fingers at my frail figure - splat
giddy up Sasha white armored stallion, it's time to go to battle
for chocolates, Grandma and Mr.Aruba's lolly jar
to win the war of innocent eternity
King of cardboard castle higher than backdeck tree skeleton arms
in leafy outreach 60 feet, ruling land with iron fist
a sorcerer scepter petrified serpent from Africa
parting earthly crusted doors with minor universal disturbance
releasing quaking steaming secret sovereign silent armies
in the orange glow of the armory furnace
workers slaving steel on anvils for shields and swords
that keep death at arms reach, for King to reign in peace
(not then would it have been conceived that doom was to come to the dynasty so soon)


I've been left wishing I could steal fathers forgotten over 23 years
folded and carried in my pockets as notebooks
bleeding ink seeping through pant seams and skin into blood stream fueling the guilt
the crushing regret    the loss    the preventable (the maybe)    the insanity
- o despair
distressed and stretched
like wishbones under marble Davids
the steel globe overlooking Dili on the back of an ant

Monday Mumblings...

I miss soft thighs and hip bones
the kind of lips that sink ships
the late night saliva exchange
with only tongues to guide us

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Making love won't last as long as the war
Love is dying
Romance is the veil
Environment is the prelude
I'm already in the middle

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Jack Frost Boogie...

he gets high in night portal closets with one eye open in the vortex
watching children sleep reminders of fine china
he'll melt and absorb into the fabric
of your eternal nightmare comfort fortress
following the contours of your body
to the edge of the world
til you wish you were heavy enough
to disrupt the swell
to have broken his bones
before he had a chance
delicate crunching fingers extending toward your saliva
to the zero hour
the icicle assassins twiggy prisms regurgitating moonlight
into shadow bulls charging the walls
a stampede complete with Greek leapers
diving under bed gathering
plastic reinforcements
swarming armies are advancing
like a dark cloud across the floor boards
to defend your dear flower
the island one flowering in your sun
your eternal maternal before you conceive a monster!
one truly his fathers son
oh sorrow, for it is always male
and he ain't got no where to go
but back to hell
so he'll have his kicks from Kansas City
to the jungles of Borneo

a rouge face with a rogues pace
the gentle slouch of a heavy head
protruding north to his ancestral star
and the void between two arm chairs
where the crumbs went
where monolithic statues cursed pharaohs
for stealing his ideas 
his dynamite serenading queens
foxes bleed with church knees
remember your pillow is the dragons back
he dreams of the gardens we live in
the forests he's sleek in
the bedrooms he creeps in
the haunt in your closet
your power points
his shift starts tomorrow
through an outlet to your tv screen
wake you up to static
just like your dreams

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Jack Kerouac reading from On The Road, Steve Allen Show 1959...

Anyway I wrote the book because we're all going to die. In the loneliness of my life, my father dead, my brother dead, my mother far away, my sister and my wife far away. Nothing here but my own tragic hands that were once guarded by a world, a sweet attention that now are left to guide and disappear their own way into the common dark of all our death, sleeping in my raw bed, alone and stupid: With just this one pride and consolation: My heart broke in the general despair and opened up inwards to the Lord, I made a supplication in this dream (...)

So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Mo-ri-ar-ty.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Middle Finger is Hydraulic...

Nothing good has ever come
of children playing God
Some children go to University
and learn to ruin the world
Who represents my existence, my survival?
Require cosmic court, a cosmic lawyer!
how dare you!

Mother nature morphing smeary, an obscene junky
Mainlining the Makers veins with poison and flames
What colour is your government issue parachute?
are you falling too?

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Child Folding Into the Cracks of the World...

As I walked along Beech, past the overgrown driveway of a bungalow and it's lounge where I once idled with girls and drink, cigarettes and tea, I started having visions, juvenescent recollections. My Primary School where wattle used to make my skin itch.. the streets of my Estate that seemed huge, so limitless, carrying my eyes to the other side of town- the summers on my bike felt like I was peddling worlds away.. the dewy tonic of untainted sunny June mornings.. the fog and chimney smoke undressing me in delicate night aromas, marinating the meat of my physical deep to the ethereal - the potpourri of winter night.. buddy lines after recess for rollcall in front house where God lived in a 14ct tabernacle, it creaked and moaned whenever I entered it (Moira and my mother used to clean the altar on a roster).. I drift away on the memories, I almost forget that I am walking. Walking under southern autumn clouds stirring silently partially opening up the sky all parcel-like, easy thighs are open for midnight madness all lotus-like in a purple horizon, near the Beech Street bridge above the creek that feeds the mouth of wetlands, one day it fed the heavens with a child and a heart attack. The Beech Street bridge was an intriguing gloom of concrete shelter for ruinous youths scribbling cocks and goats with paint-pens. It's been so long I almost forget what's underneath it. The only bridge on Beech, the lonely one, right near the Star Mart where we stole dirty magz and flicked through them behind the Church next door feeling all grown-up, while shadowed by our naivety. Oh our unruly sex and cuss brains.
I've walked my ghost all around this town, it was once the centre of my universe. Nothing mattered but butterflies and water fights, cinemas and junk food, who had the coolest bike and skate. Now all that matters is what you can salvage from old memories, how to survive life and an apocalypse, and the enigmatic chase of company to kill boredom and loneliness - romance is not dying alone, and love is the veil.
I want to know all these other humans, I want to know what they're about and what they want. I want to dig the unconcerned, dig all the passion, the shit, the spirited ones, the blondes, the dark hairs, the wild ones, the old ones, the goodsouls. All these strangers shuffling through the mambo of life in the occasional lackluster trashcan moon rotation, the occasional stupefying vacation of grandeur and splendor, til the drop.

Monday, April 25, 2011

It's always the night
beasts are joyous in the forest, that you trip over the stone. The one that's been waiting all the days of your birth, for your clumsy being.

Self exploration has the possibility to be the cruelest, most insane, manic, deranged, and violently destructive of all journeys, of all adventures, of all the powers of our intelligence.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Cairo Syndrome...

Could you hold the sun with bare palm
cupped milking summer 
to ooze through your fingers?
There's no clouds to shield faces
soft white 20 variants of sensitive 
A grim desert vestment
Melting in sunlight reserved for
ancient courts and 
celestial movements

Rooftop sunsets of satellite dishes 
suspect movement in slums
Hungry street kittens crying
for mothers milk and crumbs
My eyes hanging fixed
on minarets and ears tuned to
sweeping vocal chanting
bass vibrato
The meaning of life

Alarm clock set as Holy
sunrise and sensual
caressing of tender souls
The smell of lavish past lives
in glorious Cairo
The marble and whitewash
united with sheesha smoke
and falafel
Billboards for Pepsi when I,
I rather mint tea and a Marlboro

Bodies in bandages not unlike my father
though this time I saw the face
This ancient history exposed
in glass case
I thought about their many frowns
Looking long at long dead men and women
who once ruled lands as Gods
Built in honour of their divinity
Superiority through stone over slave Jews
and the uneducated
This decay was once a Pharaoh!
A Pharaoh! This decay!

Oh my, there's the death mask of Tutankhamun!

Miles, Accumulation...

Crackling yellow leaf dead forest waiting, under foot of white owls whistling winds clutching mountains
melting glaciers between the lips of an angel, between the thighs of midnight clasping suicide, all the pretty girls without dates screaming on rooftops over cities of whores and drunks, through the drizzle in Seattle
on nights they wish they weren't alone, coz loneliness is a drag when alone with themselves, pills only take them so far (to be continued...)

Monday, April 18, 2011

Doctor Sax by Jack Kerouac...

The Castle

'How eagerly the youth doth pursue his legends, with a hungry eye,' whispered Dr Sax much amused. 'Would now the Ko-ranns of the grown up gulpitude make keen misery of that hitch. A hitch will disgust your mind in time. A hitch is called time in jail. You'll come to rages you never dreamed.'
'Me? Why?'
'You'll come to when you lean your face over the nose will fall with it - that is known as death. You'll come to angular rages and lonely romages among Beast of Day in hot glary circumstances made grit by the hour of the clock - that is known as Civilization. You'll roll your feet together in the tense befuddles of ten thousand evenings in company in the parlor, in the pad - that is known as, ah, socializing. You'll grow numb all over from inner paralytic thoughts, and bad chairs, - that is known as Solitude.  You'll inch along the ground on the day of your death and be pursued by the Editorial Cartoon Russian Bear with a knife, and in his bear hug he will poignard you in the reddy blood back to gleam in the pale Siberian sun - that is known as nightmares. You'll look at a wall of blank flesh and fritter to explain yourself - that is known as Love. The flesh of your head will recede from the bone, leaving the bulldog Determination pointing thru the pique-jaw tremulo jaw bone point - in other words, you'll slobber over your morning egg cup - that is known as old age, for which they have benefits. Bye and bye you'll rise to the sun and propel your mean bones hard and sure to huge labors, and great steaming dinners, and spit your pits out, aching cocklove nights in cobweb moons, the mist of tired dust at evening, the corn, the silk, the moon, the rail - that is known as Maturity - but you'll never be as happy as you are now in your quiltish innocent book-devouring boyhood immortal night.'

Maiden Made In Subconscious...

Dream double flees gracefully the red-dead half eternity of day and dark-expiry half eternity of night through past and rarity of prophecy, disruptively resulting in disoriented awakening of thought (and time) in case of flesh, to morntime glory day - sequential, unpredictable - another 400 breaths through the gloryhole straightshot to sky from the missing gum

First Thought Faucet...

Come one come all lock the door lay back banana hammock - shananana, panic! - Back burning ghosts in obtuse paddock, bats fall flat splat in tatters from orchid branches swaying in stiff winter murmer and inspiration catching stars like baseball gloves pitching holy hell, evoking red velvet rocking chair floating off floor of pat-i-o an' low slow bow-tied knots 'round aching tooth from fish bone and tap water tilting in
glass from 14,000miles away carried in a suitcase, and I remembered how wildflowers courted seraphim so resulting lovechild of Northern North America could hot bathe marrow of bone in reservations owned by Indians to meet me across from Eiffel Tower of little Paris fresh with smell of jasmine

An Ante Meridiem Kind of Observation...

til bloom til death til doom
we live a partial gloom
the moon is 100watt above my graveyard brow
lawn is playground for nocturnal microcosm
dew drops sweating in the dark of dark night, til morn
(secrets of proposed universal truth in minute detail)

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

A Commonwealth Sister, Unfamiliar...

Why are you afraid of beards?
Maybe I'm hiding knives in my pubes
maybe there's grenades in my armpits
maybe there's a gun in my mustache!
Friendly well worn round rocks are the only friends to undersoles
of brown boots on Vancouver salt water channels
and I'm afraid of heights on suspension bridge

Maple leaves grow on buildings

East Hastings holds natives hostage homeless and unemployed
selling and scoring discussing methodone
Police by head shops on somewhat of a patrol
The God of green blesses B.C mountain altars
Holy Kush!
Long live nirvana inducing seed purchasing and glaucoma
Bless the Jafars and their beauty gene
also the little Jewish boy that ran through the lobby

They linger with red scarves

Traipsing through wallpaper tunnels of urban city jungle retreats
for temporary no home-world lusting-global minded-experience
the chameleons and thieves of identities in places no one knows their names
And this month I became one
Relentless unmasked totalitarian individualism
A serial killer of cool sinking to the bottom of Okanagan pints
and brutal violent archetypes as entertainment

A ghost, though Hubble telescope makes me microscopic
Feeling alive, early mornings at forty thousand feet do it

i(don't care about anything gen) 2.0...

Our trees are boring
               she said in bed
                   with her socks on
someone watching me
                 watching you
           watching real life on tv
fiction is the new gospel
and our generation is plugged in
satellites will die
you can't read maps
shortwave will be the new wave
you will all be fucked

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Bone Hause...

You are my tightly skinned bone drum

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Tank and Tonka Sandbox...

Quick soldier the children are reloading!
Quick tyranny the children are revolting!

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Regretfully Belated...

One thousand cherubs aren't worthy to carry you to heaven.


My lungs are black and my fluid is stagnant my nose belongs to an opium dragon

Life back home is not as exciting as life on the road

Sung Higher...

The machine can't control human nature and will
It's beautiful!
Devil on my shoulder, just let me be!
(I can't finish a page a new chapter)
Only have faith for a face
of beautiful factor
Let's kill all the sinners then sins be dead!
Though there'd be no one left
Destroy and burn all novelty!
Nothing ever bothers me
But everything smothers me!
And you really, really, worry me

T.S Eliot opening stanza of 'The Chorus' from the 'Rock'...

O perpetual revolution of configured stars
O perpetual recurrence of determined seasons
O world of spring and autumn, birth and dying

The endless cycle of idea and action,
Endless invention, endless experiment,
Brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness;
Knowledge of speech, but not of silence;
Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word.
All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance,
All our ignorance brings us nearer to death,
But nearness to death no nearer to GOD.
Where is the Life we have lost in living?
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
The cycles of Heaven in twenty centuries
Bring us farther from GOD and nearer to the Dust.

Lady Grey Hair of Seattle Seduction and Pacific Pleasantry...

Soggy basin bellows smoke and steam over the pine holding borders together
The Rocky Mountains look like ice cream, dessert, and no Officer I don't have any grapes
Clouds wrap around mountain peaks like white fluffy halos heralding angels
I saw a rabbit devour a whale in a frosted glass dome with blue background
bending backwards down to earth, in the Pacific Northwest
(shake the snow globe restlessly)
Evergreen guardians of the roadside keep a close eye on me
They hold boulders back, saving falling for sacrifices and mudslides
Road signs are stark reminders of the murder here
Asphalt snakes slither through homes flattening families
and animals now hide from the lake
Construction kills nature-children-babies, and century old movie memories
Distortion echoes forests and wood chips on this trip
Shadows dance and promptly reveal space spears hurled at hills
Riding through clock faces trailing the tail of time in her chariot of fire
the bitch arsonist of prayers
Now mothers don't light candles and fathers stay at home
Children drop to knees when they learn we die alone
Assassins put cross-hairs on destiny cat tails conduct symphonies
Instincts live viciously passed down from pets of history
We have masters to answer to!
Tired beaten boards with seaweed green coats seen rotten socks
of winter Northwest rain, foggy baptisms of sin
and looks stolen from family homes while blue knuckles roach needs a light in gray Wednesday afternoons by 99 south fleeing ghosts
(to beer and whiskey romantic feelings found in dives, and army boots on march and deck to books about patriotic killing)
while wheelchairs creek to rooftop organs blurting and breathing speaking to those that felt lost on a crossroad but never sold their soul though the devil told them so
so doorways of 2nd Avenue become homes behind pedestrian boots echoeing only in hollow
starless night
reverberated off of 19th Century pews and bar stools down alleyways to fountain feature veiny marble hues
street lights drop yellow tears and flicker artificially over gutters and manhole covers across from wall of lava
with vacant rooms for tattoos and black death children neck chain crucifixion devout to finger tip-less beard of England that reached North American youth
and in turn specific soundwave combinations gave way to birth inner demons writing new equations

"Hey you!" the night called to the closed window of showered youth
who levitated downstairs and smoked a totem pole for goodnight ritual
ignoring the cheap cry of Aurora and dread-locked ghosts in blackwall ruin

It's time for future memory image capture with some kind of mind camera
You need more life in your sleep
Eating a beard looking at Sierra Nevada in neon
Millions of people and they're all strangers
Washing travels in a 40 with quarters
I am a student of my Seattle Buddha
The one who knows the seas

Thankyou for being good to me,
Goodbye grey haired Seattle.

Avenues of the Americas...

From desert to city, already forgotten new arrivals in Manhattan.
The rumble came deep and steady screeching like machines of Morlocks unsettling for first time street bench sitter. The underground maze not puzzling the night dweller masturbater and gloomy overcoat prisoners, hiding from howling New York city apparitions of wolves in air vents of bathroom, 13th floor, for the second time. Street visions of Ginsberg in SoHo, I am sleepless and mind lost, wandering, walking with a quarter dollar black plastic bag from laundromat twisting knuckles needing maps. Wide awake in Times Square lights considering month long Canadian nights in the gateway to the rockies. Graceful Chinatown newspaper ballet, dances with subway grate hooded by tobacco smoke in palms of black gloves and Canal harbours black clad Manhattan Island hipsters with knees greeting leather greeting sheep holding spines from the remaining winter chill at 5pm evening, like ghosts we are receding. Simulated midair crucifixion in Central Park with upside down squirrels dancing with dinosaurs on rock tombs of their friends, witnessed the bowing down to Godliness, eating strawberries hidden in the imagination of each in the field. Blue blonde by pond the skeletal arms and fingers of trees creeping across the sky spookily, wonder if she's scribbling about her life and what it's all about. I smelt grass down Rambling, felt the warmth between lips and breath of fleeting romance of man and woman in stone enclave. 
(On the subway from Broadway to Times Square wondered about mystic similarities unknown unnoticed, they were children they had parents, what do we have in common? The mythic proportions of New York)
Eyes gouged away at grouting between granite rectangular pavement on South Broadway revealing subterranean time lapse backwards through history. Goodbye and long live New York City, God bless the beggar in Greenwich Village, while worrying about records in the belly of a Greyhound bound for the Capital, at least I'm not hungover. The Garden State Parkway somehow reminds me that eights are bound to live long and die alone. It doesn't have to be dark to see stars in America, red and white folding over flag poles above spring red fiery amber tips of branches look like flames, national parks and forests are slowly putting their clothes back on after being naked for so long. Turquoise right arm polka dot brunette made inquisitive eyes at Egyptian good luck coin and Aswan octagon over sternum at chest. I also noticed hers. The District of Columbia is the prettiest picture in the story book of Spring. I want to fold America up into my notebook and take it home.