Sunday, January 30, 2011

Midnight Feedings...

Did you reach up
Infront of chessboard ducks
And Negro swans
Stealing stars and galaxies
To fit into your ring
To be astrology and energy?
From your ears dangling
Gently falling, meteorites
High waist asteroid belts
And moon rock shoes
The tides search for you
Flowing from canyons
Between ribs
To cups holding milk
-y ways and Saturn
Like a marshmallow
Floating on cold breath
Whispers from heavens
Winds of change
In the midst of fortune
May have found you
Like USSR satellites
Paper to flames
Dice to games
And people
Exactly the same

The Plague...

I smell cheap perfume
teenage mothers
purging Mia's
your tiny heart fluttering
blood pressure rising
unprotected sex in bathroom stalls
the tears of 2,000 forgotten sisters 
and broken hearted virgins
the boredom of housewives
front doors opening
back doors slammin
my neighbour lighting cigarettes
Genghis Khan's spirit
diamonds and cologne
sweat on rosewood
rosellas on soup cans
meditation of indie monks
and psychosomatic symptoms
a blacksmith using my head
as his anvil
children reading about Peter Pan
and staying forever young
murderers dreaming about new upholstery
husbands dreaming of their friends wife
children wanting to be their Barbie doll
grow up and make a sextape
like Paris Hilton
so lonely virgins can masterbate

Friday, January 28, 2011

Condimental Drift...

You're a little mover and shaker
Salt and pepper faker, ain't ya
You've got twofaces
From outerspaces 

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Sweet Jane, Vibrant (in a) Forrest...

Dear Jane,

How are your sheets made of Paris? Do they wrap you in blue, kiss you in white, and leave your lips red? Will you be held snug, comfortable, dreaming of Grandmother's infront of houses in the woods, with treetops for skies, and wonder why your legs are sore? Maybe they were inspired to explore your subconscious, but there was too far to roam. I hope your dreams tonight are calm and cautious, and you wake like a baby, fresh and enthused, then you'd be Bala; child-like.

It was really your feet that introduced us. Two small young platforms for an upright structure of stretched skin, like a canvas, over a glass interior; precious. It's sad how much punishment feet take. I wonder the exact amount of time they've been supporting and walking, most likely many lifetimes. I'm glad we got to talking more, the most we ever have. We have things in common which is exciting. I like your mind, it's a pretty machine within a rusted out, grinding, filth ridden planetary movement of a much bigger machine. Maybe our minds are like tiny cogs working together, fighting the earth's internal violent temper. The atmosphere is the casing, and the universe is an analytic, far-out radical futuristic diagnostic computer keeping a watchful eye...waiting to malfunction. The universe scares me. So does the ocean, only recently. What scares you Jane? What worries your pretty head covered in golden threads? What are your doubts and dreams? What are your plans for an unplannable life? Forget about time, it doesn't exist, this is just a never ending moment- ya dig? You can dot points on this line, but this line cannot be measured. 
So...What are you going to do about it? 
Jane you're unchained, do what you like, go where you want, you're only living for yourself. 
What's your favourite colour? Can we apply Cherokee war-paint to our faces and dance around fires while listening to music I choose for the mood, approved by you of course? I'm going to think of an Indian name for you. 
I've been thinking about California and my hands in the sky. To get away from my two Mother's so I can get lost, maybe find a tribe. It's just what I need. I imagine a palm tree fronted, stunted lady with a perm and mustache, falling wooden quarter walls with wallpaper of boats and ocean reception of a cheap motel, where I'll spend my time with red wine, writing, drawing, playing guitar, eating, sleeping, and leaving from- my base of operations, a sometime cave of desperation's. I'll need a nocturnal city for a night-dweller like I. I'll wait in Anaheim for you to arrive, then we'll invite ourselves to borderlines, bridges over rivers, to New York state and back. Do you want to see the Rockies? Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse? Deadwood? Lets be cowboys. Cradle Lake? Yellowstone? Monument Valley? Antelope Canyon? Mesa Verde? Rainbow Bridge? Lets rent a boat on Lake Powell. Do you want to see sunsets on the sun pyramid of  Teotihuacán in Mexico? Will you go further, to the coast, to Chichén-Itzá? Then you need to see Egypt. So many places to absorb, we'll be voluminous sponges left soaking in a bath of natural beauty and raindrops. In lakes cradled in the arms of mountains rocking us to sleep in mellow sunlight witnessed through wolves eyes. I think Alaska will turn on the Northern Lights for your arrival, I think that you'll see waters the colour of your bedroom, and that snow will recede when you walk by. Do you want to kayak out amongst icebergs and whales? Floating on the top of a world beneath us. Do you want to jump on beds with a bottle of wine and throw pillows while listening to Motörhead and The Stooges? I'll take photos of you in doorways of ghost towns, where we are connected to the dead and gone by stealing all their air. They'll be angry but they can't do a thing about it. I can picture you in a diner wearing Wayfarers and flowers in your hair, we'll get coffee refills by a lady named Martha, and stare at the hairy backs of truckers in cowboy hats with quiet muffled laughter. We'll attract eyes with our ripped and dirty pants, my dirty buckle boots, our mysterious sunglasses, your denim vest, my leather jacket, me bumming cigarettes. We'll read about mystics, natives, space, history, psychology, music and girly things. We'll keep each other from sadness, and you won't be lonely. 

My imagination is too vivid and eccentric, I might not even get to cruise highways with you, but if I do this is what I envision..possibly a slight exaggeration, maybe I should say 'dreamt up'?
I hope that your sleep was gentle like the footsteps of spirits on carpeted floors, like a hair brush made of feathers. I hope this is worth waiting 'til tomorrow for.

Sweet sleeps & dreams, of the architecture of all things.

Calvera  x x

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Three-Thirty AM, Unemployed & Broke with Coffee Aroma...

with brain too crazy to care

I murder everytime I jack off...but I still feel innocent.
Between the heart and the emotionless void, lays the sound of scribbling pencils.
Why do I keep trying to quit cigarettes? There's plenty of time to not smoke..when I'm dead. 

I need candy tasting lips of the opposite sex like in high school whispering movie times in my ear. I'm awkward and reluctant, unlike I was those years. I hide like crumbs down the back of the couch. I know how to disguise myself in a crowd. I'm foreign in the neighbouring emotional urban sprawl of downtown Loverville, where everyone seems to chill.  

There are brightly feathered maidens in the forests of falling gums
Maidens of summer, squawking squawking, inebriated--falling 
Turn on the radio and dance to sampling and no vocabulary
On the chalky shores of boredom and mass market direction
Philistines contributing to the suicide of artists and alike
Destroying the essence of what they think they are creating
I should be Odin breeding armies eating those with no interests

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Adaptation & Similar Processes...

You want God like your coffee..
                                            Strong but sweet.

The violent intercourse of intelligent minds and their mindful games, and of simple minds and their heedless ignorant hostilities, has the power to end the world. 

Are you the apocalypse, Sir? 

Happy New Fear...

A flask half empty is hell, for an alcoholic misogynist in a brothel.
A junkie throws his son down the stairway after his wife died.
A thief of 4 of a child's 9 lives, leaving them to survive on 5 before suicide
Gets a tax paid holiday
Converses with God, without a name tag
And gets early parole.
Come home from Africa
Your son is going to hang himself on Christmas Eve.
There was violence up town
Commissions in the Heights
Charcoal death and sharp objects
Seventy-five 3 6 - 1 8 - 1 2 -- 0 9

The whole world is going insane.

I Just Read Your Mind, Now I Regret It...

We're all together in this dream,
                              we just wake up at different times.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Bouncing Betty...

My whole miniscule life is imagined.

Hubble Telescope image, hubble website

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Welcome To The Funhouse...

Michigan middle class trailer park
Son of a teacher man
The lakes cradled young rebellion
Waiting to happen
'Most likely to succeed'
Early from the womb
Well to do student
Friendly chameleon conservative
Buying records in Ann Arbour
You can look but you can't touch
Minor bubble-gum heiress
Father says loser
Just a young cruiser
The moment says Prime Mover
Chicago shuffle, blues drumming
With knives and glasses of urine
Happy wood 6 strings in E
LSD persian carpets and marijuana
Long haired esoteric metaphysics
Lounging, lounging, LOUDEST
Lizard in the making
A lounge full of danger
The flowers are no longer here
Raw power is the new stranger
In a world fashioning fear
In a nation resorting to heroin
And alcohol
A violent cheer, YEAH!
Pop goes the iguana
Masochistic Adonis
Greyhound contortionist
Dipped in liquid silver
A punk rock demon bleeding
Speedballing needle riding
This is stooge music
Fuck and fight with every ounce of energy
Chaos is the new beauty
Determined to live fast and die rotten, dancing
Teetering on the brink of insanity
Out of sheer boredom
Just to see what it felt like
Rolling around on glass like a cat in heat
Leopard messiah prophet of destruction
Thrust lunch, profanity and erotic exposure
Crowd launching stage diving
They really got their hooks in me

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Monday, January 10, 2011

Hydrodynamical Botanical...

Welcome to the park where I took my lover down to the river, to talk about the Romans, sex, Edgar Cayce and Ginsberg. Discarded cigarettes from last summer drained from gutters to the healthy fishes water. Her head eclipsed the sun but everything was still vibrant in my peripheral vision. We couldn't slow dance to horns and buses so we slept with maple and acacia curvaceous, on the greener grass of the other side. George of the jungle was there with a gin gal called Jill who was also a gull, who owned a puppy Jin-Jin and had a brother that could sing. A bicycle with tyres made of stone cracked the pavement all the way home, and the child's church bell on the handle bars woke us with Cairo syndrome. We rode the backs of ants through a fabric landscape, soft like foam faconné and open like bell sleeves. The double arch of the bridge made a 'W' upside down, or a double 'U' together like conjoined twins. Shimmering on the river, a likeness of itself, now not lonely with another, and reflecting like owls eyes, on your forearm. The ducks were caged by the city. A playground within a playground. Mother nature opened her game legs and gave birth to the sunset, then it rained the dregs. We ran for cover from tall boy thunder and hid under a homeless man in a blunder. We stole his blender and decided to dance for the Sioux nation. We danced for our tribe of 2. We cursed the city with it's mindless cog-like motion, it's illustrious mechanical polluting graffiti ridden commotion. As the tears from nature's labour withdrew, the clouds slowly uninvited themselves, and a final glimpse of the sun peaked back through. We galloped on our pegs like they were springs instead of legs, I held your hand because you nearly flew, we were joyous through and through. Row boats rowed against the current, with blonde muscular women that had arms like torrents. There was a bamboo forest thicker than woven wicker, that was hard to see through. We cut ourselves a doorway, we had walls of vertical green tubes, a ceiling of leaves, and a floor of litter. We could see out but from the outer you couldn't see the inner, and at that moment the whole world became a little thinner. We stayed a little longer past dinner, then my lover..she disappeared.

Sunday, January 9, 2011


Thinking of the blues

I'm mad in my house
Yeah you know, you know I'm mad
In my own house
In my bone house
I'm mad,,
That we get old, waiting to be put down by God
At the sharp whiteness of fluorescent lights
At your compulsory
At day-time and prime-time T.V
At your brand
At your second face silhouette
That you giveth, then you taketh away
That my friends don't read books
That we don't protest like we used to
That we give up
That Burma can't get it up without a gun
That we don't think and love before we speak and act
At the vulnerable whoring themselves
At Hitler
At my Father
That I wanted pizza
That I can't smoke in the house
At being unemployed
That no one can seem to share silence with me when I have nothing to say
That the rain has stopped so now my grass is dying
That I'm awkward when I never used to be
At being celibate for no reason
At science for answering everything
At surplus grain being dumped into the ocean
That there's no law to make every citizen of a country donate $1 yearly to send the subsequent amount to a poor country
At the assassination of Gandhi and John Lennon
At unoriginality
At excessive logging in the tropics and the Amazon
At my friends that think DJing is a musical talent
That I hate flying
At the Inquisition
At fanaticism
That you wanted my money
At being pushed
That I've never seen Iggy Pop
That the Police never rang me back
That you never turn up
That not alot of people write letters anymore
That the trunk of my car leaks


Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Ingredients For A Human Being...

The less I have, the more human it makes me.

The ingredients for a human being-
Enough fat for several cakes of soap
Enough lime to whitewash a small shed
The carbon equivalent of a 13kg bag of coke
Enough phosphorus to make 2200 matches
The amount of iron found in a 25mm nail
A spoonful of sulphur
30g various metals- apart from iron