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. 

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

My Wild Dog Went Riding, Nevada to Arizona...

Couldn't handle straight lines on Arizonian open highways pleading power pole soldiers to stop looking crooked -- Sea breeze keepsake at Yapvani and bright angel snow reminders slowly swallowed by desert beaming blue skies that looked too huge -- Walking peaks of faces wrinkled to canyon origami valleys wanting to be a grand snake Navajo -- Indigenous genius dream catcher catching fears of dying and of heights but lost dreams of accumulating vagabond demands -- Another $4.99 spoonful for Grandmother and horse hair for her childhood when her Father was a blacksmith -- Australian giving the bird to Colorado American tumbling past Flagstaff and Phoenix to Kingman and Chloride as guests -- Armies of boulder bodies protecting peacock and rattlesnake with screaming eagles scouting dusty souls and decay -- white line fever 85 on junction I - 1 4 9 is every bit as dramatic as the Sundance and what goes on in free rooms for truckers at the Hacienda of neon midnight arid doom