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?