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

The Accident Exorcist...

[work in progress]

I

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

II

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)

III

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

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

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

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.

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?