high there captain (fire is the divider)

burning! burn burn burn!'
fire is the divider
between the absurd!

Jumping jump jump jump

Like elephantiasis, I expand with balloon accuracy. I'm a cancer, forming in the skin of society.
My anarchist skin is leathered with every human sin.
We can find a solution to politics by admitting there is none.
Admitting that the sickness of humanity is a cavity in the soul.
If we look in a mirror, we can remove the dirt. Only then flowers shall bloom from our chest.

I peel the edges of my fingers with unsympathetic rage.
My teeth are ripe, yellow and spotted. The rotted food falls out.
My hamster wheel, my repetitiousness, is devouring me.
I should be growing and infecting others with the doctrine of chaos and love.
My own hero, breaking down barriers of filth.



written in may or something.

sunday school.

Nov. 8 2009

I thought I was "floating in a dream and all my dreams are musicals, so the dead fetuses hanging from the trees were singing". I sung that of course, like that douche from Singing in the Rain.
I kept passing out and writing one line of poetry at a time. This is what I got.

Gliding through fog like misguided lace flies.
The shriveled trees are but fingers groping from the snow.
We approach the exterior of a cave and look at the twisted jaws of a deeper eternity.

Delving between shelves of every level of history, a librarian craft floats us to the floors of time.
The sweet lower symphonies of our minds are scraped from the torn scalp.
The crisp ground of our skulls are the seeds for a meadow of miraculous flowers.

The plants grow three leaves and one eye, to gaze into the sacred realm of geometry.
Every octahedron spins in anatomical beauty until they make up every one of our atoms.
Our lace eyes blink solemnly and by this way we can bat our way over the foggy glade.

The fog is our breath, our very soul.

LIMN

maybe my jacket was on fire.

I couldn't tell if any smoke was coming out or not. But my head felt detached from my neck. Floating a few feet above my spinal column. I quivered in my seat and the room quivered with me. I felt all the muscles it took just to sit still. Any smoke yet?

when I breathed out vapor trails hung in the slow air. I knew this moment was long coming.

I couldn't stop shaking. I kept tapping my feet like an eager child. I sang:

"The ocean is an hourglass,
crystal chandiliers underneath the water
bathing with sharks
and I waltz down in my suit and tails
a rastafarian softly plays a xylophone
until he disappears
he knows this is my domain
i stand and i wait, cocktail glass in hand
in the swirly shifting sand of time
my opponent approaches, for he knows i wait
in a grey suit he swims to me,
right to my head, faster and revolving
until he becomes a torpedo and
travels through me."

Pursuing Sirens

poetroy


I am magnetized to sirens; like
Conquistadors of old; like
resigned mariners.

With sloth the soothsayer speaks;
with pride she predicts the gravity
of tomorrow's newsstands.

The crackled whispers in her coded
breath whisk me away with lust for
bloodshed.

I chase these auditory hallucinations
down streets I never knew so well;
pursuing with a wrath I have not known.

Spiraling Ecureuils flutter above
violent smoke piers, enticing gutless gluttony
with disastrous kitchen scents.

My fingertips sprint across dials; meters;
switches. Mildly stroking colorless, broken light.
Each negative stab a sirin to the sedated.

Black bags exit buildings in blue hands;
yellow strings to tie greedy paparazzi to pavement, observing
white charcoal shadow puppets written in white hands.

One winking eye raised; infested
fascination crushes ribs, crushes
infatuated spirits.
A soul tossed on jagged rocks,
devoured by deranged shark teeth.

In silent cardboard detention,
envying for pursuit of flesh,

I decay from within;

my breath shortens to ribbons.

Now I scour sunsoaked lanes, a
jaywalker's purgatory, for the
viscera of a different animal,
the distorted tangles of my own breed.

As I lag, certain horrors realize their potency;
the silence of the sirens is worse than their song,
a panic not in need of wax or chain prisons.

Never have I aged more wading

in the fountain of forsaken youth.