SUMMER UNDER A BLACK SUN

In a time of idle plagues
       and cold lust
Smoke rings drift through a deep fog
A frozen sky
       suspended above milky lakes
And the rings bend and ripple
       then break
Spilling countless fleas
       an army of tiny fears
They organize into a phalanx
Cloaked in crimson
       and violet velvet
Following stretching ley lines
       of smoke
Marching through white trees
       thrust from the earth
Like curved bones
       or cats claws through cotton

From where I lay I can see that violent parade approaching
And run to hide in the shallow milky lakes
       on the sticky shores
To wait out this meek season in heavy shadows
       blanketed in yawning nights
Below hundreds of luminescent orbs floating and breathing
Defining unsteady constellations
       refracted as through a misted lens
Like a near forgotten face
       fading behind closed lids
      

DISENTITLED

I was not made to live anywhere but paradise
such, simply, was my inadaptation.
Enclosed within shifting degrees of angular walls
dyed green and yellow, adorned with simulated cityscapes
and skeletons of forgotten animals.
I find solace in simple images reflecting outside lands:
your hair of twisted hemp heaped lazily
lassoing paisley pillows, a thickly woven canopy
above a pale and snowy prairie, pierced
dunes diving into swift currents coursing
through soft valleys before plunging into
Bataille's impossible abyss, riding waves of
long thighs to climb a column of bone
to claw a clavicles curve
to be lost, hopelessly.

I see the shape of space in smoke rings
in unpossessable lunar landscapes and lakes of
spilled wine staining these wooden floors from which
inchoate desires spring from long dormant wells
demanding sacrifices like some
obsolete god tyrant
raining down torrents of acid whiskey
through the haze of exhaust seething beyond
every window.

THE HORIZON OF MEMORY

Consider the

on average

seventeen hundred friends you have made

twenty one hundred books you have read

fifty eight holidays you have taken

thousand times as many films you have watched

millions of recorded cells so crowd your brain

you learn to write

if only to keep track of these lists.

As children the

elusive sense of self is sucked

into every mirror, replaced

with fabricated memories

biographical accounts of someone else

wound with threads of

our own history

so of course we write things down

repeat them

to know where we are at in time

our place

silhouettes outlined against a stark

and bare wall

fading after the flash bulb's pop.

Whether through an imaginary history or

memories of the future our

minds travel, our bodies trapped

in the present but unable to lose

the past,

snip the cellular connection,

so when we remember

everything flows like floods

rapids rivers trickles,

brains shrink

memories fold

and our blood is fouled.

Forget the future, he mumbles

through stiff lips

standing still is a slow death

unable to make decisions

the outlook is bleak

released in a silent unseen collapse.

IN THE YEAR BEFORE THE END

A dense grey cloud hangs over each day

in the same part of the same sky

but I don't think it bears me any ill will

just a thousand heavy reminders of

You creep into my dreams and mostly

I think its only to stroke your own ego

and remind me of your brilliant plans

to evade the unyielding future while its

Victims feast on the bony carcass of winter

and this bleak and dour solstice twilight

dyes each pill red, melting, viscous

in the blood moon vacant, hiding

In pack formation dozens of empty bottles

relay the confusion of past weeks

paranoia, itching, lonely drifting

through nights of spaceless time

I float from where I do not belong into

quiet velvet comforters and satin throw-pillows

stuffed in my face upon waking dry

mouth and sore back pressed against

Austere white walls extend endlessly

in every direction fading into a distant horizon

where the ghosts of a hundred clouds must hang

heavy with rain, spoiled wine, vinegar

TONIGHT I CANNOT WRITE
for Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can’t write any lines,
no beautiful imagery of my musings on the stars and sky

for the night is dull and still.

Tonight I can’t write any lines,

on remembrances of love come and gone

the night is collapsed through frame and glass

and nothing looks endless through a screen.

Tonight I can’t write any lines,

to recall the longing for better days

when words weren’t necessary

to describe the complexities of simple thoughts

as the night’s forgetfulness is heavy and long.

Nites Of Destructive Chaos

Twenty-odd pages of conspiracy poems and drunken rants. Free to all who desire, full color for anyone willing to donate a little. Email: intrepiddestroyers@riseup.net

READING POETRY IN 2K10

As your eyes skim
these Words,
skipping stones
slapping sos, likes
Drinking great gulps
of simile, Gorging
on syllables,
do you Feel
our layers of
fine-spun Filth
snugly fit
over each molar?

Set yourself on
Auto-pilot as your
legs fight to
Escape the horror
while reality Follows
pawing, kneading
neon claws in
gruesome waves
decorating every
detailed twinge, Electric
blue as a Gaudi
scale-model monument,
child-like & Petrified.

But do you even
really want to
feel? Every
ruined step? Every
blistered thought? Every
faulty circuit clumsily
tied and wired to
these wilted words,
Tumbling?

i know You,
as i,
would rather
simply
sink.