Sunday, 23 September 2018

The holy ghost plays hooky

Agreement finds us. The holy ghost plays hooky. As it will be for a while. The windshields rooted. Wipers turned over. Lazarus knotted with neon jump rope. Rampage takes a lyre breeder. Hills of Athens - Tyson worships his pigeon god. Pesto fusilli. Full. Tires. Assessor. Rampage gets backwater to work the Russian assassination.

the whole universe 
a monk’s eye
in a monk’s head

Faith balances thinly in the dreaming narcissus. Autumn almost here for no one but itself. The sickly pallor of winter looms large and attempts to court a gentle breeze. This Autumn courts itself.

Tuesday, 18 September 2018

waking up feeling like a sheath of barley or a jaguar

Placenta key chains. The baby strikes a pose. Victory held in remorse. The villagers burn an effigy of a horse. Someone thinks of a shark. Another jumps over a chocolate bunny. To come of age amongst wildflowers. To smell shit and be shit. To spend your time either counting waves off the pier or idly visiting shooting ranges. To be a confederate flag. The child’s toy elephant drifting in and out of dimensions. 

cult rampage
a bicycle steals the
dollar store rouge

The Barbary coast a wash w/ day glo. Eyes fold beneath wrinkles into winks. A catfish that wants to be a brick - barbels and all. Copper mines stitched to an end w/ the hazel blossom. Sunrise over Bosnia. 


Following its own scent downstream early man goes looking for an alphabet. A bloodhound dizzy in heat follows an ontological red herring. Like that scene in the movie IT - nomenclature tares off one of his limbs and drags his cadaver into an iron age sewer. The limp arm staring at rolling hills. A rain cloud moves aggressively over the fading scene.  

yesterday’s yarn
the harmless metaphysics 
of a mayfly


All night St George travels. Along his travels he sketches a picture of a toenail. He makes many drafts of the same sketch. In a forgotten town a forgotten person sees him sketching and asks what  it is he’s sketching. George doesn’t tell him. 

a dozen ships 
 stray into a dream

‘I want to have the energy you see in those people in the movies. Those fuckers seem so rested. I don’t want the wealth, fame or any of that shit. I just want to never be tired again. Waking up feeling like a sheath of barley or a jaguar.’ George realises he’s speaking out loud and changes his focus to an oak tree in the adjacent field.  

destroying a thousand branches pigeons

The chambers stink. Something beyond metal. Something dead. Temperature leaks into the profit. The mind wanders into a plot of root vegetables. Soft smile. Soft brains. A child’s penny jar. 

molten bloom 
from a mercury matchbox
a soft parade

I presume sympathy illnesses are like the end of that Antonioni movie w/ the mimed tennis game.

not watching my hands
I feel confident 
I’m pressing delete