An expression

Because life is generic in format, I can customize the meanings and thoughts around me to fit any purpose and any subject.

Ready or not here you are

Placed, faced toward mecca

Mecca, capitalized

Sandy Buildings

They won’t crumble under your fingers, but they will scratch you

And keep you safe from the rain

Because rain is dangerous

Mostly to your soul

Washing clean your troubles is not healthy

From the moment you slip out

You are soaked in blood

Iron should be part of your diet

Don’t waste time looking beyond

Bathing in blood

Stickiness is mostly a solution

Partly a game adults play

How are the midnight sunrays?

Catching walks along the perimeter,

the rain spitting onto everything,

washing away the diluted air

They caught hispanol

He was dried out like a rabbit on a walkway,

being constantly flipped over from escalator habit

Wanted to reach farther inside,

see if there were any cobwebs to tangle nimbly fingers,

Soft, wet, pink organ instead,

it wouldn't be caught,

squeezed around like a ball of fresh juice.

Got caught on Sunday,

running across the border,

screaming about the Ratancito de los dientes.

He almost reached his filthy paw in my water cup.

How do sleep with that?

Curl his tail around your neck baby?

I got three little pots,

one has speech,

the other grout,

and the third ones a mystery,

so occasionally we toss in a seed,

covered in pesticide,

 to see what catches on to.

One more portion of a month,

sliced up into occupational miserlies,

Wicking up a good sweat,

Fabbing the fickle four,

When gots the table? Moving fan blues.

Made three hundred thousand phone calls,

Should have lactated on my own face,

ripping up bits of ribbon and shoving them in my mouth,

It's a digestive principle

Wondering whether I have rain stuck in my ears,

It's been there before,

I once paid for it

Stuck there so good pa, you never bought another ticket,

Washed it out with oatmeal,

Goes down real smooth,

like tar and mineral water sandwiches,

Got a free smooth smoke break,

Wisked it away!

Three more chances, I got one day.

Four days, A week. Two more days,

60 hours plus one half day.

Gonna pick you up, watch you grow.

want to catch a mooncat? I want to catch a mooncat!

Hey hey hey I'll do anything with you.

We can scab up the whole bushel of 'em,

Scratch my chest till I can't moan any bigger.

I want to grab a big handful,

so slippery out my fingers I have to suck the remains floorside.

We're gonna spin flying off mountainsides

Love it when you grab my eyes.

Holding tight looking at our offing.  

The orbs of my eyes

Water in the dark of day

Splinter at high noon

 

Sleeping limbs are paid

For their patience with hot stew

It rises through skin

 

Blue light is the sky

The roses have long since died

Twilight is coming

 

The clouds beneath me

Puff and freeze like lily air

Will the journey grin?

Cleaning is for ducks,

Unless of course the tongue cleans, clipping climbing crusty crumbs off of their prey.

The smooth skin beneath full lips is unlike another skin, it belongs to an extraordinary screaming love, a marionette for the carpet of the universe, you of the velvet rug.

Perhaps I am mistaken; perhaps you have no rug at all, which would make it very un-velvety, at this moment I do not know. I do know that you are pink beneath the riddles of everything, your choices are made with an assuming difficulty that can only be compared to the speed of our god and an almost dead motorcycle hurtling headlong half hidden in the pines. Penis however, is not in the pines; in fact he is at home, asleep, where he is most of the time these days, except for Ovaltines, now those are funny pellets. Jesus cleans streets and sweeps cardboard roofs in his spare time, which happens to be all of the time since he is dead. I wish I had an honest job like that, I am, however a scum sucking pond dweller, content with my lot in life and ready to dive deeper. I am also lying. About what is irrelevant, what is not irrelevant is that Ovaltines do have a small amount of nutritional value, similar to chewing tobacco. How, I have no idea, I could be lying. The purpose of my life is still unclear. I have a method and a means to convey myself, but no point to make. Everyone knows God he is dead already, it doesn’t matter however, I mean he doesn’t care. He is dead you know. I could explain that none of you exist, everything that happens is because you believe you deserve it and heaven does not exist because God gave it to his son in his last testament and oh shit, he didn’t make it either. Either however, made quite a fortune in the bond market and has opened a clam novelty souvenir ship shop. I prefer the real thing, raw. I would like to stay here and lick all of your assholes, but I could be lying. Until then perhaps you should return to your home in the heavens, and by that I mean the stars, for your body cavity is waiting for you somewhere, or maybe it just rotted away like everything else. I can’t tell, it’s all so beautiful I wish I had someone else to share it with but they’re all too far away for me to accept.

 

            There is only a certain hour that I can write, and this hour is not contained within time, it is lodged in my brain though lodged would be the wrong word to describe it - the hour scurries about trying to find comfortable soft pink crevices in my mind. That being said it is incredibly difficult to find it, this hour with which I can write.

 

            The smooth glass fog

Of the eerie night

Smacks softly

It is a cackling dwarf

Beard and all wet

Dew blocking the view

Of my road

Outside the white window

 

Brown Papers should avoid my lips, but they should also avoid nothing, so no one wins. Jucifer was a delicious berry I do say, made better by the deep dig of dripping ripping. Nothing clothes crisped and catastrophes flourished on the lawn. What no one knew was that the nature of the storms was dastardly and dangerous. If I only I could tell you I knew.

The truth is a perception hidden in his fingers

The hidden sight that this explores lights moths on fire

They flutter off in ecstasy at this enlightenment

Their crispy wings dropping

 

The road welcomes his toes

They press on gas pedals and leather pads

Elevating his legs long enough for another step to come

There is nothing better than going

 

 Thousands of years of man came before him

Yet this society is not his and this god slips out of his fingers

There is something more enticing in mountains and the clouds around them

Falling rocks on the campfire make him laugh

 

The lips on his face touch bottles and skin

There seems to be no end to the sadness of the world

Save the moment of the slap bang dance of movement

The laugh of the ocean water beneath a thousand mile road

 

The boxcars of a thousand trains have passed between his fingers

He watches the crowding of a bum-scattered lawn

Clams are nice to the tongue

But wine is the blood of life

 

Somewhere there is a connection between the sweet scream of Monk and the road

The howl of a horn grabs his legs and throws him scrambling to the ceiling

There the dance doesn’t end nor in one thousand more places

Nothing flashes by until it is swallowed whole and in pieces

I lambaste & copulate time
you slash back and rupture my mind
cold winds know the hours move slow
unable to urge the flow
I stop resisting but I'm not alone
we float in the temporal zone
& wait & anticipate
to live our luminous fate

One created from equivalent minds
Disassembled and requited in time
our eyes open in identical rhyme
what seemed has healed & aligned
cosmic blankets wrapping our thighs
purest of fires consume our disguise
we stare into unblinking eyes
Reborn Reborn

 

 

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