CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.3 –– peregrina (the rover)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.3 –– peregrina (the rover)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

she keeps choosing the lot of them
who stretch carried-over torment
thin across her nipples
taut like insipid lust,
their pain.

the lovers who would be,
yet never will lie with she
drift sideways before eyes, a stream
of misbegotten waifs, once men, now geminis.

if only they were hustlers
pinching hipbones for dollars
or pungent sailors flooding her
furrowed welcome mat with callers.

but no,
there is he
who hides behind his gritty teeth,
and there is she who shutters at her sigh-
he who gets it up, then fondles her all awry.

“why oh why?” says she, in shambles,
replacing her nugget with two-fold flies.
when other others would be fierce
and praise God for the chance,

the innocuous illusory
strangles on his own artifice
his disappointing middle tones,
her quiet venefice.

for when she polishes off the day
and he phones in sick, sneaking groans
escape her crevice,
tick   tock   tick.

back to john she’ll slink
to the bed of home,
to biting lips and parting hips,
her amplified hours to think.

she’s bespectacled by night,
fogged-in by day,
refuses to take her midnight mangy
out to play.

for mangy’s an overly unctuous mess
malignantly pawing away at,
awaiting the preliterate
dreams of too much to confess.

at three in the morning,
foreshadowed comings
impale restless futility
on her own Eratos,
primeval virility.

in purpled shadows,
she gnaws away at Lorca’s feet,
at the pernicious stanzas,
landscapes, Andalusian meat.

breathless in robes of satin,
she’s a helix in nomadic haze,
a frustrated flesh
impressing onto bedroom mirrors
her flaming maze.

the reminiscent coalesces
with pale harmonies
re-wetting the slivers of doubt,
her vagabond body regresses,
sinless,
into violet clouds and tears.

with record player rippling
spinal hips curve to spleen
lightly, a coiling eroticism doubts
the perfect fledgling caprice
and finally,
feckless desires decease.

she stops forgetting who she is,
what her madness is about
a priori, a lamplit virginal,
impetuous in drought.

“where’s mangy?” she slurs,
“mangy, come out to play.”
stays hidden between legs
devout fertility endlessly purrs,
clawing away at indecipherable prey.

she’s clear about the meaning of sex,
the escape from rollicking deception
into cherished abandons
swimming in conception.

yet the others are not-
the ones she has chosen,
and foolishly embarked on with soul,
are drowning in preconception,
sycophantic pricks, half frozen by control.

to them, she’s swimming in madness,
tasting of precarious delight.
they see only a delectable obscurity
of precocious smells and precipitate sight.

oh, how the keeper of mangy
consecrates fevered hours to think,
yet night after night, one must shrink.
leave alone with wakefulness
its empty violet shell, her ink.

she dreams of her limestone lizard
in soft snow moonlight,
lifting his lethargic peace to her palms
sniffing and licking in like procession,

feasting on roasted heart, dripping blue love
over their alms.

her dragon has forgotten
broken chains with buried lovers
left in deserts past, it seems,
miseries lost, traced over forever
by the didactic banks of salt and sand
…..she dreams.

night after night,
the honesty of well-oiled seams
debates the covenants of love,
choosing to stretch

night after night,
carried-over torment
thin across her nipples
taut like insipid lust,
their pain, and thus

night after night,
finds herself always,
and again
alone
with aurora,
keeping stock
for indeterminate bliss.

peregrina leave, dismiss.
mangy come, exist.

painting by Gia

Views: 171

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.4 –– in waiting (patience)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.4 –– in waiting (patience)

 

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8

Patience is a woman who walks far ahead,
knowing too well what drives us,
connives us into
the brothels-of-mind.

We stew in her solace,
unable to forage meals without toll.
She shows us, six feet ahead,
how dawdlers get themselves
goosed
every time
for their troubles.

Clinging to sycophantic trance,
we’ll be our own pallbearers before
wisdom conjures up
the next sculptor’s hand.

“…patience is a woman,”
we wait for her.

image source unknown

Views: 268

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.5 ––– “all the rage” (a proposition)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.5 ––– “all the rage” (a proposition)

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8

Jocular,
somber,
transcendent–

like a cat
wandering along sill,
eyeing the moon
with wide yellows
and long jowls;
you bleed.

Perch perch.
The Ninth Symphony
crawls into crashing sycophancy-
but only inside your head,
and in the flap flap
of domestic curtain ropes,
golden for you.

Die die.
Snowy Brooklyn hood
beckons
the peninsula’s lusty line
with wind bustling through porches.
Lady Manhattan, stoically xenophobic,
lies still beneath her cloak.

Prospect Park sleeps, as good as dead
hides the sleeping life
in her pillowy bed-
the hipster’s last
premature domestication.

I had a dream once,
this night in fact,
of sitting still
with pomegranate juice
rolling down my chin,
and of little bliss roller coasters
climbing up my brain.
               Somber,
               transcendent,
               fortifying–
ejaculate.

photo by Gia. Prospect Park, Brooklyn. 2004.

Views: 273

ere deluge

ere deluge

Crisp gorgeousness and easy bliss
do not shuffle up feelings
with weather.
Welcome him, finagle her;
get them into candid cure.

Day fell already, hard to miss.

Triptych, she knows.
Leave future.
He stills, parsimonious.
Dip. Paw in, paw out.

Waiting to know.

Image: film still from Casablanca

Views: 242

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.6 –– peregrina, variation 1 (still roving)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.6 –– peregrina, variation 1 (still roving)

 

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

Pergola on fire;
the reminiscent coalesces
with breathless robes of doubt.
Honeyed covenants
perfuse,
lacking preemptive right.

Devout and impetuous,
demanding restless unquiet.
Premalignant perfunctory
consecrates, sanctifies
reams of abyss to exist.

Reminisce.
Resist.
You are dismissed.

a variation on peregrina (the rover)

Views: 1103

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.7 –– the rope of fate (burn it down)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.7 –– the rope of fate (burn it down)


from
The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

Interbred, interspersed, and denied–
the Valkyrie children
go about
life,
running the wheel
towards death
as their godparents warned them.
They clench between their tight, mortal teeth
the rope of mistrust.
Of distaste
clothed.
Love!

Cog by cog,
the Rhinemaidens desist.
They cease their breeding device
to drink
from banks,
banned to hiatus
from scandal,
from what was torturous about
her id, his.
Greed. Love?

The rope of fate has become
sodden,
wet with the lust of drinking lips;

the rope of fate has become
frayed
by the maidens’ tease,
by glutton’s grabby paws.

Scorched by the fires
never to burn Valhalla down;
the embers
of the frayed, soaked, the charred
can no longer bind.

Succumb to the promise
that takes you
away
from you and your path,
and the rope of fate has been
broken.

 

Views: 21

awaiting sleep (mania)

awaiting sleep (mania)

Preening madonnas catapult themselves through streets of mind,
in purple pumps, flashing gold fireworks sidewalk wide.
S’not exactly right, that they’re here;
but we’ll let them bounce around until my head falls off,
just ‘til then.

They’re prophetic prostitutes, these nightwatchmen, frogs in disguise.
Fluorescent-tinted eyesores and pineapple-tainted breath
equal pressure on the brain.
I hurt. I fly. Can’t see any way out.

But the beavers hunger; they need less focus to urinate.
If they didn’t, and did focus, were able to;
they’d gnaw off their own buckteeth.
For they can’t see the wood right in front of them.

They’re not drifting on stacks as they should be,
or even floating by on backs of tortoises.
They’re swept up in torrents of moonshine,
squealing all the way.

Ouch. It hurts to have brain so wide and swollen,
to take murky, bloody steps through swamps of cortex,
one wet boot clomp at a time.

I taste blood.
Where from? The mirror reports none. I checked (chickened out).
Is it from the inside I taste?

The guffaw of nightwatchmen echoes through mindchambers,
warning of impending bliss.
Explosions loom overhead, pressing down on consciousness.

Sloppy red blood stains fat lips.
Lips of mouth sealed shut
by black ropey stitches.
Dried brown blood,
thick saliva oozes through cracks
with words unspeakable.

Fingers tapper out letters,
trying to make hand twitches legible,
readable to seizuring minds.
Attempts at communication
stress the stitch, pull fat lips into threads
that slice deep wounds,
as a cheese grater takes to a block of cheddar.

Grace screeches by on the taut wings
of a pterodactyl-sized bat.
Steroids. Eager. Pleasure.

Heat in the pussy, fire in there. Very hot, searing the mound, lips,
delicate inner fleshiness. Wet nubs do not assuage, but feel
to the flame like alcohol. Holes burnt into sexuality and innocence.
Secondary, really.

Dreams begin awake, scenes from an autopsy film on autoplay
flash characters I have not known, having conversations
I must eavesdrop on with superb attentiveness to make out.

Pressure on the brain. It hurts. Fluid flowing not too much, but
too much in there blowing up like a balloon.
Organs twitch with malicious tingling. Is this death?
Or just mania. Take your pick. (You choose, I’m not.)

Photograph by Bennett Raglin 
www.brphotocreations.com 
Featuring model Walter Hurley
Shot at Alchemical Studios, NYC

Views: 65

he never learned how to be loved

poem I in The Chelsea Chronicles

He is no child
and yet spring flows so amply from his loins.
Where has his protagonist gone?

The Shepherds of Drink wade in his songwriter’s swagger,
indeed, saber-toothed revelers inspired.
Noxious devotees vapidly denote the man’s strength;
yet he professes lark, and lunacy bites their flattering pallor.

The ladies in the gaggle coo.
He does not see them, his eyes glazed over by politics.
Drink drenches his tooth, incises his bliss.

For them, a bliss confrontation.
They float home believing they’ve touched rays.
And he slinks back to the Whore in the Ruse.

He fucks her, nearly loses his teeth.
Her hallow could not care less for his demonic need.
He’s a franchise, nameless and green. She, a cunt, the Sistine.

Truly he seeks to touch them,
but returns to his own puddle unmoved. This
Buddha strangled
sits naked
on the floor
of a stranger’s apartment
demonically smoking cigarettes, skinny and hungry.

He waits for the possession to pass
and for the world’s blasted love to return to him at last.

September 2005

Views: 23

the melancholy of replacement

poem III of The Chelsea Chronicles

Petulant epigraphs sign themselves away to hell,
to devil’s not of their making.
Easing down into the graves of gradient yesteryears,
they shout: “Define me!”

Chance fling gives way to flight,
the nuclear smile’s conduit to sight.
And the cannon hurdles herself
up against the wall. Again.

Fish sleep in her underwear,
doubting the waterlogging of their reality.

What perfects her sight shall not be lackluster nor salty.
Those furtive chops she’s got whisper to her
about closets and doors and crows-
in there, where love is kept.
Swinging with bats and fans of you.

Smooth and protected early selves,
a spliff to the right, errant or not.
Bebop greats swim with great dreams.
And the shelf.

 

Views: 18

memorizing the chelsea

memorizing the chelsea


poem IV. in
The Chelsea Chronicles

I sit at coiled desks of copper,
with a mind more vivid than a walk to the window
could possibly enhance.

I’m observing you, surrounded by our fetishes.
The scherzoid of bells and whistles
suppresses my uterus.
Easy, like the fishes.

We’re trapeze artists,
simulating monkey bars-
only with love and pears soaked in cinnamon.

Emotions that look like hairy stars
run radiant spears straight at my forehead,
and puncture through the third eye
and out the cuffs,
dousing the room with undrinkable brilliance.

A room for rent here.
No longer inhabitable by me, but for you, a crane-
uphoists your knickers into an interminable fit.

An alloy of frankincense and catatonic blurbs
keeps frying your batter around my legs
and nibbling on my knees, and on my ankles-
’til they’re full of hounds traipsing tails back to pounds.

Flamingos and pomegranates wade in the basin,
fluffing their ears up to hear the humans
braying in the other room,
exercising their age difference,
cloying at mismatched likelihoods that common absurdities,
Gemini births and penchants for sex
might iron them together.

Cocker spaniels and harpsichords
crash their feathers together
into an uproarious tune,
better known as “the alabaster twist.”

Who keeps sticking meat into Grandma’s chocolates?

Bayonets continue their slumber ’til April
and parchments re-align the harvest
for lascivious, the luscious great grain.
Drumbeat of left wing, gracious paradise
memorizes the Chelsea.

 

Views: 79

the threat of happiness

the threat of happiness

poem V. in The Chelsea Chronicles

She’s placidly
slipping down from ecstatic
pockets
into the calm understatement of bliss.
Which
rides its own horse-
the threat of happiness.

Sinister treads the heartbeat,
regular and full-fledged.
Then your porcupine smile
replaces her with heart,
reduces ego to mud;
and life filters through blood.

The little and mister devilish
masters conciliation of the spiciest recanters,
then smears
monkey core with ticklish.

Don’t pleasure
the
killing fields
without protection.
You’re better off
here,
where honeysuckles proliferates
new visions of her.

You’ll need remembrance on the galloping trail,
to cradle your body
with draconian bliss.

Cool your blocks before stepping in,
so her feathers won’t hurt you.
She’ll dot your eyes
and you’ll cross her teasing contagion
with cramped ridicule and haughty marauding.

And finally, wherewithal will ensue.

 

Views: 81

awareness as a courtesy

awareness as a courtesy

Nighttime muses caress breezy shoulders
careening over little known instincts.
For bliss, for virtue, for loss, in folders.
On blocks of lady luck, we connect.
Using whichever craft of needlepoint
canoodles us best, to resurrect.

We sit and soak our nimble hips
in nebulous.
Jubilee delight
(so I like to call it).

               Some drive cars, most eat shit.
               We decay at computers becoming illiterate.
               Mouths flap, ears close, dogs still prance and babies pose.
               Little’s the same but most still here.
               Quintessentially remiss.

Togetherness, anti-retro world of narcotic bliss.
You know what I mean.

               Everyone talks about the same.
               The people, the places, and worst, the things.
               We’ve got shoes, we’ve got pants, we’ve got shirts
               and sometimes even skirts.
               Hats, purses, jewelry, blame, all the same.

It’s a kind of madness, this sickness is.
Oh, do tell.

               We drink, eat, shit, fuck, breathe.
 And move, we all move.
               Capacitize, monopolize, reiterate.
               Concretize, idolize, create.
               Philosophize, dramatize, rejuvenate.

It’s a kind of sickness, this madness is.
Rusty days, layback mattresses.
Don’t.

               We are parody, we are myth.
               Satire, blasphemy, tragedy, tryst.
               Hardly there, always here and closer to death.
               For those with bodies, only birth was first.

It’s a kindness, this awareness is.

photograph by Gia, W. 14th St, Manhattan

Views: 230

futility dangerous

As the cream on the cup is, most accurately, the jazz you always feared. Whatever is next, whatever is next is not what it was. Is is is; was was, was. Not nothing, yet certainly not much of anything. 

Futility will not give way to fear, except that the phenomenal might force its way out from itself and into whatever dynamism it is that keeps it kicking, that lets it linger on getting somewhere, that that that.

And the edge of sanity still daunts us, me and my laptop, for sanity itself, too much to actually tempt me, eat me, mutilate. Me. If this is one of the first novels you are reading, that should should should be your doom, or else a parent of yours, depending of course on taste and regimen.

Don’t hold onto the feeling too long; it’ll wire you up to yourself, to the obsessive and disgusting slabs better left as fat. And forgotten (obviously). It’s almost like we’re getting somewhere once again, but not. We’re not. Don’t get all frothy already, it’s not attractive. Not very, but you could fix her up by stuffing a cork in it. If you could. If you would.

My smile wears on, a moment too far past the announcement that Bush was arguably, attemptably thrown a grenade at. Still the pleased, if small, chortle hung over into a statement of small child murder. And the eventual announcement of the children’s father as suspect, and who would believe it?? He, who once chased, he did chase a neighbor with a loaded chainsaw, et cetera. And all in Texas, who would think? A sweet sweet state. The presidential appliqué.

 

Views: 19

deathwish

Supple madness professes its sinful love for solitude
by plucking its dream hairs off, one by one,
and delightedly sucking the marrow from each follicle hollow.
Perchance the dandruff creeps, lip by lip, lunch by lunch
until tripping Daedylus up with lucid luck.

From the train wreck again
came Nosferatu, our warrior hermit,
and his taut monotony.
That which bludgeons our nature, when we let it.
Conscious innocence lies better than the most Catholic mass.
It’s okay. Lie supine, drink your wine.

 

 

Views: 18