Expired blue cans of Rheineck. Left overs from a secret Santa gift. Only four would fit in the cheap blue chilly bin. Jimmy had just turned eighteen, stoked to get a chilly bin of beer. I ended up firing him later that year. So there’s still two blue cans cheap faux-Germanic even the schlöss can’t make…
Month: August 2020
thirst
thirst i thirst for the w a t e r that lay s ________________________the sk y bac k under the o a r under the stroke of d a r k that r i ses on the s m o o t h the sk y a dance down in blue i thirst for the…
Pre-Cortex Lands #4
1 I’d planned to sleep in but I was wide awake at five so I teased the mortal seam churning a little, thinking of all the girls I’ve spanked, before rising, sprung as a catapult & stood against the wall three recent paintings. water had found a way to let itself in through the unfinished…
from Pre-Cortex Lands #3
caution: erotic content XV trunk at the base, grinding home animal sounds and overtones grass fronted, the wetness, she moans eye contact, blue on yellow/brown showing him that, in skirt, while squatting to his hat, putting her number on the stone on top of the notes. will reply he nods, mouth pushed in against the…
Lung in Lingua.
Inspiration is as vital as the conspiracy of muscles to aid a traffic of vapours, and rouse the artful glee of strings; a sympathy of ligaments composed to perch primly as the peregrine, or burgeon from beneath like noble cultivars of evergreen. Expiration is as fated as the terrestrial grace and grit of reclusive afternoons,…
Around the Square
Deliberately dirty brown cheap streets. On the road to prison. No state houses on this board buddy. No benefits in the pile. No opportunity denied due to colour or gender. Just the roll of the die. False hope teases in the corner. There’s no such thing as a free park. Taxes and mortgages…
Divergent.
A new freckle marks a fresh trajectory, charting the northern bounds in memory to the death-mask purity of destination; the sinuous curve of that harbour is a covert smile for sleep in the gauzy, fertile fogs of that wildwood; but it fares foul with deciduous friends, who – in the green shade of their angels…
on the oratory of trump
if you close your eyes to the words but listen only for the music it moves like a sermon. if you listen as you would to whispered grass, the joyous buzz of wasps at harvest, the modest song of sparrows, there’s rhythm like the best bits in the bible. it’s a pity that…
In Absentia.
A clichéd sunrise’s overtures from the harbour heeds and breathes conspiracies while I sip through the jostle and pitch of the onslaught-hours, bowed unto the lip of silencing the external sounds.
the staues
the statues are dumb, struck into silence. when i saw Dante for instance posing on a street in florence i knew, in a flash, what god doesn’t know, what there’s no word for. i took a photo, & after that there was nothing but stone & imitation of stone.