Travelling

Unhooked, our shared definition gathers its multitude of parts
under the cold blue drindl of morning.
Awaken the okapi. Imagining Africa, that’s almost good enough for me.
Felt flowing along your door: a cool catechism caught
in a mindless mid-throat mumble, ‘I don’t know yet.’

The easy way out, found, then excluded, and, my God, I’m your dog,
the alternative takes us through climaxes, upsets, and oh so many celebrations..
So good, so fine, so far, so, I think I’ll put down the remote after fast-forwarding
to the best bits best seen under the half-life of splintered moonlight.

The breeze turns to wind, verging on hurricane,
smites the trees, smites the houses, smites the body inside my body.
smites the mightiness into of the mouths of The Internet.
It’s all YouTube, 9Gag, Twitter, Reddit, and Facebook to me.

Rolled the pearls off our whine, make this one time forever,
I’m hurting but still standing tall.
Into the gararge, ignore the mirror,
favor returned, cracked up
to call up all our leverets, bear cubs, husky pups and
we shine and whine brighter and bigger without an audience.

Blinded, we fall into the step by step, upstairs,
break long moments up into periods
or something a little less posh.
Give me the sound of plants singing under light, under pelting raindrops,
set me up for the blindness of naiad revenge.
Water your trout, pull your plants up by the roots,
polish the sunlight and
I believe that takes care of everything.

I watch you in the spaces between the notes,
the sensitive drops, the strong strange dives.
In your lips lives a sadness I can taste along my molars.

Smaller now, then taller,
we’re moving so far past each phase.

Shouldering my way into crowds, always looking for you, never even considering
a substitute,
nothing and noone else will do,
moving constant, eyes constantly shuttering, shuffling memories and predictions,
Your face is new to me
every day,
this one
is the best, this one is a smooth lounge of emotion, of love,
the best the world has to offer
with your smile
full of sunshine.

Taking me in wracked hard, racked up, broken and sent packing.
Scent of paper, dust, and electricity.  Skin, lots of skin too.
Light, so much,
more than Sahara high noon.

I get all caught up in this
before falling
asleep.


K.I.S.S.

taking cover
as Joyceian passions mingle
with those thrust by Bataille
we wrap each other
in a Shakespearean embrace

flickering highlights
and salmon-colored tapestries
waving reversible in my breeze
I make a biblical sacrifice
of breath

amid fresh air
and hounded hearts
thudding
in a kaleidoscopic rhythm
I’m a salamander
strolling along
your slick wall
an infinite column of flavors
leading all the way down
to the place we started from

in dark and humid club corners
in parking lots forests and trains
in strange and familiar bedrooms

I’m gonna be your man dog
watercooler porn star collective
all wrapped up in a hot wet BANG
captain of closed captions
duke of drama dialogue
and throbbing diacritics
you’re thunder over my rain
that I’m sending into your plain
you’re the conductor of my nonstop bullet train
I’m almost at a loss that you stand to gain
we’re rocketing
from Montreal to Monterey to the moon and back
a nitro-boosted Winnebago of love baby
overtaking percentages rates and jams
giving rise to earthquakes supernovas and future plans
I’m a weapon of mass construction
and you’re Ground Zero baby
this is not a test this is not a drill
this is not code green yellow or orange
this is Judgement Day baby
I’m talking code red god-slapping lip-smacking
Armageddon Books of Revelation and Genesis baby
because in the beginning
there was us
and in the beginning
there will always be us
in the beginning
there is us
and our words and ways
are good enough
to keep it going

until we’re lying back
stuck
to the ceiling
our souls dangling
from the ceiling

and the shiver
in your whisper
is a stony
tribute

in stumbling breaths
along the gaps
between my words
stretched
and compressed into address
I declare that I am
sedated
in the consequences
of our combined efforts
to rediscover and redefine love
I am high
on our sweat and juices
as our scents combine
in the clean coniferous-bloated air

your compendious response
is clearest resonance:

“Now that’s
what I call
a fuck…”


sparring with love

we’re wasted and wandering
pondering and reflecting
rejecting our reflections
for collections of sputtering
collaborations, fluttering
celebrations, shifting
from persona to person to another
person to persona
personally, I take this
kiss that you slip
over my lips
skip into
a dipped one-two
that kicks right through the day
I’m coping and hoping
your day is better than nice
free of all the temptations
that we swear off
every morning

we’re tested and trying
flying and frying
high-fiving blue sky
ducking and diving
thriving and striving
through daylight and nightlife back to
another round of daylight
on waking I take this
kiss that slides along my lips
glide into
a snide one-two that
hooks right through the day
we’re creeping and leaping
up into the cool light
free of all the temptations
that we indulge in
every evening


Distancing (Part 2)

Looking at America
through my fractured mirror
as it lays down
its law
as it throws up
its arms

Repatriated and united
Picasso’s Young Ladies
throw wild looks of false
opportunity
down my throat

Reviving dead loves
and a brand new
hand in glove
distancing you
distracting me
through glares and gestures and shoves

Falling hard for your heaven above
my hips
your hips
smothered in our
fingertips and pulsing lips
full on rocking till we
sink the ship
duck and weave and
dive and dip
into a one-way trip
on a bullet train
that just won’t quit
till you have had
more
than enough


Distancing (Part 1)

watching Europe
through my filthy windows
as it throws down
its bombs
as it lays down
its arms

dislocated and writhing
like Medusa’s head
creating new myths and
new Lords of the Sith
distancing ourselves
with our blood and our spit
put off by derelict quips
blasting off
to a hyperspace pitch

caught a crazy scene just before
it grew old
found a wild trail barking
open then sold
never mind words that can’t
save your soul
keep looking for worlds that won’t
swallow you whole
swallow you whole
swallow you whole


Borders

the internet is giving us

a celebration
of the end of the world
that keeps me awake
at this late hour

the impossible
rhymes

the impossible
changes

the impossible
love

that I send across
borders
get lost in the glare
and crash of the party
turn around and
come back home

the internet is coughing up
immortal love songs
and I miss you every second
that you’re away


Trickster

I brought you light
you accused it
of horror

I brought you fire
you abused it
into terror

I brought you the sun
you gave it just cause
for vengeance

our father spins around
your sun
as your moon spins around
our father

you pick up his smooth jaw and jagged teeth
toss them into his icy blood
for the spectacle of a single ripple

you run your hand through your hair
our mother’s dark and verdant flesh trembles
her nerves quake
and tear down cities
livelihoods
lives

while you consume
consume
and consume
riddled with numb souls and
inarticulate ramblings
with the living dead
trigger-happy and itching
for a good reason
to open fire
and launch blows
at perfect strangers

you keep looking to me for answers
knowing damn well
I don’t understand your questions

I gave you light
I gave you fire
I gave you the sun
and you squander
the bulk of it
on perpetuating ignorance
celebrating arrogance
reveling in failure
and pain
dropping distant pity
chucking cheap laughter
capturing flashes of disposable brilliance
and ensnaring yourselves in pornography

had I the gift of foresight
I would have kept you all
in the dark


Them coyotes / Summer’s complaint / DESTROY THEM WITH SOUND / We coyotes

them coyotes

clinging to the creation
that slinks along our trade routes.
devoting their spirited sonics
to extensive night-time
ramblings. quiet. harmless. now,
desperate for success
they slap neutered coyote songs
onto crumbling walls.

Summer’s complaint

Summer came by, blame
the headlines, blame
the videos
scared up noises in
her box, caught fresh tunes
off the coast of her hips, her
teeth humming, Summer:
blues, reds, yellows, scenes
from a night-time lifetime
“Sure gets better than this,”
said Summer in a
slow drawl wrapped in codeine, and
it made my head ache
to see her sitting
too pretty to whine, like her
LA Daddy and her
NYC Mum
it happens every New Year’s
each holiday
a bit bluer
than the last
come down
to see her see me
groping through all the volume
of Summer’s complaint

DESTROY THEM WITH SOUND

The lines on her face read: DESTROY THEM WITH SOUND. The SOUND of boys’ skirts ruffling in the aggression of nonstop strobelights. The SOUND of smoky breath tasting and embracing all that smooth young girlflesh. Fresh SOUND. DESTROY the commonlaw rhythms. Fold up the pattern and fall out of the worship of all those gods we’ve constructed in the epileptic blue halflight of our union. Then DESTROY THEM WITH SOUND.

She was black-and-white, nameless and smiling. Smiling in a way that suggested she was well-fed and in touch with herself. Perhaps a little too frequently for her lover’s tastes. I found her beside a tobacconist’s, five minutes or so up the street from my current address.

The SOUND of deception. The SOUND of illusion. The SOUND of social penetration, of social permutation. DESTROY the clearest targets. It was such an obvious problem. Why hadn’t I seen it coming? I tore her off the space she was in and burned her up before the authorities realised she was gone. The silence was absolutely fantastic.

we coyotes

chewing on the wilderness
that blazes through our veins.
attention spanned/sprawled
across expansive superhighway
rage. still. calmer. now,
bored with excess,
we shove rabid coyote songs
into stiffening arms.


Kitten’s gone to London

Kitten’s gone to London
Kitten’s gone to London

Kitten’s gone to London.
We’re all bored here, reading the side panels of cereal boxes.
There was once something quite interesting in the air, way back in the day.
Boys wrote love poetry to their pet salamanders and the girls carved vicious haiku into the latrine walls.
The mirror is still kind.

Kitten’s gone to London.
Kitten’s gone to London.

She said she always wanted to fall in love in a foreign country.
I felt something like tiny claws strolling along the linoleum floors and up the skyscraper walls.

There was silence.
There is silence, even more now, since Kitten’s gone to London.

Rent some flicks and eat and smoke and think and drink and breathe:
It’s all so absent these days.
We try and sit in church, end up thinking about whether or not we’re getting enough calcium and iron.
Come to think of it, I have been feeling rather brittle lately.
Friends call, talk, hang up the phone.

A new bar opened in the market,
they play the latest hits there,
and Kitten’s gone to London.

Fucking hell, what I wouldn’t do for the right words.
Just keep, that’s all just keep.
Maybe that’s not enough just keep more likely that’s too much just keep.
Kitten’s gone to London just keep.

Now the boys paint portraits of dogs
and the girls have switched venues: their vicious haiku is carved into the flesh of boys instead of the walls of latrines.
Kitten’s gone to London and she is never coming back again.
I will not follow.


Out of here, wherever the hell ‘here’ may be

let’s pretend
it’s your birthday
and sing a song of
snakebites, winter glory
and joyrides
on your little brother’s
banana-seat bike
we’re not as ridiculous
as you claim we are
and we are something
special no matter how gentle
or how punishing
our music may be

carved into the background
disrupting dabs of
sacred water lilies
and calm green ponds
girls and boys no
smarter than the breeze
rippling your hair and the water
each conned into believing
they’re regal
and worthy of a free drink
an easy fuck
and a sunset ride

like a Jersey Shore cast member
they will not be ignored
so we ignore them
with a mere push
of a little black
button

let’s pretend
it’s our anniversary
and haul a load of
black books, autumn color
and collisions
in your special bedroom
banana queen rites
we’re coming to a head
at least I claim we are
and we are restless
teachers no matter how sober
or how trashed
our burdens can be