Monday, 29 September 2014

Another Time

I remember waking to the sound of the drum,  The workers strike, the yester-times southern flights all crash and burn beneath the lighting strike. the waves of my own sweetness, the recklessness.They flash and fall, and they turn all rainbow. and light the world to flame and the after-thought sandwiches of my North-Bound nature, and the flower blooms your mind as the sun sets in, and we all stay put, the divine. The eyes you shared all work in harmony It's all a different spoke, with the synched out clocks. Please have a good one to the resting place, as I walk a road and crackle my hips, and the cigarette lit, and the formations where you join your grandparents for a final coffee and the seasons all harbor your soul. The feet in a ship tank fleet, down at docks at god awful hour the fog rolls in, and the light gettin clearer. Please take a time, The brisk in air, Have a goofy smile

Ever turn the dial to radio/news/cartoons and jumping Jacks, with pity in their hearts, in their Swiss and ham? The late nights are a dieing breed, and broken cracked ice in soul. The bad breath of my youth, for those old men, could be damn candy I'd consume, and die with sudden burst and glance. Look up, look up, tells it to me quickly, and auto mobile graveyards, waiting out the storm, that is upon and gravely creating. Don't ever ever ever stay or leave chalked up to all the Fall the Summer breeze, and the rest will follow.or he'll blow it out his brain..that exits eternal salvage, and bolt in the blue, with fake James Deans,the cave masters bend, that tells it to me quick,  straight as an arrow, and the view folds beneath you.

The conductor...  I could turn an apple into a bed pan, Like a man can really drive a train,  Fucking walrats, and the mats in my faithless or exist in the grips of 'do I exist?'s killer moons And the leaves of trees look down, frightful. The sun eats lemonade, and the stars are cool. can grasp at your tonal cord.  don't need much more.  In a disk-jockey fantasy, the meaningful becomes dull.

So where did you go? In the fancy sports, and where could you end,What conductor? with such certain retort?   the rockets extend, and the views all lose. to see it through vase, but the knock off version of Southern parade and their leather sports coats and the broken smoke..

Dear Reader,

I realize I don't say this enough, but I appreciate the es sense of your being. At the very least, in this current moment and incarnation of my own. It is possible everything you just read was in-coherent bullshit, and apologize if that turns you off. It's simply the way of Ghosts, walking the halls of my sublime existence. Please take heed and look to the stars, every fucking night. Look dead into the Eye of the Sun, and see it looking back. Life is a short thing, of course it is... it's damn obvious, but so long as we are on this track to nowhere. This track into the unknown... know this: your weather balloons fill, and fall... the bats all lead home, and home is figment. So whatever it is you have to have to return in form to that pit soul feeling, of when you were first born, and sucking in the air, just know that the remainder is the sum, and sometimes the road awaits in simple harmony.
Good night

-A Friend.

It was a different breed... I mean, it always is, it never is. Just those coffee brain explosions. I suppose it was discovery, and maybe that's why it seems different. I'd plug into a different drum. And I return to that drum, that well of wells... cast pennys at my reflection, and ask if he wants to come out to talk for a couple hours... Swirls... more than swirls: The first swirls. The declaration of the first time realizing we exist, in a dead end. Or that we don't exist at all... the bounds were forever, and I'll remember you well, when I'm a gray man with eyes that forget how to work.
Somewhere, and somehow... the sickness in my nose, or the cool breeze, or the quiet moments that feel like death, will come up... and this will be the point, I realize it was the end, and it don't last forever.


Saturday, 20 September 2014

Past Time Pastes My Forehead

around the campfire
so close to radio memories
it's all so funny
but it doesn't want
in the after dusk
it's a jitter bug night
and the messages from break
that don't always make
sense as they bring up life
we exist
that sits in a popper
while the flowers wilt and burn
and it doesn't quite half wit
perhaps to the outside world
in the dust and they lose
their minds in a half-guage apple pie
but the year is a fright
to the telephone pole that the gypsies gaze
the popper brings an eye
but not really, because
and it glue stix the card huts
it doesn't need
we are reflections in the television monitor
and tell those stories again
and the 50s happen to follow
and blow into space
it all can crash my mind if it wants
it's sand paper, baby, it's simple like sand paper
and the later half of it
it's all so cheery
that flying spinner
and tell stories about their laughing wolves
I saw so many eyes


one more for the road
as the great divide
and the stories they also told
the grasshoppers rise
and the king k rools
because when a circus is here
but the hatchers hate
it don't bring much to exemplify
but its cool, to be a fool
stole your eyes and set it to plane
the clowns all go home
and the grandparents knit
to the mirror and their hated other halfs
the granite always brings
it brings much more to lost
and put on their frowny makeup and weep
as it flickers and dances with the elves
and the scorpions bite
when the embers cool
escaped to dusk
and the blue jeans all hop
the gymnasium sits at my house
the frogs love
as the people we were all jest
in the countryside, we found the banana horde

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

She's All My Major Vices


I awaken from my slumber
with my arms wrapped around her
and she’s a cold hearted demon
pulling back, when you lean in
I’d go wherever
just to be beside her
but she’s all my major vices
blown out brain with her niceness
she got me hooked on nicotine
making sure I’m never sober
she fills my blood with acid
and I hate the smell of plastic
my mouth is filled with ashes
she’s cool, and sarcastic
but it doesn’t even matter
be a fool, try and have her


It seems like no problem
it’s the sign in a column
I lost my job
lost my dog
on the train
the morning fog
but it doesn’t even matter
be a fool, try and have her

She makes me feel ashamed
make me sick
make me lame
I vomit her hair
and catch that glare
she hates me to no end
and I hate the way she bends
with her blocked off eyes
I’ll be happy when I die
lower down, never cry

Yeah, she’s a cold hearted demon
never prays, she’s a heathen
sacrifice straight to Satan
pulling back, when you lean in
and she’ll burn you at the stake
and she’ll drown you in the lake
when she smiles, it’s always fake
listen to her breathing
feel her pulse, always fleeting
sighing soft, all so sweetly
always laughs while she’s dreaming
and awakens from her slumber
different city
different number
and she can’t take the time to care
and the car always crashes
and she always plays with matches

When the sun falls out
hope to God she leaves
if she stays
it’s always for days
and you claw at mind
and she got you in the bind
but it doesn’t even matter
be a fool, try and have her
when there’s places that you’d rather
never talk, never bother
resist the urge to call her
make you sad, make you crazy
make you mad, make you lazy

And she’s all my major vices
and it doesn’t even matter


Tuesday, 16 September 2014

Went Down 34th Street

The lamp shade, bit-tip the lip, that sips a cup of molten lava. Rock on through exteriole wave, and verify the existence of pulse. Granite. Charcoal. Mix-limousine your left eye is fucked. It twitch twitch twitch, the lambat. Heathen, Heather, "Tell me, how's the weather?"

So on this corner, in mid September, as the echoes of emission, the souls fleet through the down below streets, in soft harmony. The rain bats, and the leaves turn. And they do turn. Flop down, fish and catch. How bout that record spinner, and it's scratches? I know that 34th Street is nice, this time of year, as the people return to their roofs to overlook the old picture shows, and the mice and rats, and the dancers of rain. Tell me quick, if things quite the same. The watchtower fell, and the dissents. Disidents.
Don't mark-break the limp lands, but the barren sky and the split tamborine cherries in the cloudy mist.

I made my way to Pretty Flamingos, and talked with Two-Grass Jon and Fifty-List Sally, and they drop jaw shut, Jon say
"Hey,"
as Sally speak of "What is this sweep? Chimney, cha roo, achoo, to you and you and you"
the curtains called, the curtains fell, but the tick tack, and the rock and roll music died, in a crash-boom-bang, in below the waves.

We are ghosts. We always were, and we tell ghost stories, and fear aliens, but it is all us, and nothing exterior of mind, so that for once in our life, we can look at ourselves, dead-set eye-gaze in the mirror, and not fear whom is looking back. As when you look away from your own eyes, and return to that dead-lock, you realize the mirror self does not sway, to never look away, it's constant. It's so constant, and so you musn't break the look, the glass walls, it must be a out-last until that bastard on the other side gets up and leaves. But nobody leaves. Nobody stays. It's a fun-house, and we, the carnival seekers, and the dream-light in the summers glow night, and the masters of terror, and the singers of joyous wonder, and the men behind sun glass, and the women too, and all them without, and all those with, and the ship is christened at dawn, as it's always a fear to say goodbye in passing, to any sort of addiction, and realize it was the final straw, and not have any big deal been made, to make all that built up spine, and the funnel in he desk, all crash into a mix of passer-bys, and it was all goin' there, but no moment any more to mark the days on the wall by, in our made up calenders, because where we exist, there is no time, no day, no night, only the everlasting simple conclusion that we are a dust partical in a vaccum that keeps going, forever and will never need to bring it'self back to the plant, planet, the robot cabinet, and the cleaners, the dreamers, the light city schemers, with their chariot and their hoze nose, and the hob nob gobble gobble the eggs weggs, the jibber jabber, the helter skelter that brings it half way down to a pixy spell cast on those that once existed, but always do, through song and dance, and mimes, and the times we used to look in distance, and shooting star, with the top down car, and radio fled, on the train as we all swirl round and round and end up in the same area, or another, at the same point the pin point light, it drops and it jests at you, but remember, it wasnt this, or that, everything is nothing and nothing is everything. we continue, we fall on down, and swirl, but we could never have once dreamt to clear, a day, where the cold is welcomed.

Saturday, 13 September 2014

it all goes on

Because the outer-gained shitheads unite
it's 1991, am I feelin alright
with the spool in my brow and the
fall down stair in a plexy
Tex Ritches meets me half way
in a sewer fan as falled
to wander without any direction in miserable
Loser-Ville, USA
to out stretch the maker in a dual of thumbs
we pro-wrestlers, we know how to fall
don't hog the chips, don't eat em all
because, if you recall, the cow eats desert, and exits down hall
of a out bound, basketball of catch and stare
don't look to me, do not look to repair
the fence was all bent on it's turn
and the count speaks as math exit and RETURN
The -- yes and -- otherwise, inbetween
halfway hell
got in that damn car and drove to the shit sands
and the fishing hole, of lesser man
we can't react to the draft bats
in a half-hammer-down mexican subway
it was in those little nooks, where I suddenly found how the
city was layed all out, and about, it was always a jumble jungle
jenga table bitches
but it all started in on maps and form through seas and the
man who asks, is the same who receives
but I talked to Louie, and his Martian hat
I talked to bubble buddy, and his orange toque
as he sat in cold, and complaint
all over mexican border
where he once blong and ask for the effect of a latter day saint
I was in that town. Did it sound to me? Or I to it?
Well, fuck, it's all down through the gutter
and mixed on my face, to face the man to take his
last breath and speak it to the world
share his dieing visions
share them, because they are fleeting,
like all of us
and gone
I was here in the morning
but I'm already far down the road
and I ain't lookin back to that little shed
in the desert of the sweet demise, I once held dear
tell me, dear, why the hell would I?

Thursday, 4 September 2014

'66

You're my cigar store
Indian Chevy/Route '66
Coller tipped leather
Cheap turkey breath with
lipstained sausage
and the outer edge all cut / dried
through the limousine service and
the tail coat caught
in a rain storm flash
and the hot table buttons
Hot topic running Major
and the hard liquor eyes
in a hammer-danced focus
the grease heaven lash in beat the last ash-trays fast
gone limp, through left
half rain and salt water medications
and the healing illuminance of midnight summer frustrations
in a cold pull over and sweaty scarf
scoff on mint and garbage light your hair to dusk
in the half and full of a grunting puppy eye
and the fallen soldiers with ripped flea stature
in a gather of derailed habberdash in fishing the mast to
our ever hostile munti-pit flairs and the thick butter bat
down in jar and lit to flame to blast out right through 23
and a third too fast as the cast arrow stones and
car top down, bumpy road ticks in a service chicken roasting
on grass as pump filled limpnits gather out and in
gat load out, in the summers after-oven left over crates of the southern melting

Tuesday, 19 August 2014

Exit IV

Back pack, and the lambs on cold
cut fries and home-made dice
with little smilin teeth bursting through
dirt up to sun
and we back pan the cars, so we've been told
I die, everytime
and I burst in through front-door back
and I whistel blow all train to stop
and the core in my mouth-filled sweat
in the wet napkin dregs
and the cotton stand, and cold fucked smiles
in the stands, and shoe shine stores
and the washing machines and the old departments
and the fire truck man, with his hung out grease
and the just before tomorrows meat
in slick whining breath
and the bread, it fell on my head
to be devoured by Scorpions
as they play magic harmonies, to their fellow
vultures in yesterdays skies
it falls down too perfectly, and too unbeknownst
to the god within, as he plays black-jack and gin
with your sisters, and their wives
through the polkadot tables
untuned the granite village
the army it was too tight, to verse what could have been, and who to be first

Wanna share insanity in a cold-cut spiral tea-cup as cyanide pours in your brain matter
to mix with the bitches grins, and the grits in the teeth pittin up against Hell on Earth
bring all to clock glowing spins
and the third (rotation) always wins
but it was all butterfly after hours
and late night back rooms, where the poets speak to their own fucking lonesome death
and the spark plugs attach to her goddam hair, to pin it to roof
and fuck off with spitting fits, to ground to call the greaseball, by his name
the true cocksucker, the man with golden eyes
the wind is in mind, between the growing fields
to smash the glasses of liberty and honor
to fold under preasure and reassure that all is well if it started the same way
as her hair continues to fry on the back burner of her ashtray mind and cold
coffee burnt to the roof of her mouth, it frizzles and ticks the eyes brow
and pink ribbons and red stocking lace to the ultimate 'outta my fucking house'
as the hammer pins drop on time, every time
to the left great back stabbers and their lake testing Falkner
in the weatherballoon over Dallas, as she sings hyms
of when her eyes were Blue, but now so sour, so darkened and awful
pitched soul, like a tent as it pulls in the deep and rubbed over in your '64 chevy prince
it fell beneath the waves, and we looked to the ripples as we felt the life drain from our lives and exit into the spaces it had at one point in time, only to return to a similar car and a similar city, in 15 months, as the record tune-dial spins back around and calls you on the phone, to hang up over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again and again and again and again and again and again as the wheels the car stop table and the Earth crash to burn in comet split pipes the splinter in the fucking mouth the teeth the grating of gnashing the winged devils the horsemen and the shark whales and yester fucking shores the ravaged fire and scorched goddam earth as the sky falls and the little chicken ain't lieing it's all over as it falls to the pits and the pits are there only to bring back Sheol and what we knew of it in youth, as we searched that little black book for answers of death and we return again to ask the same questions again, we once did before, stick a label called philosophy, called art and bullshit and the 'who knows' and 'whats been done?' but we fall beneath the collapse of the Universe as it folds in on our little feeble weasel minds, but we can sit in the '64 chevy prince, one final time, radio plays static, and we watch it end.