flash of a neon light.

fear roams the rooms of this hollow dream
of which i stare into, ignoring the seam.
the stitches laugh in voices unknown,
tenors and baritones of the earth below.

I walk the line between the two: dream and earth.
my visions cloud the sky with a pulsating silence
and the light
touches
the horizon
where the clouds share death with rain
and bleed
into the silent well.

The echoes of memories ripples the ocean,
flows like mountains of nothing
until touching The door.
Signs lead the way,
but death is in the wake
of silence.
and life follows the thought;
the muse's touch;
the lightning eyes-
filled with music from the cloud God
i believe in.....
but..
also created.

How does meaning grow from cobblestone eyes?
Late at night, who whispers in the ears of the air?
Why would the Great One ask for passiveness?
Why not growl the thunder?

Why not touch ants with the prophet of darkness?
Why the promise of pain?

Naked light's voices roam the yard
haunting and
screaming
words of derision.
But silence is all that cools the grass here.
Forever.
Just voices no one shares.
No one can touch.
NO.

flash of a neon light.

Success

twittering sighs
whispering flies
the new mantra is
"buy"


cant help but stare
all this was so rare
when we valued "share"
instead of designer
"flair."

we lament our woes
as new, daunting foes
but from history's shadows
is where they
grow.

consumerism's rampant orthodox,
as infectious as chicken pox,
buys up junk, leaving nothing...
but our children in neck and arm
stocks.

Grow the pie is our game,
but not enough we complain.
So exponential debt swallowing
keeps us
"sane"
And bitchin that, relatively, times are worse
since Carnegie's reign,
well,
that's this generations only claim to fame.

"Success is in drought or has fled" or
"the American dream is dead."
This is America's new green eyed dread.
No more disputes of destiny about which we have read,
just small men bickering over who gets the bigger bed.


"Success" is a relative state
born of non quantifiable
echoes.

Alger never saw the "dream"
defined by material gained through
schemes-
in the form of tv screens
or gold plated limousines.


The "dream" is alive and well,
still yelling like crazy old Zell.
but how then is our debt doubled with each
day's clanging bell?

Is the money gone, or the spirit dead?
Was our wealth a mirage, born in the red?
Previous generations bode well,
but what in us makes the future a hollow shell?


Baby, Its that thirst for more.
Keeping up with the Jones's is the
score.
Back and
forth.

"Honey, call the neighbor and tell him about the new
Porsche."

Our parents Dream was to own a home;
support themselves by working to the bone;
saving to send their kids to college without a loan;
all their satisfaction stole from self reliance's dome.

This is the dream, breathing and living.
THAT pie is still lurching forward- always giving.

And while the average citizen yells "corporate fraud"
he puts his 20 dollar lunch on a near maxed out
credit card.
This mentality is not a class trait, but a cultural
mistake.
Spending money we don't have,
well,
that is the New American Way.

We have created the Napoleon class,
you and
I.
Whether
in a mansion,
or a double wide,
we are greedy by the masses;
our defining characteristic: Crassness.

And we blame only the "others" for our pains....
Derrida would be proud of his theory laid plain.
What a fucking joke, to outsiders it should seem we are insane.
But to which outsiders? Modern Capitalism has made us all the same.

Lazy Clipart Comics #1

Nostalgia
'tis my ethos
and my business
model.
but even with knowing you
and all
you
do
its difficult for my
grimy
window to the
world
to clarify
my dancing
nerve ends
tempo,
their song.
So i stare at
a the distorted mirrors
of time
and imagine
nirvana
in the human form
of a
syringe,
but sometimes,
when insulted by my
new chia pet,
i get real,
actual,
glimses of the dank
sunlight
through those
old, old,
clouds.
I smile
at these honest
hallucinations,
for i know they
are real
like Deepthroat was,
like the Jackal
was.
One might think
despair
is next,
but turning pages
is like
losing that favorite
passifier.
Sad,
but inevitable...

????

pain ridden eyes,

tear streaked thighs

pulsing for a

goodbye

are the life

of

strife.

But

what?

You expect me

to hide,

to not ride,

to side

with a

unglorious,

uneventful,

non- engagement?

I still dont know what your word-

safe-

meant.

Bent,

am i?

Sureptitiously draped

with morsels-

pics of

crepes- and

drapes

hide

ubiquitous

snakes

who want

my skin,

my breath,

Its their life

through my

death.

But fear not

and kneel high

to chance and the

sky,

for they alone

cry

dry

tears,

and leave

scars,

delicious scars,

that haunt for years

leaving no memory

of original fears,

but DO leave

the residue

of self-

assurance.

Masochistic, Baby..that why

Esphixiation is so nice
When lying here in mee garden.
The strangling limbs
Of this beautiful, blooming rosebush
Are just as deadly
And ominous
To me
As overdose is
To the
dear
junkie.

A fist that
Grips
For
Life,
That grips for
A slow,
Nice,
Death,
Will
Hold the suns rays
In an incandescent
Hearn,
Which it saves for future dinner parties,
Of course….

I grind and bash and mash
Stained glass into powder
To flavor my lamb,
To sweeten my cake,
And then I relax
And enjoy the blood flavored
Spittle.

I have always been a little self-destructive
I bellow to the unsuspecting sky.
While
Admiring the shape of a mortar shell,
I attended a peace rally
And was thrown out on my
Ass-
The ungrateful bastards!!!!
Don’t they know that without
My appreciation of death,
There are no hippies
Or peace rallies……..


They just don’t know
How
To appreciate
It all at once,
It all for what it is,
it from both sides of the spectrum,
it as a sad, happy, daunting, exuberant…..
experience.

‘cause that’s all it is, really-
An experience I choose to experiment with-
And I choose ignorance of the ignorant,
Abstinence from acquiescence,
Absence from the domicile
Of
Obligatory love,
Faux love,
perpetually abstaining
from
the engagement.

Don’t get mad,
Don’t talk about it,
Play the normalcy game,
Play the ice game,
Own the reality game,
But never buy a club
Membership again.


I wont be pious….
But I will say
Preconceived notions
And established normalcy
Will
Lead to that most
un needed of
emotions-

Guilt.

Untitled, a1a

sunsetrise

The Needle Tears A Hole

Blood, oil paint, and wax on canvas.

Family, Friends, And Long Exposures

everything you pushed
everything you faked with passion
all this is too much
too much to understand
too much to re-experience
too much to love you
again
bloodfilled ditches of the mind
see intuition negligence at fault.
I know so much more than you think i do.
I see
I see it all.
How could i not?
I see this experience as whole
it was finished a long time
ago
and to examine your streamlined actions
is beyond my capabilities for
treachery.
So what?
So where?
So who?
no-one is exempt from benevolent lying.
Why?
Why would you push for your nightmare?
Why would you tease my hands with
visions of mannah from circulonimbi?
What was the point of this?
All the truths that guide:
they blind,
worthless.
I gave you the keys,
even the back door's,
but you didnt really want it.
pretended to
No more illusions
or delusions
only cold-hearted logic
with a splash of Gin
and machoistic
exploitations

I feel Sanziband reaching up from the Dead Sea.

It doesnt feel dead right now.

It feels an awful lot like me.

A me i pretend i dont see.

A me i lock out with bolts and dreams and parthenon seams.



I feel death as real now as the day of my birth

The mistress reminds me my old commitments come first.

Clutching a golden fleece with no lining, i know my life is cursed.

Cursed with a gift; I know of my siblings i will take that ice bath swim the worst.



Life just becomes dull when you know whats coming

Standing in dark hallways, i can see the fat lady drumming.

and i spend my solitude like cheap pennies while running.

Running from the bottle, the point, the sniff, but something

has given me peace; i have given up on my cunning



So, back to the bottle it is for I

I will be floatin down a road headed to the sky

waiting for peace and a release to become candy for my eyes.

Time to make things happen again, and i will have to burn others like lye.

heavy handed figures in the shadows
beckon my untame game,
the cocaine in my vein,
the grit in my name,
the acid in my rain,
and the violence in my brain.

They look on disinterested
results are not sine qua none
for their happiness.
No.
They simply want the ride.
Their fingers dipped in the
hourglass without opening
their eyes.


But discussing Job
and why I should be like him
permeates the frozen air
from their forked tongues.

I dont know where this life goes,
where the masters say it shows
what it is for that we overdose
and watch the black blood
flow from a nose.

I know now.
Fleeting passions are the sun,
the moon,
oxygen.
Holding on to truth
will teach you
that there is none,
and has never been.

Fuck what you think is right.
There is no right or wrong.
There is only what you do or dont do.
What you want is what matters.
Motion is deceptive, and
will make you think
it has meaning, but
it doesnt.
Take all
Rape all
Fuck all
You are Lono.
Be the change indeed?
Fuck that.
Abstain
Abstain
Abstain
and love art.
Those are the two
the only
two.

l;kajsdfl;kjasfd

You want this?

I want this?

all so unclear.....

I knew oceans of blood would be the path,

but i never saw the aerial bombardment coming.

And forests of pleomorphic foliage are

all i see- why? why? why?





Placitory palavering is always this foam,

this worthless fucking foam,

but i sleep in it.

Its in the veins of my neck and the marrow in

my bones.




Loquaciousness is not my way,

but for me to achieve the plenal state,

you must understand this jet plane

is tabescent.






Can't sincerity abound?

I've nothing but an empty soul and

a yearning.

hunger.

for reciprocated benevolence.

That is what matters now.

I love you, but i feel Danu.

fearing The Lost Pleiad.

Resentment

Coming in fast like an arrow
I can hear it from far away
but where doth original emnity lie???
You know, Mrs. Merlin, dont you?
You predict the unknown with
all the confidence of an
aardvark rube.
But, what is this??
It was here the whole time.
Resting in my heart, waiting
to pounce
on....
an inflated sense of insight.



Soo.......here it is......
I give it freely without a heads up.
A present some deserve more than jewels.....



Let this be a lesson...to
predicting the future, lying benevolently,
and unconscious manipulation,
for blind naivety can still sin against
my nature.
And insulting my intelligence...well...
unforgivable..
even if done unknowingly.
No More Obsequiousness, No More Love.
Only a black hole left,
where once lived a dove......

I think this captures it.
fucking bitches man...

a few random thoughts

Hug the live wire and appreciate
a jolt of gloom to be
your controoling mind's ego
exerting its obsession
over you.

In the experience of sublime
we are all throwin dimes
reaching through the eye of time
to hold on to what we feel inclined



but holding on to anything
is a mistake of hubris

blame me
blame me now,
for all your lies have
fallen before shadows
and misty eyes.
They Fly like the breeze
they own the cellardoor
and the vision of rain
which is the moon landing
plus my senses

Sincerely,
Capt. Blackbeard

iceus

broken ice so much is like us
melting away slowly in the serenity
of salinity
us is failing to stay afloat now
and growing smaller by the day
us will be no more soon
the sea ice is so
seasonal
a circle
of liquid
and solid
governed by the sun cycles, always knowing
the ice reforms
soon enough
but us is not so fortunate
now melted completely