New Poems. Excerpts from upcoming collection OBLIVIONIC, WIth 100 new drawings. Launching sometime May.

 [unedited]

Count one hundred stones. Or coins. Or grains of rice.

Separating them on an ancient table

spreading out the seeds of countenance and crime.

Displeasure.

A flame reckons from a burning altar

a star in hinderance. An absolute monastery.

Count the days of irreversible scenes

the rays that interfere with dreams.

Faces lost in a haze of opium

wounded bodies along the walls.

Count one hundred hours, disappearing

syringes stuck in voudon dolls.

“This is the cure, this is the miracle.”

nodding heads. Agreeable symptoms.

Scribbling in the jaded ground.

Fingernail scratching counting days

one hundred

ninety nine

eighty eight.

Then you find, the elasticity of time is a fake.
Only blood on the fingers is real. A twang. A hurtful truth.

How long before we swing by to pick up ourselves?

The screeching of the tires is like a tired bird

attacked by the cougar of uncertainty.

There's blood draining into the fence.

Building up the wall of phantoms

and we are trapped on the other side

peering into our lost disciples

finding voids where valor used to be.

How we are permission'd.

How we are declined.

Towers sung in empty spaces

lightning brights the valid way

march.

The comets passeth us by

follow the night sky, dramatically displaced.

There are diagrammes by the road side

accidental to the path of vau.

Rabid break through to the south

candle burning in the mire

one more page, one more song to the sands of

one more turn, one more touch by the hand of

slipped away, adrift

“come on, girl, come on, soul.”

She shakes her head and leaves. Dramatis. Mantis. Pray. Heave.

Leap forward a thousand years. The sun is a stalemate, an unworthy whore.

We draw our breaths from deep below

looking down always as we walk

unable to catch the eye of strangers.

Heavy downpour in the dark.

Waiting by billboards of the past

holy symbols overlaid with papers

ads and numbers, porn and hooks

hung our clothes out to cry

a sequence rash on our skins

continents form, we are mistaken

boats drawn in, ready to burn.

“the wind is rustling paper bags.”

“shake them out, empty them out.”

“they have no heart.” she says.

So beautiful as she is sad.

“it's ok, love.” I take the bags from her.

So light and empty like her eyes

she lay her head upon my hands

i feel her weep on destiny lines.

Night dawns.

We return to bed. Asleep with the gas lights on.

Children stir with hollow guts.

Insects crawl on coma babies.

“can we feed them in our dreams?”

i'm not sure how to answer her.

It is a thought. So i meditate.

Invoking the lost forms of food.

She thinks i have abandoned her

but i only have power for a grain or two.

The great lightning blinds the night time

the great thunder announces terror

centurions climb a battered hill

sneers, malice in their hair.

Drag the chains

lashing, whipping

every scar a smile

a resplendent horror

i see the crystal drill bit

biting into the skull

a torrential pain

nails driven through hands

thunderstorm awakes above

prepare for downtrodding

elephantine vicious

the victim upon us which is the lamb

“you were one of them, you were there.”

“i know.”

my feet are sunk in mud of blood

i cannot look up at the skies

there, the gaze mirror traitor

i too called for the death.

“i'm sorry.”

noise comes down from heaven

bleating, beating, battle.

Found us, messeor

fina del abruja

“we cannot hunt on empty stomachs.”

“the fire is roasting nothing.”

“we must eat our children.”

i took stones and killed the hungry. Baby girl crouches in cave.

“it's ok. It's ok. It's safe now.”

she will not leave the darkness.

The art is in the madness itself. Corresponding to the infinite neuron

“you are what you invoke.”

and it is true, coming from her lips.

The rush has no where left to go

but up, she said, but up

and hence the heavens in the head is heightened

bricks in a weakling sack, grounded into dust.

A cup of coffee

the show is late now

and it takes you to the enchanted place

there is moonlight

a distinct past

dim the gas lights

the steam from the cup is thinning

sip. There is a pipe nearby.

The mad is in the art itself. Neutrons in infinite correlation

the head revolves around the sun

but on the other side

for tonight is late

and the show is on. Go on. Go on.

Smoke fills the bar

dough eyed darling with the tea

pouring me some sugar and sweet

she smells of stale sex

a heart cheated by hustlers.

She doesn't smile. Even when i show her my knife.

“you been killin?” she asked.

I don't smile. Unimpressed she lights a cigar.

She eyes the gun behind the counter.

The juke box plays jazz. A rambling tune. Picking up pace.

“Its all in the mad art” i tell her.

She nods. Amen. Wipes a sweat off her brow.

Poor woman.

The tunes keep playing. And i know this girl on the radio. She had taken me places before.

Sad, echoey places.

I forget her name.

she speaks of mountains. Eagles. Clouds.

I am old and weary.

The woman throws away the stale cake and offers me sex.

“amen.” i say. “amen.”

The heart remembers your love.

A burning ash on a page of letters

black hole time line,

disrupting coincidence.

A dancing girl in the shadows.

There is a marked loss

so quickly the clock turns, time moves backward to a place that once be

out at sea before foreign lands

paintings resume before a net of fish

the sun is scorching like the moon

rising where the whales lay dead

incumbent, derision, heaving final sighs

each hour that transcends takes us farther away

each minute that passes allowed us freedom

as we cut off from the world

as we set adrift to the sea

searching for cigarettes, for toxicity

here, there, scavenging the drawers

of unspeakable words, digging out old tools for new highs

sweeping up fragments, leaves, dust

signing accidental names in the dirt

remembering love

burning the remains of hair in a china glass

injuring the hand, red raw skin.

Tears are the common downfalls

evaporating into the flame

light the joss sticks.

Make offerings.

Empty the cup into a flooded sink

burnt hairs floating.

Drip tears to the mix.

Call her name.

You know this is the way

to make contact

you know this is the way

to remember her love

stir the concoction

hear forgotten laughter in your head

an echo of schizophrenia

a paranoia in vacant houses.

Pace up and down

awaiting invitation

awaiting the train to the other side.

Posted via email from AFTERVOLTER PRESS

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