Thursday, November 10, 2011

There is nothing that moves past a jasmine bath
can't move past


Wednesday, October 26, 2011


She strikes a chord
a transitional B minor
and the floor folds
and her sound braids itself into a rope ladder
that doesn't go up
but slithers across the Antarctic Desert
and melts centuries into the sea

and then the sea begins to swell and the wavelengths begin to vocalise
and her mouth opens low to high
her pitch clears the vault
and fleets of finches band the sky

The sky blots over spilt paint
tamed prussian blues
breakwater into low res cobalts
the trembling audio has something to do with her paint brush
she blends the natural disaster with ease
and makes comrades with Pieter Bruegel
only she can do that without a time machine
"The Fall of the Rebel Angels".

The pencil slides off her desk
and the sound of lead hitting the floor
insists she retrieve her sharpener
and sharpen he blade of war
with a close eye to the paper
her dry eyes don't splinter
she masters what she sees.

For she is a looker.

like the skinned rabbit hanging at the front door  weighs the bells of sacrifice clattering down the
hallways of he said she said buckling the boots of disbelief all is fair in love and waaaaaaaar
chattering teeth from the skull, only a light beaming out of its eyes can guide the way,
skull on a stick woodswoman skull on a stick woodswoman skull on a stick woodswoman
please guide the way, after you madwoman you look lovely tonight been round these parts before?
train track Jack, one tooth less, less is more, blue eyed banjo man what are you doing here, there are
no folk here to applaud you, to awe you, to stroke you, to coax you to happily help you. Move along
busker man its only the woman with a fox around her neck and a gun in her hand, guide the way
woodswoman guide the way woodswoman theres no time to be lonely when you have to worry
about bears busts tigers tusks snakes escapes spiders and misers fast cars stolen cars cities with banks
and jails and history. Noise in the light noise in the darkness there is nothing lonely about life, fusica pink
crimson red leopard yellow lake water green neurotic white stumbling over what never could be,
you wouldn't be the lover you're not the lover, where is the messenger, where is the gun, where is
the woman with the skull on the stick...der Himmel und der Boden der Himmel und der Boden
der Himmel und der Boden der Himmel und der Boden will keep us safe will keep us all at bay,
we too are like the skinned rabbit waiting for its next meaning.
Within the confinements of space he sits facing the corner with his back to what is
he wants to sit there
like that
he wants to sit with his back to the frame smoking a cigarette
nimble youth foreshadowing his stand as man, his rally

midnight brown hair
waving like a gesture
white t-shirt
slouched in raw denim
foot taping eagerly in black converse on the hardwood of the third floor
one leg crossed over the other

as he leans in to smell the transcendental arrangement of flowers

" I am the embodiment of youth"

he confirms with ease

and then returns

to his seat.


Tuesday, August 2, 2011


Fragile chamomile
with a slanted stalk of black

Routine less like fuschia
structured like a coffee stained page
Voltaire's Dictionary
upper arms are snowy white
smooth and unaffected
nobody knows about the poetry above the elbow
behind the sleeve
farmers tanned by labour
writers white by thought

you look good in Lees
in dark alleys
fussy sanctuaries

you walk around the same block
how does it look today
a blend of navy,
muddled green
and way late yellow
all overexposed

shake the camera at 100 ISO
you're not there
only your East feet
how are they on the old streets
do they leave behind the same colours as the early years
tungsten yellow
blue time
silver spit
thrasher over a multi sunrise

how are your hands


Thursday, July 14, 2011

Young Russian

Ulan Ude

Young twin with freckles, same as hers, where'd your sister go?

follow her home

follow her home

follow her home

North of China
Russian folklore

...where'd your sister go.


Saturday, July 2, 2011

Plain Fade


The Underground Dictionary

Wayfarer slash transatlantic modernist

Artist, poet,

Famous Clairvoyant


Thursday, June 30, 2011

Do not cut your hair until winter solstice

                                 not even your bangs

                                 not even your bangs

                                 not even your bangs



Saturday, May 28, 2011


The boy was in the hallway drinking a glass of tea
From the other end of the hallway a rhythm was generating
Another boy was sliding up the hallway
He merged perfectly with the hallway,
He merged perfectly, the mirror in the hallway

The boy looked at Johnny, Johnny wanted to run,
But the movie kept moving as planned
The boy took Johnny, he pushed him against the locker,
He drove it in, he drove it home, he drove it deep in Johnny
The boy disappeared, Johnny fell on his knees,
Started crashing his head against the locker,
Started crashing his head against the locker,
Started laughing hysterically

When suddenly Johnny gets the feeling he's being surrounded by
Horses, horses, horses, horses
Coming in all directions
White shining silver studs with their nose in flames,
He saw horses, horses, horses, horses, horses, horses, horses, horses.
Do you know how to poney like bony maroney
Do you know how to twist, well it goes like this, it goes like this
Baby mash potato, do the alligator, do the alligator
And you twist the twister like your baby sister
I want your baby sister, give me your baby sister, dig your baby sister
Rise up on her knees, do the sweet pea, do the sweet pee pee,
Roll down on her back, got to lose control, got to lose control,
Got to lose control and then you take control,
Then you're rolled down on your back and you like it like that,
Like it like that, like it like that, like it like that,
Then you do the watusi, yeah do the watusi

Life is filled with holes, Johnny's laying there, his sperm coffin
Angel looks down at him and says, "oh pretty boy,
Can't you show me nothing but surrender?"
Johnny gets up, takes off his leather jacket,
Taped to his chest there's the answer,
You got pen knives and jack knives and
Swithblades preferred, switchblades preferred
The he cries, then he screams, saying
Life is full of pain, I'm cruisin' through my brain
And I fill my nose with snow and go rimbaud,
Go rimbaud, go rimbaud,
And go johnny go, and do the watusi, oh do the watusi

There's a little place, a place called space
It's a pretty little place, it's across the tracks,
Across the tracks and the name of the place is you like it like that,
You like it like that, you like it like that, you like it like that,
And the name of the band is the
Twistelettes, twistelettes, twistelettes, twistelettes,
Twistelettes, twistelettes, twistelettes, twistelettes

Baby calm down, better calm down,
In the night, in the eye of the forest
There's a mare black and shining with yellow hair,
I put my fingers through her silken hair and found a stair,
I didn't waste time, I just walked right up and saw that
Up there--there is a sea
Up there--there is a sea
Up there--there is a sea
The sea's the possibility
there is no land but the land
(up there is just a sea of possibilities)
There is no sea but the sea
(up there is a wall of possibilities)
There is no keeper but the key
(up there there are several walls of possibilities)
Except for one who seizes possibilities, one who seizes possibilities.
(up there)
I seize the first possibility, is the sea around me
I was standing there with my legs spread like a sailor
(in the sea of possibilities) I felt his hand on my knee
(on the screen)
And I looked at Johnny and handed him a branch of cold flame
(in the heart of man)
The waves were coming in like arabian stallions
Gradually lapping into sea horses
He picked up the blade and he pressed it against his smooth throat
(the spoon)
And let it deep in
(the veins)
Dip in to the sea, to the sea of possibilities
It started hardening in my hand
And I felt the arrows of desire

I put my hand inside his cranium, oh we had such a brainiac-amour
But no more, no more, I gotta move from my mind to the area
(go rimbaud go rimbaud go rimbaud)
And go Johnny go and do the watusi,
Yeah do the watusi, do the watusi...
Shined open coiled snakes white and shiny twirling and encircling
Our lives are now entwined, we will fall yes we're together twining
Your nerves, your mane of the black shining horse
And my fingers all entwined through the air,
I could feel it, it was the hair going through my fingers,
(I feel it I feel it I feel it I feel it)
The hairs were like wires going through my body
I I that's how i
That's how i
I died
(at that tower of babel they knew what they were after)
(they knew what they were after)
[everything on the current] moved up
I tried to stop it, but it was too warm, too unbelievably smooth,
Like playing in the sea, in the sea of possibility, the possibility
Was a blade, a shiny blade, I hold the key to the sea of possibilities
There's no land but the land

Looked at my hands, and there's a red stream
That went streaming through the sands like fingers,
Like arteries, like fingers
(how much fits between the eyes of a horse?)
He lay, pressing it against his throat (your eyes)
He opened his throat (your eyes)
His vocal chords started shooting  like (of a horse) mad pituitary glands
The scream he made ( and my heart) was so high (my heart) pitched that nobody
No one heard that cry,
No one heard (johnny) the butterfly flapping in his throat,
(his fingers)
Nobody heard, he was on that bed, it was like a sea of jelly,
And so he seized the first
(his vocal chords shot up)
(like mad pituitary glands)
It was a black tube, he felt himself disintegrate
(there is nothing happening at all)
And go inside the black tube, so when he looked out into the steep
Saw this sweet young thing (fender one)
Humping on the parking meter, leaning on the parking meter

In the sheets
There was a man
Dancing around
To the simple
Rock & Roll

                             - Patti Smith


Wednesday, May 11, 2011

I Am 25

With a love of madness for Shelley
Chatterton Rimbaud
and the needy-yap of my youth
has gone from ear to ear:
especially old poetmen who retract
who consult other old poetmen
who speak their youth in whispers,
saying:--I did those then
but that was then--
O I would quiet old men
say to them:--I am your friend
what you once were, thru me
you'll be again--
Then at night in the confidence of their homes
rip out their apology-tongues
and steal their poems.
                          - Gregory Corso