Cordoned on at sea level we see the pictures disentegrate, falling off the edge into kaleidescope powder puddles. That’s when we see the subtle arrangement of the cosmos projected vividly onto domes of washed correction fluid. It oodles up and down my spine with an intricate knowledge of my body. As I break away from all this wrought emotion and try intently to be completely content, riddles from the future are pushed backwards in time and taped all over me. I can now read my body and along each muscle is a punchline or an exaggerated sonnet of the perverse. As I walk, the light is punching at my suggestions and people for miles around me are staring and poking and prodding and mocking and laughing.
Posts Tagged ‘Prose’
Pictures
May 28th, 2009
Assimilate / Close the loop
December 4th, 2008
Everyone is happy sharing their identity with Facebook.. Sharing videos of themselves.. what if all instant messaging services blogged what the user said?
What if you could determine patterns in the conversations and link similar minded people together in a way never before possible?
The humble literary conversation.
Published for the world to understand and the good and beautiful leaders to interpret.
Imagine a person who sincerely believes one way, but is conflicted, repressed.. that person doesn’t speak out. They go along with others in conversations and also in their actions.
Everyone is a product of everyone else. Peer pressure is a tiny shrivel in comparison. Each time you see another being act, you assimilate that information into your own identity, the same identity that you pass on to your children.
I’m talking about big brother, but in a positive way.
Your alarm goes off at 7:30am because it knows what is best for you, because IT knows everything. IT knows what you ate yesterday, how much sleep you got last night and what came out of your body.
IT will INFORM you of what is best to eat, what places best suit your personality and what time to enact your zany ideas. IT understands you and everyone else. IT knows what speed your car needs to be going to create a smooth, flowing traffic system with no accidents, unless of course IT determines they need to occur.
IT is all of us, independently of eachother.
Everyone is happy sharing their identity with Facebook.. Sharing videos of themselves.. what if all instant messaging services blogged what the user said?
What if you could determine patterns in the conversations and link similar minded people together in a way never before possible?
The humble literary conversation.
Published for the world to understand and the good and beautiful leaders to interpret.
Imagine a person who sincerely believes one way, but is conflicted, repressed.. that person doesn’t speak out. They go along with others in conversations and also in their actions.
Everyone is a product of everyone else. Peer pressure is a tiny shrivel in comparison. Each time you see another being act, you assimilate that information into your own identity, the same identity that you pass on to your children.
I’m talking about big brother, but in a positive way.
Your alarm goes off at 7:30am because it knows what is best for you, because IT knows everything. IT knows what you ate yesterday, how much sleep you got last night and what came out of your body.
IT will INFORM you of what is best to eat, what places best suit your personality and what time to enact your zany ideas. IT understands you and everyone else. IT knows what speed your car needs to be going to create a smooth, flowing traffic system with no accidents, unless of course IT determines they need to occur.
IT is all of us, independently of eachother.
Moonside Fire Nightmare
December 1st, 2008
Bad bat shit on the river. Alive in the canoe he breaks wind forgiving those that washed him when he was an infant. We smelt the fire from miles away and it gave us a break from the ghastly chopping of bovine necks. She really stood for us and lent for us and cooked for us. It was over when the raven sung and shot the carnival bloke.
Flappy fire live a little, you think he got it good? I never would have recognised the banshee if it wasn’t for the reflection of the stained glass system carerring amongst the fibreboard. We smoked. Have you been planted in the ground? Roots and all? Pints of blood and little marsupiulas flatten for the umpteenth time, all for the great deity. Push your face underground and forget about breathing. Its a lie.
Bad bat shit on the river. Alive in the canoe he breaks wind forgiving those that washed him when he was an infant. We smelt the fire from miles away and it gave us a break from the ghastly chopping of bovine necks. She really stood for us and lent for us and cooked for us. It was over when the raven sung and shot the carnival bloke.
Flappy fire live a little, you think he got it good? I never would have recognised the banshee if it wasn’t for the reflection of the stained glass system carerring amongst the fibreboard. We smoked. Have you been planted in the ground? Roots and all? Pints of blood and little marsupiulas flatten for the umpteenth time, all for the great deity. Push your face underground and forget about breathing. Its a lie.
Ariel Dolores Akizuki Buckles
January 11th, 2008
You smell like a wet towel
fragrant and swell
like a potato mashed into the tiles
like the sound of a steady drum
like a wind that spits indefinately, like a little song
sung by the stones, like a sudden love,
a warmth condensing
a sugar cube melting
a piglet squeaking in delight.
Like a dizzy giraffe on its back,
like a gift from another dimension,
like a great fat hole in the ground,
a pickle, a tiny shell,
with a boulder floating in the sky,
like the bubbles rising from the sea,
like Aunty’s scones and cream,
like a mist in the trees,obscuring your vision.
Like laughter erupting, like a purchase
you can never return to the store,
like the uniform we wear to the decadent glow,
and a slippery dream of childish beatings,
the tumbling horns they gave to the natives
forgetting the discourse which led them to fight,
a familiar smell, like somewhere a garden would grow.
Is inside my nose, where I can smell her the most.
like the scent left on my clothes
from a secret baby, full of milk
You smell like a wet towel
fragrant and swell
like a potato mashed into the tiles
like the sound of a steady drum
like a wind that spits indefinately, like a little song
sung by the stones, like a sudden love,
a warmth condensing
a sugar cube melting
a piglet squeaking in delight.
Like a dizzy giraffe on its back,
like a gift from another dimension,
like a great fat hole in the ground,
a pickle, a tiny shell,
with a boulder floating in the sky,
like the bubbles rising from the sea,
like Aunty’s scones and cream,
like a mist in the trees,obscuring your vision.
Like laughter erupting, like a purchase
you can never return to the store,
like the uniform we wear to the decadent glow,
and a slippery dream of childish beatings,
the tumbling horns they gave to the natives
forgetting the discourse which led them to fight,
a familiar smell, like somewhere a garden would grow.
Is inside my nose, where I can smell her the most.
like the scent left on my clothes
from a secret baby, full of milk
Slipping yo-yo
September 21st, 2005
Is it a frond or blue feather, teasing your train of horse membrane.
Collected by the bannister and sorted into monolithic shrines.
Gleaming .. Wheezing .. Displeasing ..
Falling porous serpent fingers.
They shrink things into shapes for practical purposes.
Begging lawyers to fuck their mothers, one anothers, toes dripping deep almost fucking engulfed.
We slither forever with our grip pressed up against eachother.
Fornicating on beautiful bridges, glass embedded in our foregasm,
Ears are children of our temple laid out, decorating tonight.
If you swim, make it amongst the flipping energyo o’ yo yo…
Is it a frond or blue feather, teasing your train of horse membrane.
Collected by the bannister and sorted into monolithic shrines.
Gleaming .. Wheezing .. Displeasing ..
Falling porous serpent fingers.
They shrink things into shapes for practical purposes.
Begging lawyers to fuck their mothers, one anothers, toes dripping deep almost fucking engulfed.
We slither forever with our grip pressed up against eachother.
Fornicating on beautiful bridges, glass embedded in our foregasm,
Ears are children of our temple laid out, decorating tonight.
If you swim, make it amongst the flipping energyo o’ yo yo…