The Man in the SandI was walking with stooping conscience:And I felt the need to drag my feet in the sand.It created long trails sliding along the sandy slope.Of this lizard filled desert: of this lost, forgotten, menacing land.Up above – the sunrise – were thoughts shooting in every direction –Like the light that was reflecting off of the white sand,Like the light rays which were blinding my eyes by injection,I have never seen them after this like white grained paper.It has turned yellow challenging the integrity of our report.I cannot smell the look of it; I cannot hear the look of it,I cannot feel the look of it; I cannot taste the look of it.Sand tastes like water when you think it looks like water,I can't see it I think I might die of thirst.I pricked myself with a cactus.I was crawling and I found a half buried Skeleton,There was a shadow of a raven colored bird circling above.I rest at the foot of the Skeleton.I heard Its jaw open, the sand in between grinding and scratching bone.
Shopping with MomSnarling, sexy, mad, and jocose loose leaflets:Howling, foaming, inter-lashing, shuddering madness,Ecstatic sympathy threatening well being,Disease ridden, wild, meddle minding inter-disruption,Mangling, smacking, and sacking vicious google eyedMad and foaming, driven by loignes raving lunatic animal.That woman pulled a baby black cock from under her coatAnd smelled wet like curly wet dog hairAnd like cigarettes smoked into itWith bundling burning spaghettiCulminating through a burdensome divine messOf hellish proportions and vile crude teethScowling with kindness, simple grit nicotine pest,Combing gums and flipping of her wreathWringlets and local currency fowlingUnder a halo of savage infancyGrimacing her eggs on the belt, around rollingEmbarrassed and shallow meager inefficiencyWhich she can't couple calmly or collectivelyAs a maximum catalyst for impetus for an impotentGrey and dreary coffee man latrine flyIlluminating his lucid wing incandescentUnder and by a
Summer NostalgiaGo find it I think I saw it between the conception and the realityOf a winter sheet which stabbed between eyes, and soiledRancid brown grass horns jealously hibernating, and dampAppalling and stretching visible over the escapes, and perilouslyCreating sinking lanes and unbearable paths by which feet sink, and shootsOf stringy stalks of green growth splinting of and softening ground, and bleakDismal respectful patches the size of bodies brown wood boxes softening from the snow, and steelTips peeling roots back through the tough soils of seasons, and flakeyArtificial popcorn butter pollen from petals prowling in air, and fallingGravity burdened leaves which are red and orange and brown, and oldJumped in piles of them with slugs on the underside surprise, and turningSunned faces with middle fingers smiling up from car windows, and droughtTrout rivers with sun-frying salmon sadly lying up on sandy bank sides under the sun, and shriveledHay bale front lawns done from hibernatin
Life, etc.Ice is Waters subterfuge forHibernation is a supplication of sleep.Henceforth, in dreams are swept the inkling remains ofProspero's pen and papers. PulledFrom surge and ebb and uprisingIs the noir pulp, the arbitrary subterfuge for life.
Birds and PeopleHurtling with proportionate violent propensityOf something like a grey featheredBlack bearded crow smashing into the televating captivisionSliding glass door or clean window livesWhere light feathers of dust play in the dramatic densityOf sunlight and stillness,Jarring open the attention or air of an eagerly anticipated roleIn the high resolution of irreality before it bludgeonedThem with the trick they'd played on the birdWho laid then under an Easter lily growing underThe window or near the waterThat is taken by the old hound when it's thirstyunder the step of the door,Is a mannequin who took its oath and commanded the attention with ease,Of more than that of something like a thirty year old prostituteStanding next to a thirty year old prostituteWho hadn't seen and gobbled what it was shownThrough the store fronts of clean, clear businesses glass windowsWhere the same walking manikins sufferedDensely in the propensity of king cotton pickingAt which garb would bare
The Wooden ChairThe brick hearth and green glow of the gigantic cavern to warm by,The muggy filter of waving heat beats like a muggy heart,And the cool eyes enter the iris of fires pulsingLike the shot of a drowsy drug and tolling eyesAnd flailing brain falling to the floor relentlessly.The wood oak chair tilts back, and, on the brick, breaks the lantern,Black marks of impact rush out from the breaking,the wood splinters.Flying fast far and out, they all jab the ears and splints eyes, butThey burn too, like the others, focusing in, weary and tremblsome mirrors,The spectrums fill those eyes and blast out in beads and tearsWhile the spine bends to crack, creeping to the high point ofBlank memory under white lights, the heads lift and can't be held,In sight are heads, the whole arch is collapsed and kindling.