PhotoemHave you ever grit your teeth inhumane and like them turning to sand turned tears fromeyes?Well, I'm not a nice person.Do not bother me.In focal length, the background blurs backwards away, the foreground stays.Reminditions of cinema flicks; the approaching herd of great wild beasts and deep dearRealization of oncoming trample slaughter pathTrees unfocusEyes big and unwary closenThat's that.And what of that? That? This, oh?God a rusty old gear is,looks in the bone likeFatty gelly honey residue on white ballThe silver trans-tarnished brown gear with pegs spinning butCringing interlockingAnd rusty like peppercorns crunching in weaved mix of the turning of the old cogsAnd that transmission is weakening and puking out (weary blue veins embed in skin,drained) exhausted thoughts.Well, while those are turning difficultly that encasement is unencroachingAnd like a vast monkey fissure skinning down the middle beasting light from that,Gyro of all those silly things—thirst le
Orange PeelsWhite line striking straight through dark plane,Extending self from old transgression to brighten all;I know something of it.It's the process of peeling an orange,Only don't know not supposed to eat the peels,So I eat them, but process of finding sweet orange fruit inside:That's like reverence.I am an orange.These are but the peels.
Thought SoupA tearing raindrop that falls instantly and infinitely,Wavering all the same always similarly, a stoked mantle and fireplaceAnd sometimes, oh, like crossed humorous bones only not laughing—chattling—With their omniscient empty eyes that can't really be made out, it doesn't really know,Give the crowd a cocktail, a Molotov friend overthrown under by hammer cracked for theice, it only wants to try a drink so give it one—Gross intestines squiggling like dense gross worms writhing in dead birds in a stomach's white obituaries and columned like white and black dividers the… (the worm)Oh the rib bleeding and puncturing the heart and shuddering stretching skin sadlyRemembering why it all is in the first place, a titanic angry stench of a feeling,'Paranoia is never satisfied' and so content with it:A black pit opened up in my stomach and I gladly fell into it.The great disappointing gap filled me with memory to all with despair.
Water in a CaveThose graceful notes of irreflectable wordsAre tracers of coolly lit neon lights above and in visions andThe feelings of water drops ripples in skins, as skins, is skins andOf wandering sleepless sleeps, to a boat, to a lake, to a refracted glass splinter flying farand straight to stare and to stare, to know andto know the perfect feeling, 'do you know what you are doing?' 'Perfectly,' andslight tap at door to cranium, into head, it is, you know, round andlike the bubbles in a water tap, or in a crawling spill of water, moving downward along awooden surface, seeping and molding the grains—into them—perfectly.Those graceful notions of whispersAnd of wind wildy blowing without regard andLike living in a glass heart of water ready to break because it is so sad to have it as it is,andThe lovely soft Voice of an absolute hour, of tomato's growing in a garden, of flowersblooming in dark caverns and cutting so deep to tunnels, it cuts so deep, andOf glad lights shining across c
The Horse and his Rock"These be strange times though"'Very strange, indeed.'"Man, I am so tired"'There is no evidence at all.""What?"A broken horse trots away from pulling stones for such a long distance.
The GoatThere is a goat in the road; it\'s causing quite a row.Don't think it does know; what troubles it causes here, and abroad.But, then, it goes on with its great indifference; the goat is quite an old bearded fellow.A old callow thing blows dust over desks, and kicks pebbles in the road,They are small; there are few.
Mary and the AnimalsAll lost hearts and heads lost we are dark shadows, tall bony silhouettes over castingshadows of gross length, moving along the road, along the corn stalks, their fields,listening to gloss blow, seeing to where the toads show, lookingFor sand to scrape over our eyes or toads to kiss, ikon.Looking for a donkey and a great swan named Mary over seven seas of sandsLooking for an oblique old man held close at hand, the hand, the grin, the crow from theclouds not quite white says like tall grass grim and windless prayer of suckingsoils thin—My will is consent, a keen river shall flow with keen attention,Fish will jump under the low and rising sun, blaring strips over low and high skies—To come in under a rising son, to behold the first new rays of fish and the jet stream ofstreaking eloquence and wind shuttering by the old and crispy scales, sloughingwater wherever way they flow up the stream to splash every length is running andhalf cut by such a flump.A fell wind rises on car
A heart in itAs a hand trowel digs, softly, sprinkling, light the same old brown sands of the soils, thegrains.So digs it—the careful vertical inverted "C"- Carefully trying to construct – carefully to touch it like trying to touch a wasp…Hollowed icicle bone and nerve to the thing of man, the tickling empty fingers of mandiblesWith watching fetal breath outward, tingles a shiver—of the ant of prosperity, rakingtoil, the movement of it on the object incisory. Things are tired and sad here, butjust the same I keep on going.We were weird kids.We wait for the other person to say something and be friendly.So we just kind of stare at one another resenting the fact that neither one of us have saidanything.The apex is only the opening; the opening is the end; to be opening the end you must beleaving the object of desire; the desire is fleeting; others come for the end; it is toleave the end like an ant to leave the foreign particles of goodness because thegoodness is a poison; a vicious tra