Popcorn Pops you KnowA kernel of golden smoothed popcorn,forcefully held.Jumpingthough easy, impossibleWhose temperance is measured by a desiredpatienceyet still is held overA flame with a fire creepingOver a shoulderWhose presence is detected by radianceOf the unwanted entity:yetstill nagged byto the point whereblooming in full, fullwhite petals tinged with pollen butterBut rather whose light is shut offand put to darkCeasing blossoms and cooled core put again to the omniscient Sunwhose fire turns the goldenoily kernel to a dull, drab kernel besetting its moments to flourish – dipped in rainWarmed by bath and shot into a simmering tinkling rainGiven the opportunityNeglectedWho's regretted any chance and still held by the feetThe unbearableUncomfortableleamingthreat of fireand heatand again who is pulled from the boiling waterFrogand lives to see the next trial of inabilityor ineptitudeWhose skin has become boiledand sloughedready to be offed or the kernels ownAppearanc
Wailing RiotsMore catatonic blue mellow riots mowling down kicked back city streetsPicket sticks and flicked slightly miffed,Foot flowing over pave not watching streets waltzing zipssteep steady feet keep rolling on down if you stare the feet don't move it's the meanroads who do and – and – and I think the gravels really sting stucked in skin on kneesfalling down.I love whales
VisNot as bad as when you think of it.And it hit me then:There's an empty pattern in the gloaming,You can't see it; that's why it is empty.A harrow collecting sky is combingOver the miniscule fibers that fabricate clouds and in a junction, all of the other thingsthat are worse.It's more random words that run through a head, run together and smashed like apples and jammed, than I'd bother to write down.Treachery again.And signs and symbols and clouds and dust and water and fences and sun and grass and dots on the road in headlamps and fog caught in refracting drops of it and a guard rail that doesn't want to be there and a street sign and a little car heater and a triangular window to cool the auto and phasing out behind the controls because no rail wants to be there while music entrances the nature of the brisk and grim – well you know, it's like again as they've said again and again and every frail heart who's thought it:why, there's no point to bother because it's so dull anyw
PsysilipoemI didn't think my brain could masturbateBut every effortless last 'gyzym of conscious'Spewing forth with the greatest last testament of light superceding light,The quaking feverish bodyBares down to stand crying naked and broken whollyThe last great gasping sighs—I feel so malleable.I am a well oiled machine. I steel box, endless mechanism. Insert oil here.The spine shaft shivering down solid body,Quivering quibbling endless brain notation RichterThis is shaking the foundations of my mad steel and cement feet,Bolts and all.There was this grey profile crow transparent all black no depth in it which—And a tree not a tree but a wire tree extending into two from every branch infinite big treeOne seed one brain one stem from begin no end only death end growing to witherIt's seamless… ellipses understand better than them…Thought is like a maple tree leaf that's fallen off of a tree and is withering brown and likeMind, and like it's brown hide syrup we're only pouring it out.
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