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Wednesday, September 21st, 2005
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3:03 am
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ocarina.aeolian.
maybe the writing is whore-dry, worthless of
Endorphins
and I don't want it anymore
who am I to throw away gifts of god?
meshing moments - stiff momentum -
thick, smoke-seared esperances on
the curtains of the church...
forgetting the war on the knees
and weapons of really old ladies.
Listless eyes and feet kick up sand-
['castle plots and plans?']
somewhere in there is stagnation,
and oh, I will pray,
I will pray, she said.
I will hold it in, and hope for
Animation.
what doesn't hurt? she cries,
in the pocket of her cheek
stretched out full for pleasure,
shiny-china churches, wax angels sing,
Hymnals are Bright Eyes' songs.
This promise is stale, this effort unable,
and oh, I will be careful,
I'll be careful.
And life is worth bouncing from pain to pain,
For a handful of hummus and a safe corner to die on.
The vertiginous eyes swirl as the Dead Sea's
sense of sea-sickness in still waters -
All this in the anchor of your head,
and it's coming apart in
the cautious sun over
the mysterious seams of
your tear-treasoned mouth -
clutches the last gulps of air, spit through,
the ocarina aeolian.
ky.
current music: building.a.mystery.
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| Wednesday, August 3rd, 2005
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2:27 am
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a pallid iconoclastic dissection deemed true
All was easier
When wind whispered softer
Through hair,
ached over by the moon
through
the sunroof,
seraphims and satellites –
our delight,
I and my smile - warmed by your imaginal vessel;
Tucked like an energy wheel behind your eyes.
[the waiting room of ill-regard]
Once simplicity seared the scalp in nocturne seas;
The nimbus hours but now
How it swoons, and how
I raise the vase to my lips,
When once raised to yours; kissed: now
A means of throwing up.
[the tireless fight]
How verily,
I throw up.
phermones seep through sweat-covered consoles,
a grasping for growth,
but only the stomach grows blind,
digesting every inch of promised spit shot
forth from your head -
Starved Intermission -
a skeleton steadily plunges from a cannon,
plummeting into the night fathom of ether,
stars are holes in the blanket of heaven,
love:shot:miss: fell intentional
[forging your shadow in every doorway... there's several]
entering into heaven.
Draw Mercy.
ky atherton.
current music: the snake the cross the crown :: echololia
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2:07 am
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A knuckle-malleated lullabye
Is all we’ve left, so,
cry, cry, cry,
nursing wounds and paper wires
red wagons and flaxen hats –
mmhmm, whatcha readin’ baby,
a fragrant lulling,
uh-huh –
it’s like a catch on a Sunday morning
of purest air,
as light as light ruptures,
it captures me; shut up in my hands, then
released, like
a paper bird birthed
in the fullness of my hands,
and it seems that all the vagueness in the vineyard is worth
the clarity that tops off the winepress.
Stripper pole; stamens thick with –
Revelation, therein –
Slavish peals of morning;
The flexuous muscle.
Throats rotted out on ardor,
He stands back, fists on the banister…
When it is over, there is nothing,
but the desire to
do it over.
current music: a northern chorus :: subject and matter
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| Thursday, July 28th, 2005
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9:47 pm
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a nail file, a knife
a plunging of steady hands
with bitter consent to the visitation,
my hand, and your flesh -
fresh on the knife.
a palpitable feast for morning coffee.
current music: mineral :: love my way
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facingxthexwall's journal