01.30.09

monkey men, you lose your cool,
famished for degraded attention.
you got dead winded notions of self expression,
predictably patterned, like human sundials.
shedding dead skin day after day,
your imagination will surely parish.
so quick to judge excitement and enthusiasm
as a diners eaten full ego.
in no light is it okay to achieve personal freedom feelings
and second to second happiness;
from gratuitous sight and sound?

mulling over your dull words,
that after time rolled by salty water and rip tides
turn into stabbing china beach fits of anger.
wading deep in summertime waters in play clothes.

well you can't see.
monkey man who is quick to judge, when you lose your cool.
drip brow sweat, facing hair growing from your chin,
like god spited you.
well he spited your pores and cells did he?
not a single planet aligned in your mind tonight.
where did jupiter go while you were lined back to front,
picking ticks and lice from each others wind blown scalps?
feeling dead inside a heavy cage.
you know we're all so scared, that the world is ending.

art maggot

A taste of three.

the normal

inspirations for this week!

childhood favourite.

I think I liked this so much at the time because it scared me a bit.

early abstractions, harry smith.

stolen keno pencil marks

july 7th 2007

hope in the den, we stay here like static and rust,
my heart healing flesh so delightful,
scaring paper
we embrace the lighthearted
who make their way through our lives with sympathy
hoisting panic and vomit high above kites and clouds
unlike birds, they will wilt and fall
ashes ashes. static and rust.
lovingly stepping upon air,
cracking the pavement.
searing dreams, searing flesh on your tongue,
you can't take back those holes you dug,
digging out of the flat white dark.

it's been so sharp.
keeping with the traditions I defined as my mind.
paper.
panic. static.
rust.

(jotted down in the back of a book I found on the road titled "the beauty of kindness" in a dirty dark pub, wasted.)

things get too straight, I can't bear it.

If I could find anyway to express how feel at this exact moment....I couldn't write it down any better.

eisbäer, kaltes is.

one night stand with james osterberg jr.

dancing like poison deep in his pores,
kissing collars of wool jackets,
scratchy lips meet a new warmth,
needling into my tongue.
sewing sound into my ears with dollar store twine,
pulling back and forth through my head,
pieces of brain caught in chunks
dragging on the fibers,
digging,
shaving his hair,
crumbling razors on his neck bleed rusty sap,
leaving his skull looking like a rotting musty pumpkin patch.

his body is tangled in tacky raffia folk art,
it chafes his skin when he wiggles around
trying to scratch at the hives under the sponge painted
bathroom border on his thighs.
chewing at his toes for comfort in the corner,
like a salty dog with a five week old fish slopping around it's mouth,
inside his saliva feels like gravel.

juice box in hand he slithered out the crack in the back door,
leaving the couch smelling of hungry men.
I doze off into sheets of frost,
that blanket the fields outside
melting into sun rays.

hell language

works by P. Teramode

fumio miyashita

early january ink stains

01.05.09

patterned glass and fortuned favorites,
decrepit underbelly lies low with plastic
stacking bottles
pulling chunks of our mistakes from
dissected birds, disillusioned that we
are any different, a hard beak could easily
process your narcissistic plugs,
when summer is done and gone you are on
the sick saddle headed west with the rest of us.

01.06.09

royal jelly
a tongue on the street,
the dirt in your mouth
gossip beat, collapse repeat,
partitions of cold spoken words
sealed into lungs eating alive,
eating poison spit oxygen,
death pulling upon your veins
while killer bees lick their own lives
off your honey dipped toes.
peeling their sticky wings from your unkempt nails,
inching over your knees
convulsing
you feel them consume your heartbeat,
a collapse release.
only your dirty tongue left to lick up the street.