The Golden Damned (XXXVIII): HEGELIAN ESPRIT

HEGELIAN ESPRIT

Not in darkened doors, in yae in darkened hallways there are ghosts whinnying like horses to imitate a scare. In the hearts of the listeners through the walls in whose rooms mannequins are moving toward the windows to spy the cows in the fields out there, no, in the fencing, yes, at the edge. There is a weirdness to this place. This house. Imagined in the mind. As all things imagined find themselves in a place like. On the air, too, but imagined. We are coming down, too. We angels in Hegelian esprit proffering angles on the scene in the stills of each tape’s cells. Coming to on a table in a dining room in the dark. Not for dinner, yae, not for breakfast or lunch, but for all time this sense fading there is something being lost you have something to do with the forgetting of, the angels and their offerings of film strips and their ways of making you wonder together with your feverish dreaming what is going on, not a single answer to be had yet. Not a single way to the place you want to go. With no roads there. A wonder. I know. There is a man on the corner selling pot asking you why you move like that and how does he know you and where are you from? And what do you say to that? Hold up, fine specimen. There’s plenty of fun to be had yet. Not a single scripture could foretell the kind of rapture in your heart you’ve got going on now. Not a single speed link of line spread could detail the way you zoom through each platen’s line and rollback and wade a stifling sneeze over the edge of matters elsewhere. No, wait. Ahh. (Choo!) ¶ Have you yet been told there are ways to deal with the knocking off the matter the not knowing which control lets you reach lightspeed in your spaceship the wonder how improbable it is you’d hit a celestial body of any sort just going speeding infinitely straight ahead. There is another knock at the door. Can you get up? Can you answer it? There is a stranger selling magazines wanting to confer with you about a sale going on through the door. He is standing on the porch licking his lips, thinking of green-green money. Paper bills. The like. The wonder of it all. There is a new sofa gone sailing down the river someone must’ve had wrecked off their truck bed over the side of the bridge. Who knows. Where it came from. But there it is: with the icefloats. Yae for tomorrow’s timberline a series of mint-whiskered fallabouts wondering Why and Why is their life so grandly gray and Why and so on as the trees fall one after the other to the sounds of large buzzsaws. Godly gravity taking hold again. There is an emptiness past the fragile mind being sober. For so long. Almost seven months. Something like. But yes it has been some time, and yes there is a wonder there about what to do with oneself now that all this craving has reached back up again into the realm of the heart—of the gnarly-headed mind. A wonder with headphones on, listening to Pink Floyd. The need to relate to some imaginary reader some imaginary place in imaginary time. The imaginary city of the damned, with steaming shrubbery. On the edges of the sidewalks. Over bridges. The imaginary lie. A lie within a lie. A series of words some old crazy sober man says which make about as much sense as you’d like. This is not a set thing. Just a rambling on the things which fall off all the like, the sense the page is an ocean and we are all wading through the edges of it to the sandbars where maybe we can wade again and stand upright. But there are stories. Waiting within words. Within stories. The way. There are ways the stories get made but make themselves nonsensical that way. The green-green dollar bill’s raging at the floating off of property into nature. The going-away for all time. The wonder. If it’s a life sentence. In a body we operate like watching a movie. You’re meant to serve or not. The wonder. The lack of a place-name. The way. ¶ I pull off in hundreds my thousand layers and eye what husk of myself is left in the mirror. Wonder how high I could be right now wanting a blunt or something, wanting something. Wanting almost anything just to get high. There is a jety stream falling closely behind your body in the air as you upend your ass off the table and go warily for the door. Have some conversation. With some salesman. About what he is selling. Not known. To anyone, either one of you. Not known. It is a wonder. This vague sort of emptiness going running through the veil of the mist in the day the time not well spent but well spent all the same, all of this getting recorded by ANGELS yes by ANGLES yes. All of this getting recorded, who knows. I wonder. The dreamy dreamy quality to the havingslept oceanic-eyed still somnolent bastard writing wearily on an Underwood Star about the whole experience of the dream, yae. Not a care in the world except to spell out some words, mayb, but also the wonder there is a way to, there. Snow atop the ice atop the river, now. There is a sheet of white pooling up over everything under the snowfall, here, in Montana. This is not autobiographical. This is just a singsong way of telling you. The same things. I’ve always said. In some way. This is not the end of the sentence. This is not the end of the paragraph. There is a want to. There is a dream of. There is a way back. And it is not through the opening of the door there is knocking at. It is not in the waking up or the doing the thing in the bedrock, no, yae, no…. There is water somewhere natural being frozen, and that is the way we know, sleeper, there is water in the way there is a way back. Oh

The Golden Damned (XXXVII): PRIMARY LOVE

PRIMARY LOVE

These words have all different meanings in the circus of life. Well done wine proffers a delight to your eyes. In sky tones. Delivered meaning. Crying out to blue, in sway, a seed of truth. Plants grow on the opposite ends of our size. Needing breath. Terastalized deception over now. It’s all-damn-right. We can’t quantify the Gretchens’ corporal minds. 3 or 4 or 5 of us in dropped daylight. Surface beams a many manic weathered days. Over us in secret how a balloon flies. But depth-left of center, just ending on an ocean of glazed rolling eyes, again, oh… did the carnation buffer in the windspritz onward where its petals loomed for a lot on light. There was the beginning of a want to be all right again. That same twinge in heatric, with the fervor of a sinner’s heart. We may yet equine—I’m sorry: opine. We may yet opine that there are bricks as soft. So tell us. Few of you you have might to tell us of. In Hondad rivulets let gloom in to night-light. The same shame a nevered fjord would’ve ankle-blasted to step a few. That was the recourse of a humbled dash on spittle’s maw. For famed old divorces of a humbled ash on jetter’s few. I know it not all the time, son, way-long. Some of us living in the light can’t afford to. ¶ How to more fully conceptualize entropy the leatle-winks of aspry droll. And all our heads have rolled—but not, son! You have known just as I have known what it takes to become a person in this day and heat, one. You have surfaced on the face of the sun in dreams overwhelmed in vats lost of starburning retrogrades. You have made this palace a home, a home. And for once would you, oh honest simple thing, re-relate the incidents to the ones about the wall? They have not yet heard of us, or our suns lights, or our stars’ worlds going hypertrophied in the vast desolate grayscale of space. A metric ton for a fact still left over. Implausible darkness at the edge of them all. You who would wait for me on the other side of a fall, I am grateful that—yes, I am grateful that you would wait for me. I do not know what else to say now to y’all. ¶ In principle flashly, despite what our cants have in sight, I know—I know—I know, I am not prepared at all. There is something like a lie being told at the center of the self you can’t get over but will, I will you, now. To. In Decembering fervor while it is January still yet you do not know. I cannot pick you all up like that. Not just like that, no. My wallet is lost somewhere and the bed makes us red, va. I had a dream I was searching for the love in serialized beds, with inflatable dancing alien sheens being breathed through, protracting. I made friends in disappearing projects against the plight of bulldozing machines and ampterfuge. I found lost paint pallets with secret compartments whose messages left had a gang of thieves wanting my number. I’d had to recall all parts of me I believed in the bluntly sexualized rhodo-bombs’ cartaways. It was another empty scene in a dank tent tarping over everything. I understand just as well as you, sometimes, mirror image you, loved. Though not always as completely and always as the foresight to your expressing understanding. Never with the same gestalt or shrike. ¶ There are ampules of God’s plasma being delivered to covert botanists working on the shame girch whose lurching in at the sight of gold specks on the rhotorific leaflings is spire-eyed and tall. Not a hundred percent on anything, seemingly. Primary love is shared. Unchle-thwait lemmering seafring. The bastard head preparest. In its own sea beloved hash-bowled. But primary—yes—primary love is shared. There were ways we hadn’t come to delight yet, and soon so… over the ways there were heights yet unsoothed so. ¶ Combing separate orchids for fate runes. Apart from these, too, handled briefs. A lark a tall-tale sees. Perhaps is more than lay our alligator-eyes called. But rung up in fine tune the delight I got to hear your voice this once. Before it was everywhere, everyone was speaking through. Soon enough it may’ve become a question. The toke race might’ve been oblong from the looks of it, but we weren’t going to pretend yet it was oglevie’d oft. Per tracks in the frequent seams they might have already caught on but to tell the truth we were fun to read. Then and now in loud packets. There could’ve been another long false start apart from us there. It was the brain on its own ticket doing the dime shimmy down where the skinny departs. Not that we could underdo the frequent packs. This or that one, what did it matter? I had gotten the typewriter, but the damned thing didn’t work too well. I’d had to constantly readjust the ribbon feed so as to allow it to be stricken hammerwise without the thing flying out and gunking the reem. You could maybe understand my delusion. It wasn’t seen. I could’ve at one point believed in us as apart from the vagrant tanks. It goes on and begins to come back all a sudden. This sickly sense you could not recall fully the sequenced pops of the off-kilter brief flee. You could not tell at all you were going to become this thing. Yet here you are. And here we all are, found wanting. Wanting us, wanting you. Apart from ourselves our own hearts reeking. Separatist flights from what has come down. Altogether the doff start. Not to part, but to part all the same. Waiting in vain. Apart from what you’d want to. There are escalators waiting in the day. No explanation why. Just the same old thing, that voice, getting tired.

The Golden Damned (XXXVI): APPARENT RAVES

APPARENT RAVES

A knock us all want in waved hands to ride the air on a gale it’s great. ¶ Test a random twist of fate on the long-boarding long johns out there just catching the waves. I know you want to, Salamander. The air might’ve fucked you up the way it’s so late. I don’t know. I’m not responsible. But know you, too. Know you’d want to understand what a hurt faun knows is its way. Crawling up inside of ourselves with this paranoia we’re not being understood, unwilling all the same to show ourselves even to ourselves. Unaware, wanting it that way. ¶ Now we climb in common many lies as weights. I hold out my hand to you and you subform into a glass of white wine and cry. Out over your brim, unknown. To yourself unknown. To the world unknown. All your tears being washed away through the rungs of the latter you’re not so well balancing on any longer, no, don’t fall, don’t go—no…. ¶ Well I feared you, you shadows taking name. I feared what you’d become and pretended I didn’t want to. I walked out on a wave frozen in time and sighed. Always a wave with this one. Always a wave. Blazing arrowmathed warp-hearts throbbing blobbily, twanged. Zhizhing new arondith lack but you later saved a want for a need. Whatever that means. And to preparest leads a light a life not tangible bleeds wakes in morning sprite. Not adonis zeniths in dreary pays. I plunged my feet into the ocean. Again, now. Waves. Clamoring for best work. Not a hindsight sought for you. And wiggly wogglies flib-flob about the wayze. Lesped in might in tame. Dreary angles protruding from the haze of the city you’re in where the steam grows and grows. Tine a right to lethargy. Bricks by bricks by bricks’ light. In the ochreous brood tale. Purchased fine-line sacrament. Tired eyes waver. What it is I don’t know but it’s not its own. Ingenious eye to load. River den river den-den-den-deden. Harrowing slight-of-hand maneuvers going on in the interim between when and where, not known. ¶ Cat’s pajamas fly and sweet. Going clung-on clasped by the cat who can’t fit into the pajamas. Way-done wacked-out nubile frontierswomen gesticulating stage-right to the great trail there is not a set for. Glaciers moving slower than ever. Nothing actually accounted for in that way. While the levels of pith are furrowed on in the ash-gray heartrot’s Heimlich-saved beating spree a pox upon sweet dreams. Not the lay deframed painting. Not the only way to go, now. Many ways to go. Saucy in swing with the limp-ish angling of light to where want would go. Not in the season’s greeting card you received in the mail which involved a cartoon from childhood you’ve loved since then and a warm note you cherish from a loved one. A lot of love. Warming the icemelt delivering naught wiles. Per tub a grievance about water getting colder still. Not that you aren’t warmed sitting in there with the world still and time at a halt, some. There are saviors to be glanced in your past you cannot imagine now. Frankly beauteous button-nosed zithered hearts. Climbing up a rosy collection of raybeam, sotterswild, nutherly, plank ace, gourmet Fushimi, nutmeg, wallop-thorp, green grass and sweet pea, healer’s sparks, nascent gluey, percolating hilts, grand-ah-V, not-a-worders, not-a-things, placid jungle cats, blurry helped guests, at-dinners, attractive hips, whole water balloons busted free, soaking the pavement, an organic spatter of water, a long-long overdue hand with things, not alone, amblux, tortured screws, whalesongs sung, apparent raves, etc., etc. ¶ Insult to the maze of shrubbery a large Greek glass folding itself molten along the creases it makes. Zig-zagged brief flees. Ha-ha-ha-ing Santa Clause. Maybe/maybe-not, but who’s to say. I’ve come to try a flair to see. The ending the ended-one note of spares that does not prevent itself from sounding out-loud loud as sea. The freeze of trees—the freeze of the tree line. ¶ In a way just—and, in black and white almost—just scared, like. To have anything intelligible that might be good enough to read in a book I should’ve spent the time working on instead of this nonsense. But it’s just the way I want it to be: imperfect: nonconcomitant. So where bleary forces smash imperceptibly dust motes along the long screaming hall of the windy-ing atmosphere, there are all sorts of drags getting taken out of cigarettes and things like that. All this way all that. You never really know. But so, yes, we have taken it back down and, yes, we have learned what we can but honestly basically nothing. We might have found a way but it is hard to tell. It is hard to tell if it is too late or not. Or what’s the case. But the loving mind of it all is speared apart a locked gloss of Grecian castoffs’ lanes. There were no mere words to put to the lockjaw going. There were no forcible utterances or mastered shrake. Apart from the sin mil varnish the black desktop held its gleams in and reflected some, there were little dew drops—honest—on the thing; the window had been left open. Some humidity and morning’s air had gotten in, that way. You cannot tell for sure the look of the actor on the screen. The background is dark, and so is the actor’s face. There is just enough lighting, though, to make out a nose and lips and ears and cheeks just about and something like a wiry hairdo going thisaway thataway and not anything really besides that. The frame is unforgiving. Where the penguins march off the glacier to spryly jet through the arctic waters, so in much the same kind of way copies of yourself waddle onto the staged screen of your mind. Where like players in the play they say their parts and walk off one after the other after the other. And nothing is lost. And nothing is over. It is only just beginning. All of this everything.

The Golden Damned (XXXV): CHANGEABLE HEART

CHANGEABLE HEART

You’ve got to get through the tall grass stalks to make it to the glade, he said. He was holding a winner’s ticket and I was lastly frozen in plain sight looking into my own dreams inside my head and not seeing one that corresponded to anything here yet, wondering. Many clotted inks to return one, vibrant shape. Elusive lest in the bar maid’s voice. Crying out VICTORY in a small voice. I at my table drinking a pint down. Wondering where in the sequence I’ve arrived, if what is to happen has already happened to the God who looks in on my little life and sees. The plain light not tomorrow. Who knows. There are ghosts like birds perched on the eaves and radio silent. Quad a cusp like a log enough. Riddling bumblers. Being shot astray by whiskey warming the chest up. Predominant figures losing touch with the greater crowds all glistening with expressions of sweat description. Not in such a way. We have lost you. But over there beams go lots of loud. Into the outerbreak cloudwreath overhead where the pale drying blue to dark purple of the sky describes them, too. Away a wantward worship one and only receives away from the bishop stretch across the board and rook’s minute paranoia of hexagonals coming on in a fearsome way. Meal accordian gray. Coming light on right one way and not another. Delivering depths to depths and not in vain. These gruesome truths about us high time to be a certain type of thing, which makes no sense. Under an umbrella I watched the rain fall. Through the rain falling I watched the sidewalk. Through the sidewalk I had a daydream. In the daydream I was in a movie and it was brave. There was music being played. I did not know it in my world, but the shapes were perfect. All around me. The S-vectors closing in. Spinning wheels deliberately arching. I had a dream where the pirate’s cast included me and we went around the small world to various places. Doors opened up for me. I was leading all these friends to victory. Friends I’d never made. Wonders in our way. Not a chance relived. I packed a waterproof bag and fled by the large man-made tide-lake. To the other side, where the mission was and several more were gathered. And I watched from the tops of buildings a world of roofs. Clay shingles orange and red and brown and in every direction, concerts going on. But this was another dream—not the same. I walked from the top of my head to my toes. I folded myself into a circular coffin. It was great musical roundabouts going laid down in earnest getting frayed by the light-switch of eyes looking on from the top of the key the point disguised as person the person disguised as one of heart. I watched it all conglomerate in the end wish’s left off reprieve bath, where my mind was washed clean from all the drugging and boozing. And I did not know which a way. Again. The dark center changed. Millions of miles of milky brackish things low to the ground asway. I’d come up from a dumbest down I could not account for the meaning of. And I lived my own life my way. I was not separated any longer from the truth, then. White and violet. Eyes and eye-ends. Portrayed for semblance peaks. Of mountains made of dust storms. Len ver Nay crowed. Hindered nothing. I had a dream I was somebody somewhere with a mission through a fray to lose and cry VICTORY. Just like that. Just so the dreamer hears and says himself in his sleep the same thing. Whoever is listening God only knows, I love them. Let the words be and stay in your heart a way. That can change. Listen. The changeable heart. Forever in the flow of things. Ripping a match across some sandpaper watching it light right up red and rosy. Placing the flame to the tip of the wick of an oaken-white candle, waving the match out, and watching the candle’s flame. There are parts of the story not even you can handle, Lord God. Just kidding. I don’t really know. All the time. The fool playing tricks on himself starves to see. What the truth is and doesn’t seem to manage. Ever to know. For himself. What the truth can be. But do I know. Not at all. A freeze away from dumber still but not resaved. A cross marked on the floor of your chest with the tips of your index and middle fingers and thumb. Shoulders the crossbar. Forehead the crest. Where maybe an angel’s halo plays freedom from the earthly plane. I pray by talking aloud to the breeze and the inner room I’m slumped away in and the positive ambience all about me. I dream midday in a nap only God could really love and I love it, I love dreaming I love the sway of drowsiness pulling me back down to sleep again and I love lying there sometimes lifting myself up a little and falling back down to my side. Sometimes in all my clothes still, my jacket a cushion, just taking a nap midday. I want to understand some God’s code, some of everything. I want to make a peace with this still wondrous heart under the river of the mind’s noiseless breaching ray. Then for laying itself down in the soft kitch, green river person goes. Aswim this way only fish can. Type myself up a mirror image of love and loss and deceit. Type of way to the image in there you make but never see after it’s made you never prove or approve to yourself for your own sake. Higher dimensional fugue states lumbering out from exclaiming doors opening up down white-walled halls where the dreamer takes an old friend down the way in their janitorial outfits to commence the mission. By which time he must awaken. To the dark room and the time being 5:55 or some other brazen coincidence, wondering what’s going on. With the outer matter of life and grays. How the noise hits. How it sounds. What’s to….

The Golden Damned (XXXIV): SPINNING WHEEL

SPINNING WHEEL

Leaches to burn themselves briefly, oh mix of rain. A writer sadly letting himself have nothing to do does nothing. Nothing gets done. Spiral eye were oh ver-veering shame loss a trapdoor forever shallowed. Triptych nonsense and what has become of you. Sometimes new words get used. Forever lost in part of the helm uplifting the sea across the vain grew to small hath wa portions. And hath wa knew. ¶ Constantly at thrust away from bay where solid states emit a while. Bonding while it’s just a way you offer the blanket a smile like hey have I warmed you? In jit away gleck formed a part of iron clad in paper waves grown apart the ripple enlarges to encompass the way each circle forms and dissipates and then again a harper’s few. To become to-tulle a white away. Way in havvard stray. Por ton a light a man. The regardless endophry glattening the frost humors off in distant sway. Pretense por light ag mendra. ¶ The aggen frenda heavenly setters moving the car with their bare hands. 2-foot-2-foot-2-foot cube lumbers over tip-toppling the way to the ice elves, again, who get mentioned, but get summered, too. Raff-ling serpentine sports for the blimmer spots on the frog-coat Lucinda walking tall through the open alley. ¶ The very end of the road is not a place you want to be but have to go to. ¶ The frog did methamphetamines. Claustrophobic yawn-ditz Eiffel-tower-style breathes. Hamming-bones with a bunch of oxidants. Cruxing the spendthrifts for billions of G dollars. Not quite all alone but somehow something like all alone with the deprivation of silence. Bing-bong-ching-chong-ching going the falling dradle per-clasp aglance a sunglint against qhiter days long. Not to say this or that about the thing but to then eventually to mask the self behind the face. With the face in brusk. Not-light vernal days spinning brisk and bright above the dome of clouds for which there is dreariness all below. Not a question the asker saves but something to be had about the not-so-frequent blunt being smoked. Had and lipped and embered and loved and swelled with the smoke of the bud in the wrap and gar-gutted and licked sealed and flame-creased and rolled. Smoky O my control station going remote on the dark side of the planet’s roll. Around sun ceased a climb of lights we survived on the planet for long enough but could not condense all our most commonly used words and verbiage and syntax and lexical strengths down into a single beautiful sentence for God to hear us pray up something like prayer being reading like all tolled no one understanding the headstrength given up. Gone goopy with the love cross lace livened alive growls imbibing sloth furnaces and chalk streaks. ¶ The surfaces of the leaps lengthened and I a lone traveler along the air there watching beside myself my own ghost giving up stalled as time went on nothing cared. For centuries of long lost qualities to the off-centered wreath on the door of my palace in heaven or hell who knows. My little cottage hovel little home. ¶ Distanced from this place and told not to come back again and old again watching the frozen embrace of another swall en swellinger frell der nithium addum brawl. Watching a dance of words go on. I am brought again into retrospect to the center of the line to see what is going on and all the light in felled heaps stretched again all the light again all the light all I really talk about and all or nothing and all the time and dreams and waking up and being asleep and taking climbs and falling and falls into dreams and all the life. ¶ I like it. I swall. ¶ I rek’d senseless stipped of pride and hauled away. The wrong sense lied about whoever walked away, I know. I wasn’t there all the time; I was never paid. I walked away. ¶ Quail a sensed egg less in May and, stale, tell the story you wanted to. No one will judge you either way, and if they do, well, hey, go fuck yourself—you tell em. So googly-eyed Yay can watch from above as God and judge for real my actions on here. I don’t pretend to know what doing is right and what’s wrong and what’s happening half the time anyway. Yay is gogged, smacked and rayed. Yay is smily-faced-eyed and frowning going “Hey, there. Hey, there” half the time. Whole moose conniptions grommets ply wind and bay fool the locked synth’s sounds out of thick air and pummel ear cannals’ walls hey. Frequently in flight set to auto-recursive ambience and growling glows the hairpin turnabouts mauled hey. Frowning. Don’t frown. Upside-down that shit, hey. Cromming a sequence. Hey. I know now, not but. Hey. ¶ Get your ass over here, said the angel to the listener from the burning side of the house’s wall still lighting up the bowl anyway trying to feel what dying is like. Terrible numbers drifting museless calling-carding the able way not still not moving not qualitative by-the-by pall-anked skurred of glimmers in the night where inspiration like miniature lightning bolts strikes down from the doom clouds. Whole amphitheaters of gray. The sweat on my hands making my hands caked. Veiling clots of mumbled numbing jelly verbiage hey. Not a knot on the head or anything but something like that—some kind of remote pain. Going on frequently in the back of the head where mind’s rumbles sense the world. Squashing off delayed days. Sincerely awesome plumes of rice. Not known to the freaky jays but heard of sometimes in the smoke-filled soothrooms. Forsooth to say. Wile your turning-rounds with glintlight and prick the hand on a spinning wheel like what’shername. Sleep for a long time til love has to come and kiss you on the lips to wake you up from a scary dream. Wonderful and strange. This world, so near danger. Half the time. Anyway. Mind melt.

The Golden Damned (XXXIII): DROVES OF DOVES

DROVES OF DOVES

Duwen along the lightlong feathered array of the birdlink’s partridge for flight. In the sky no decides-yous can halter the gloaming debris, which fall out this way all over everything it’s as though a slpash has been made. While lit down in the center there a port of gin has to statuette the ludes, commissioned since. Telled for tripe, scant a clue as to where the mind’s gone. It ripples out swazward skettering plans to bring the boys back home. They all know right there are entryways here, back home, where they can walk through and be back in the place they used to cry and sattleswise and prim and delude themselves in. They can smoke full-strength goddamn American cigarettes and cry cream bluescent tears again and wade out on the air draping an continentally large flag over the land behind them. Let us try and strip the ego off ourselves if we can, now, you and me. They are pretending all-right it is a thing, I know. I’ve seen the signs. All right.

            Do ‘way with the wanton flesh flights of sand from my rib bones. Onto the sunken shoreline. Do truth to my name make amends with my hands. Prepare me a weak vein I may get shot up in. After the ebb where my own blood becomes me and then easy, easy, easy. The rest all a show of sorts I demit the errors of never corrected love to watch from my invisible chair off to the side out of frame of life where there is a thing of peanut-butter I can eat with a spoon. Watch the show from. ¶ I am getting convinced, now, that what is going on is the case all right. I know I’m not a dandelion getting blown down. I know I’m not a sequin split off the dress her ladyship replaced, oh. I know I am only a part of the make. That she brushed her flames of fingers up her inner thigh alone in bed at night under her PJs thinking of me once, putting the point of her digits’ pads on the peak where the feelings melt and hard ascends. As Pink Floyd’s lyrics say “So you / thought you / might like to / go to the show.” and I become a flesh print of myself in spent drifts. I watch as long lost lights and repeated similes get used up as though the well were getting dry. I feel I see things sometimes only I can see. Wondering if the repulsive aspects show through as much as I figure they do. I lean my head back against the wall and look away from the keyboard as I type so I can rest my eyes a moment, returning them only when I’m sure I’ve mistyped something. ¶ Qualitative ramparts reply to my single-edged lies’ fraud. High-sent away from the pinnacle not least to prepare a ghost for death again. Second death. The ways apart our bodies mingle and divide rightly away and become convinced itself there is a type of sleep you have that takes the place of acting true: being. ¶ I know somewhere back there we lost the license plate of the heart. So the identifier’s strange, now. Not any longer the same set of characters, and still not personalized. I put myself on the plane the stage was on to become the florid laugh-out-loud system getting throttled by its own flywheel escort droves into the crowd of flagella loving waving around as much as anything and what it meant to be a thing was not anymore the same, either, so we were all divided in some vast remarkable way. The point was not to think; the point was to say.

            Did divide intuit the root-house for you? For real?

            Divide, did you?

            I Watched from outer space my sunset on a dog’s tail. I felt strange floating out there like that. I watched from outer space the world go sunlight-sticky horizoned off endlessly like a placid floating ball. I Watched nothing and everything all at once in my own capacity, always tending toward one extreme or the other or both. I know, it is all very strange. I want to hold to you what I can of myself if at all possible. I become slightly shray and frill-dive. All you have to do is model the words for us. Put on a show, even. You can’t repeat the second-death’s lingual fortitude. You can’t become the light on the edge of the candle’s wick getting burnt always foreseen in a dream’s jungle endless bliss ore of telling mined at godspeed nondescript. Djee Fair Lin Possible. Bent over the railing moaning for daylight to come visit the world again, because we do not all understand. And just like that, sequenced out, the heyday hall-mark movie sends its scenes in dalwart tripping-esque purloining screening off Lombardi looms. Printing c’est prod vie engreened blues again as always said we cannot make it any clearermuch, can we? The quire comes to the show to explain something for the audience, I know.

            Not it goes the similar the ways the not-so…

            Underneath the practice of the strewing out of sanity walking home.

            We all can’t come a billion places to time at once from a single frame.

            We all can’t be the be the one.

            We all can’t understand the stand the reason why the reason why you shame your shame yourself yourself.

            Holding in our praisest blooms of lifegifted square marks ending on the cigarette’s packed-tobacco end before it’s lightinged up.

            Ssssssssstrumming the gggggguitarrrrrrrrr with a ffffffffiinnnnnnnnngerrrrrrrrrrr’sssss ennnnnnnnnnnnnddddddd.

            Coming to with a pain in your neck not default to but told a story somehow beautiful as ever can you not be surprised?

            There are whole heads halled given over to the acid reflex.

            In the sense we are swavers’ wrifes.

            Told not to watch as the scene goes up all suites.

            Inside one of which the main character fucks herself leaning into the bed begging God to deliver her from pleasure’s shackles. The unique human privilege of being alive and having to suffer, too.

            The tantric drama dimed and limey and bawled and delivered from the edge, again.

            The gas on go-time for when the show is zoned. The zone’s show not so go-time on the edge—sss a vital bliss, it’s show-time!

            Told not to go but because we are here we can tell that… what we see is what we see and maybe nothing more, but who knows…. It does not necessarily occur to us all the same. But look, love, as from herspirage aldro font. There bernaise lur pre greviste nes nes sa salmo….

            The droves of doves released to light.

The Golden Damned (XXXII): MIND IS WASTE

MIND IS WASTE

The mind’s sore character brainwashed by love. In a heap inner meant, there was a lady talking about how Jupiter, Saturn, and Uranus were all in a line, and I can’t remember if it was a dream or not that she came from and said that in. But then, I can’t remember a lot of things. And “I think it was a dream,” she said she saw it out of her telescope. Maybe. But to rise inner lines, maybe, in descend. Did you walk off the time with a separate face? Did I know you then? Was it meant to be hard to be lined by a separate way? Ozymandias. ¶ We could become the ambient sounds we were listening to. We could watch as the world caved in. We were the two knights in contrasting suits of armor—yours was silver, mine was black. And the theory put forth by the reader-writer was that we were different. And I didn’t like it; I didn’t look back. But would I be able to get a late addition, I wonder? In the season I was meant to change or not to the school of hard-enough knocks? Was I weak for assuming I didn’t know? There were cables running through my skin from heaven which seemed to move my body for me and by whose whim I did not know. I seemed to stare at the early morning sunny sky and ask, “Have the angels fallen yet?” without a shred of contempt. It was honest; it was earnest; I’d wanted to know. But there were separate films still by which me and my simulacrum would toast: to the dying of the day and being able to drink and eat together. Starshift in blimey lights and watered grave. “Demit to strive” still the long old watered way. Hi-Heime Harold and Crow. Let us barometer the pool those witches came from and not-so-ways emit several pointless streams. Careening past the windows’ homes of our childhoods on besoms being carried off by the wart-nosed apothecaries. Bleeding fine light out our arms as the branches scratched them up and pearl color dripped from the scratches into the disforbading night. Wall of caves wanting reason become the scratches’ frum in batches of froyante. Terrace of the loner willed in weeps where he wrote the signet charm onto his heart’s area over his chest and watched as his soul ballooned out from it and rose above his own body, into the disforbading night. Walls where calls were taken concerning the way a beetle-bug writhes on its back to try to get back to having its legs stout on the ground again. Pointless glows. Great parts of a great person being seen. Acknowledged. Total prepared shock of a noiseless scream out in space where the heart beats quick in the cold—the coldest it’s ever been. Holding fast to stock. ¶ But where camp repeats endless repairs on the engine, said. Great tines of old reasons to be sifting effortlessly out to Oxbenoze. Oxbenoisey. Treft leffer’t clemb. Haggen-Das Spinozas drifting carelessly like ice melt off a glacier into the grand sea of unknowing, reftable embered parts of ships gleant in grommet cloves and dispersed again. Hitherto unawared of righteous ambulances fitting close to the sashay sweetness of a dance partner in vain. Believing not is you once is close. Believing haggard is day zany and wrong over limp edges of notes. Trying to understand for once and all time the break-away and not for once gathering the light in tines of belts to ebb in soft and not break, but hey-heying the soft-soft and light-gathering and grounding out the blunt force trauma of the ground on my face, your heart beating as you watch me fall. Thank God he wore a helmet at least, some might say. Where in tears les diamonds welt and fade. Quarter come-to most. Unknown on behalf of itself, the reaching plays. Games like what it means to be fractured so bluntly by the end of the hand repeating like a puppet’s mouth the words that don’t get said very often by the mind in bray and the mind in bray softened by the harsh cold of outer space and outer space vast in float.  Poor ended florettes banked on the smiling way the sun departs over the mountains and I am one. What most never occurs being fastened to the front of the ship the car we swerve we drive in high speed godliness uncomposed. Cantrip frozen fastened spokes of lissome winsome hopes and sharp. The niceness foregone and robbed itself of the way we’re supposed. To do this thing to do that thing to fall forward to be willing. Altogether the same. All the one thing. All my life in a shoebox. All my head forward in the oven waiting. Could this grasp repeat its hold on me could I understand. There were oh so many ways. To smile, to have to wait. By the light of the slow-moving sun the fast-moving sun afade. A race upon a spinning planet’s wade in wireless draught temp. I spy on my emotions from a high place in my heart. I wait for us to land softly again. I wait. I hope that I see it and I pray. I hope and I pray. There are wonderous reasons why who-knows-what goes this way into gray for all time and I locked on the inside of my heart amidships watching the gray tone shift white and black and gray again and gray again. All the fluctuating harps in space ringing noiseless with no air for their soundwaves. And Hague left attendant preps the yearning blessed moss to grow upon the planet’s face. I call from the wall within my Captain about what to do with this. How to let go of life completely, as my Captain did. How to walk upon the coals of death and grit my teeth rightly through the pain. I called to ask also how my Captain was doing. Because life is so short and I don’t want to miss these brief little moments where we’re able to catch up a little and be glad.

The Golden Damned (XXXI): POINTLESS STREAMS

POINTLESS STREAMS

The fullest cold till became what of a living man was good would call his life and too much spent on for daring to understand what the fish is doing on the side. Never mints does sathe. Ruplin for dear ashen trays gone empty tossed out to the grass which absorbs the gray. Then mittens down to symbolize a sway away from trury aln apart us our frequent minds across a climb to neversent aspergies. Always a climb. Always a climb with this one, a climb. Duth suth would say. Carry ending symbolized embryo punching out the white lights of the eyes who the man was the sun. Despondent. Even if it was nae to veg out over the couch’s arm like a ragdoll slunk down to the psalms, edges blazoned eyes. ¶ Never sensed the lily pads were key caps getting stroked by a giant’s fingertips, invisible, typing stories into the nature of the thing—halt. What stories? Dalmatian bear cubs formed out of scoops of Oreo icecream. Crawling up sundries a totem pole buried in honorific ice sprees. Not a sink too soon. Between me and my own penguin brain. Scannerific, the plural fume for yer old boon on sangsway met my own down there in the gut of the ocean. Wondering why this way was a fish’s way. ¶ I propered ire for canters the way Kafka depicted himself as weak but at least offered profound truth—I have no truth, on the other hand, to offer. That having become a part of it for me I’m not too proud of. Maybe even which forms regrets. I can’t be sure. But there is still honest a part of it for me in the blanketing snow pounds I sense with a season of grace to be good. This cyclical turning over again and again repeating sound. Returning us brief in the lucid outlines of angels not understood manning the trumpets we can’t play looking over confusedly at one another asking ourselves, Well, what am I supposed to do now? and getting no response. The untypified lender’s brush with death was a good one, when he was me in the vehement swirl of casters’ glaze to wit a sum. Carry us somber off to the place echoes travel when they’re quietest, oh, and the later stage. ¶ For toons a cupid’s runoff nonsense babbles riled a billion bits of hoff. Some arrow placed in my shoulder when I was the dreamer walking the halls not knowing which way was the correct one to walk down. In love with the floor I could’ve sworn had just changed on me again, but could not be sure because I could not remember what it had looked like just a few seconds before. The shapes in langue for rites of passage the potter’s wheel spins up a comatose slab of wetted clay for throb. In the heart of the passage. My own infinite tattoos gone mid-dissipation like ash risen off the skin. The beautiful vernal foul way. Not to do what a one might have you, but to raze the crypt from the comb and comb your hair with your fingers so it’s out of your face and wake up again with your eyes still open in the dream and wonder… the same thing all over again, I suppose. The same thing. ¶ Blue balloons risen the necrotic ancestor holding one the signs of life all stayed. In forever clues oldened napkinned grease crumpled too on the table by the hand of Rosculoe, whose theories on divinity range from the skies themselves to the plastic spoon. Recurring characters in our lives all the words we use. Limited feng sui to the room I’m in that is mine but not, writing this. Little dobbles of granular light escaping horizontally behind the word processor’s plane where a video depicting slowed down feature-length footage over the sounds of ambient videogame music plays. All of it slow-seeming, nearly hypnotic. Not knowing which way’s the right way, staring down a hall of gray whose floor is snowcapped whose doors are closed except the one at the very end, the source of daylight. Walking walking walking this way. Past door after door unaware of my name. What would God’ve said? Don’t you know? ¶ No, and the secrets piling up beyond obvious a cause for alarm in the grays. The grays piling up a cause for celebration in hell where at the frozen heart I am petrified in an ice block of my own tears. Grace. Did you get the reference to Dante’s Inferno? Grace. This is helping me supposedly, though I don’t know how, and I am not too staid. A waste. A wonder why the words appeared at all and a race from the inside to the outer reaches of the place. The same face that looks at you looks at me, too, and it looks like—heavens, is it already this late? Come, come on. We must be going. I pretended to have some of it all together when the signs collapsed. I pretended to have my heart set on the ipsrumal omulan ricketing my lapse into face. So, who is the subject here? ¶ The same old thing admit we don’t throw but we know in a way we don’t have but we walk on fires for we don’t see but we feel with the callouses of our finger pads going gripless away the donning of glue hues and fickle veils lifting up and a nonsit pad whose words are a triptych for the colossal haze going on outside all the time, wait. There are reasons behind things sometimes after all was my last revelation, someone’s last confession, my final ace. I put up a poster with your name on it and I grazed some Caesar salad and I waited for space. I was tired of writing the thing was the thing. In drevay lack crulomm desonai sufruel. Clopping hooves up the street this way.

The Golden Damned (XXX): GOODBYE FRIEND, DRIVE

GOODBYE FRIEND, DRIVE

100% captor lace strung around the sides of the boat. Hizel and Hrommud getting somewhat distorted. We didn’t know. But below deck a dance was going on. And the calocetic energies were shifting toward grace-vineward. And the operator on call was inebriated as heck.

            “Those foes stumble rightly.” Peniter, with his hand raised, posits the shipsment supersmog highway. Clarnitrick gibbers wisening up layfish tripped on the sonesome stoll. In ber lieu der tay nock remoe, alovaders made a hazarding motion toward the incoming rayafon trackniss and woo-loved the day. But hands teeter. And a last call was made on my machine—to the one who put the wires together and didn’t give a name, Anonymous Recipient. Of the call. In his monkey suit, bleeding the line between heaven and hell his mind on the wire walking tall. I asked him to step down a moment but he didn’t listen, and I’m glad he didn’t—he walked all the way. Into the golden globe of glass and exiter stalls and prime number 4-to-1 odds takes your best pick. Thus whenever Christopherson built himself a wall he’d immediately break it down. He was the lovechild of God and Music and made it clear what all he could do with song.

            Lug us over clay portions of climbs and cull the right amount of small resplendent gates in gates in gates. Always a triple to the stack’s portion initially. And then maybe two, and then maybe none. We go from divided falls.

            But you see the problem may have all along been that I wasn’t focusing on the thing the thing the thing; I was writing about nothing. So that when I slipped and hit into the pool and dove below the surface as a matter of course with gravity, don’t you—

            there were things, Nodda. There were things. So Calypso knew. But I saw heavenly raiment being worn by you. And all these momentary fluid characters’ roles going exeunt stupid restless blind-winded all. There were things. And who were all of you dark, in shadow, moving at the gates inside the gates outside the gates? Who were you dark-robed tarriers and what were you doing there, at night, in shadow, saying a prayer? Were you saying a prayer out there with your lonesome pack, roving the grounds? Were you blessed in staid amounts the whole love of the universe? Where? Did you come up to the edge of the basin to sing? I was purported to jimmy-rock the not-so. I was not supposed to leave the gates open, but I did, and then from the window I saw you and your… retinue, whatever. Roving the grounds. Praying—were you praying? Saying a prayer? For me?

            Come as you are wisening up to Nodda the sound of Christopherson’s song. It was played on guitar and fro-heaped. Over the ludgy ears taking in the music, listening rightly. The character of the man’s mind was exposed. In words you could not pretend to understand but knew were themselves the functions of what to say. You’ve wasted a lot of money, son.

            But don’t you learn, some, re-comma? Can’t you restate your pride? There is a hedgeworth of sleep to be had now that you don’t know, but I am sure. You will in turn sleep a long time. If you want to. Otherwise, still dream. In heavy commas. In the light beray trip to seen jersplat versnay blue bludgeoned pain on all sides, withered fauna. The forest itself fading out to a radiator’s hum. Becoming small being zoomed-out on. Becoming resparred in fiedt. Not a lot of money to bring me back again. I Am zooming out of my own sight leering in on the train’s spilt hue. Redried in blankets sweet my whole cotenga fishing out the speck of gold from my cup o joe and calling it karma. What do you think they do? Is responsible? Is the code? As they come into the way and spread their wings, do you know? What they mean? It is a lightshow. In the end you watch as the seas rebreak. I watch it, too. It depicts birds flying much like the wings do, and then some—and then some whole lot of sped-up shining on. The witherawaysome instigator hiring himself a bodyguard whose purpose is to fly elope heavenly a bunch of wartherners. The project’s point was to see how many different stories could be interpreted from the same sentence, and which alleyway alcoves they’d be shunted down. A prima donna might in his own way interpret the nonsense as a kind of attack—on the senses, on the basis: of the mind; on the day the respite denies itself the shade of gray it needs to fight the war on greediness for pales malt blunder the lung hip and swanky smoking a cigarette. Clasping at his own chest the author of the nonsense then wondering about the meaning of pain on the inside and what occurences might.

            But did not question the intelligence of the creator. New full well he could not know even a modicum of what was going on in the larger world. Moved his hands up through the air and imagined ducks on lakes. Floating. Reskying the floor of motion dithering intergrate. Pops in a VHS tape of The Sholom Fires and watches as the scene takes hold his sight his hearing his everything warped down to the perimeter of the cathode-ray tubes. Glistening colors of faces and backgrounds and hairstyles and clothes and grace. The difference in the way light detracts itself from the face on the screen to the eyes’ respondent inucalatorish gaze diaspora caught. From the frozen homes of the hall all between pertained to the way you’d eat peanut butter with a spoon and sit in bed and write these things. To wonder what all has gone through your head when it is said to be done and there is no space left to write any words on the page. Nothing to be proud of. What do you think?

The Golden Damned (XXIX): SOBER DOSE

SOBER DOSE

Pray in responsible grace; there’s an awful-view race going on damned-shacks a bit from the barley. And to cryptograph-sanctify the rain, plush in gnarly. Debriefing:

            Quarter of a hamlet ostematized for His Grace, whose story was not all too storied. It went something like: he died; he was reborn; he lived his life again. And that was really all. But come time for the neverence to pentuate, hivvered boss orbied. Lay sue-line and ared ventuate. Nosthimus. Rang.

            Tell us, little geode, what a crack at this is. Tell us for a while what a want’s to show. When all this golden-vined laureling brings us is gobbledygook again and again and there isn’t anything but laislelit bendadish in sight of here. And our crabby palms are weeping and arms growing weak holding aloft haggard orange boxes for the treb to shrike. When our drug is our affiliation and to use is to sanctify the gloried mind—oh. Tell us where to go from here, that we may not be as lost as we were or we are now, oh. Help us out of the muck, if you will, please. Candidate furyon lay last a stone’s throw melding galvanized shavers’ chrome. Holy Book in buoyant tear afreak upon the ocean’s wavy wavy waves, atear. Tearing up eyelike the saltwater veins going high-friction ambient flow out of the ducts to the mental stimulants’ halo glow. Around my crown driving up to the stop light fixed well in my path from the cop car shining its lights on me. Heart abeating a-hundred-thuds-a-minute. Gums freshly numbed; car key freshly gummed humming rightonward in the ignition. Can’t-a-leavered strokes with death too close to call but rowdy. Hey. All the same we we-love-you’d. Right to your balmy face awakened death-fraught and asking panicked over your own breath, “have I been born again?” and us saying, “yes.”

            Welts on my head my arm a scabbard for flywheel carts a jumping action in the palm again a jumping action in the actual rob-you-late overthecounter calmed. God-help-us’s given up to vertical airs half a way from grief but not actually tantalized. Called on far from the strung-out heaps of lies you tell yourselves. Happy wings on airways. Happy floating-me’s and see-you-byes. Cropped-out heads of friends you can’t remember whose lives are separate now. You never would’ve known have been alone most all your life, have always felt that way—alone. Have been alone. What kind of friend does God send the castaway all by his slef self? Sleeping idly away in his mind getting killed? What kind of a message does an angel take to that kind of man, there, castaway, wholly underpinned? What of the secret life is his to bear? Alone? All the time? Can you tell me?

            What. We haven’t you’ve never. Frequently brushed with life but not soaked. Do you want to leave the house today? There’s a party going on with some sober friends at an alleyway a block away where they’re talking about the idols of their pain being very good and are sleeping better than you have in a long time and look somewhat alive and at which you stand attentive awkwardly unaware of how to posit time. Roll by your own windows. ¶ See inside your own eyes for once. Again, clearlike. Keep yourself accountable is what they say, and day by day, too, and keep coming back: it works. But you don’t know. You might rather not go there the perceived hind of the squalid selfbrained mind all crumpled up in and on itself. What do you think we were doing here, out on the bardo? There were spirits where there were tantrizined tines. There were whole commitments to the pallored fell where not one eye had shined. Calm calm roll us back there. Where we can. Keep us out of mind. Keep us safe with you. Keep us cauterized off from the main body; we are safe-safe-safe with you. There are ghosts in your eyes sometimes I don’t see but which when I do smile like scary things up out at me and I have to flinch for a moment because I am not in my own mind. ¶ There are sevens and threes and ones and zeroes in your blue finds. Trillions of andromedas getting spilled out like a lock on lines. Quality Sanskrit dozen-acre’d blossoming clots of fuse powdered going sparkling up in smoke the halving of fire. ¶ Tell us why a billion years from now no one will have the time. They will be born and age instantly and die, because it will be moving so quick. And just enough time will shoot past their brains that they can comprehend some of the light going on around them they can sense somehow but only just enough time. And then gone, all these sacred lists of terror. You have up in your head the theory you know what is going on. It haunts you for long whiles and does not let off that button in your brain which says to doubt yourself. There is as crummy dichotomized ang-fly going buzzing up into the triptych of the launchingloss and hypertrophy. There are the legs of tables being spied through in the rooms of yesteryear when who-knows-what committed to a city style. And for levels of passed-down plane-throughs. There are smirks as seen from the sides on faces who wipe away their tears with napkins and don’t commit to fraudulent expression often. We who offer condolences have to pay a rite. We who commit to the offering of condolences for the unjustified and disenfranchised and off-the-road. Beaten away at by the bat of the mind. Unalevered. Unallied. Waiting the same crop-wise a campsite dusk-in-boom for the ball to drop and the sanchi to frill away the rolling I of the vowel-sound catechism. Cropping in our own eyes. Looking in through wormholes to alternate lives where we are all fulfilled and wondering at which point which decision was made that was different that originated this strange subset of reality and caused it to flourish.

            Calm me down, higher hovering mind. Calm me down. Three days past my own impossession I’m already losing sense of what makes me what I am and what what I am is and why. I can no longer tell, and this hurts me. Some I wonder at the graffiti I used to pen upside the softwalled faces near elevators and distrify. I used to turn a corner, do a bump by the ledge, swig a beer, smoke a cigarette maybe light a blunt from a friend by, but either way have fun in dear. And get a sharpie marker out and mark up the soft wall and breathe and fry. I’d draw cartoon faces. Doing the deed of speaking with bubbles of speech and wade in my own acculescent spryness and dissolve into little bits of Teatree bry. I used to wither down walk away and pump up to the size of a skyscraper while the world mewed past and I’d often find myself discovered by a nosebleed I had alone in the bathroom where I could concentrate at long last on myself and things were right and things were right. I remember bar bathrooms. I remember dizzy multicolored light. I want to go back to the life I lived before all this came plummeting down all this opportunity to survive in a life that I’d like to live. Now with the sober police on my back every waking minute I wonder what I’m going to do with myself and how brightly I’ll burn out whenever I can. I wonder about a lot of things. Especially at night. The world is less busy and quieter then and I can really think, some. The whole of the world stares out at me from the palm of my upraised hand. It looks like an infinite stack of my hand on itself on itself on itself as I see through my hand on itself on itself. It looks like nothing swinging out at me at full force. Like the whole of the light of the flash of the star in the sky that most northernly shines is accustomed to, and I want my friends back. I have no friends here it feels like. I don’t want this. I kick and scream at myself at the blanket of my skin from the terrible inside. I do not want this. Anymore. Help me, God. Tell me why.

The Golden Damned (XXVIII): WREATHED INTUIT

WREATHED INTUIT

Tester desmoa long in fragmented rush. The soup of things to be said resolved as hot getting cold over time. Wondering why there is something vs. nothing. Nothing to why leb is runs deber shush. Cronathius light in part of the soarus. Hesh in spars for words there are twenty eyes fidgeting regaling the center of their donut mass watching themselves. Obsequious turnip-shaped time. Coning at the bottom where the roots are pulled from the ground and scatter thisaways light. Part of the problem ending us is there are skies. Part of the wall is a clear blue pane you see through to the shape of someone you’ve lost. Where pertained eath rush and ice. Del crunch casp a barrio.

Hey, hush. Hey. We are cometizing. This is a dream, now. So it’s borrowed. Inventing a later stage where heroes can have demons to fight against or let turn them. Cross a ‘spansion where time fries. Deluxe us gator. Wreathed intuit. The title came. What was left was being alone in a vast expanse no one all on your own way. What was left was nothing known, again, in its own way. What the silver-finned clore wet in the towel breathing fetally curled beside the fireplace trying to soak in the warm guessed was a dream was a dream. Did not wake up.

            Had visions of ambient sets. Where a crocus bloomed and never stopped and a fire raged crackling wood debris. And dew formed and dropped off the limp edges of plant petals and leaves which stretched. Not to be heard in the Deus Own the clairvus lee spat the sum of non to never groan a topological feature as clear as crystal going dumb through and through. There are spectral batlike people in waving axis of brawn belating hazy days. Crossed ambered endrils slipping plaxis formative endred aye. For poor metaphorical sport the crisscrossed legs like ledges of buildings morphing one into the other reforming whole floors and layouts and walls’ acrid aped structures kept intact to some minute degree but never altogether. How can you place the spell within the pill bottle’s paw? Let me tell you.

            I saw honesty in the late-central loss of sight I had and never again recentered but hazarded loss. I crewed out heavily a metaphor there was nothing still there for but said sometimes I was overdue. I went and pretended a whole lot this story was going on which was going on but I never knew. On autopilot the brain contended with fire to spew hatred over a vast waterfall of self-reflecting mirror droplets. An arc or jet of stream. Trenching olate fargone capumenthesis.

            If err a vince nase lespond detral too on the hand’s back where the pain from the ruler spikes, oh now look over Del crimping hangar’s too necht geyser for fecund brecht lyre for songs in songs. Spellcasting snowbound problems kept under the hood of the cloak still the wind doesn’t touch—no. There are ways the truth finds a way every time though I was dreaming yes and I was walking through a central stall and I was yes in vital pairings host to magnanimous leafage the spiral maw. Whatever does don’t sway do not sway soon won’t move at all. It is meant to be—

            Read, maybe, with a kind of contempt, if you were wondering, but maybe—

            not, maybe it was meant to be read with love, maybe… but maybe not.

In a wholly fed avalanche of spuds the breakfast burritos got prepped. Wrapped in tinfoil. Stuck in the freezer, dubbed eatery.

In the spawned hick’s new sooner than later sun there are squabs with rotisserie getting stuck. In the sung-later songs, oh-well ad-ven-turie masked hisself a clam with a pearl inside his mouth he spits out at dinner. Oh ven-turie. None of this is pleasant, watch. I know. But the way is not paved at all, and sometimes you have to remember that….

Tin noyo Flaubert Rousseau Lamberdt Shrimp sunawagitstail ecliptic shrouded in clouds a-go. Scratch the back of your head with the wall, get the feelings out. Sap the end of the brush and paint with the smell of pine on the end of the nose’s tongue, lung and rall. Crimp—yes, again I said it—crimp the end of the page so your place is saved. On the edge. On the known. Rall. Tellusmore.

Final endeavored sleep whistle rod’s line dipped into the ocean of thought. Come-along sojourns into bleakness. With a friend that is a floating light. Come at us raw. On the end of night with the saddest somewhat song. Always a song. You play in your dreams gets the flooding of rain from the computer beside you you subconsciously listen to, sleep. Yes. Sleep.

If for WARDEN A HAD AND US AWE there were keeprects seckt. Anonymous-almost dragonfly-dyslexic warding off the darkness of the forest of words at night with a friend who is in a safelamp who is just a little bit of light, on. Resting in shambles the recurring dream, still. We all have. All the time. Not to murk the doll-faced fate of our lostness. Not to drift way again into clustered crawls through the mud of sage delight carnal pleasures into awe. Do not forget it is me behind the mirror I’m looking at when I look into the mirror and see—

The right half of my face slightly more haggard than the left, oh—aw damn. The bags under the eye somewhat purpler and bluer and more pronounced. My visage strained to see my visage in passing somewhat appalled. But somewhat aware this life if short and to care negatively is off and that it all is strange and beautiful in that way at least, being strange. How strange it all is the envious light going yaw-way yaw-way glittering frequent shalks neverduned plenteous pretense for a simple hawk, oh no don’t yaw-way yaw-way. Terrorize the nonsense with love said the umbered half of the face’s sense of the opposite brain a pineal interruption from the glands’ space and a long haul and a long haul and along came a light this way. Terrible truth the sinking into the Cahaba River the handset pulled away from the wall. Call me back home, now.

Call me back home in winter, where my honor’s secret. Call me back home in spring, where my love is thawed. Call me back home in summer, where my heart is beating. Call me back home in fall, where I’m through it all. Call. If forever the motion is deputized, honorifics aside forever, please, call.

The Golden Damned (XXVII): BLAKUS'S NARRATIVE, GO

BLAKUS’S NARRATIVE, GO

Wake and trip a little off a tall cup o coffee a friend has gotten you, oh now. Take medication. Realize not all you want can be seen to. Minor in nectarish ozza. Per trim delete a shame. Tarry on a walk where you’re going somewhere positive, maybe. Do not know all the way. “But these are commands,” Meldus says. “No. We don’t care. Have no time for you.” That would be… Blakus, our new seraph here, whose features are much less detailed. Three pairs of wings and one blurry eye over a heart-shaped frame. The tantritus eye of black gold. Again, blurred. But what would the concrete shaman here admit to as part of the way? The sidewalks winding serpentine and committing brash acts on peppered sleeps of days. Carabiner honestly clipped. Parasailing free-tomes ripping their pages out with the wind. One purple-covered entitled *SVANUSRAN OSBURIN* by JXP432-HOHONEST9-JG43F is saying “fuuuuck!” over and over getting adrenalined soaring over the seascape. Pages falling below melting into the water. Getting solvented. What—and how would you describe the color black-gold? ¶ Poor river Thames a mythical overthrow you can only imagine in video as you’ve never been to London, England or the British Isles or overseas or anything. Want to feel like Pink Floyd? Go. What? Haverish globe rut catching snow: the tides in the ‘Tana. For brushes’ textures. Growing herbs in an indoor garden with sunlamps shining radially over poor beautiful frond tails and seed terpenes and taxers. Riversweep away the glow from my body as a heat signature fades in the running water. Or a cold plunge—but why again the focus on this? Go. ¶ Plur terion nodrus vexed. Ohblurain svanisran osburin ohblurain. Go. Yes, there are candles set out as if this were a witch’s show. The head-mock horse-masked bug-eyed ego-checking swamp-swallowing grieve-gnome known as Text-Yer-Dice talks about textured ice or himself in the third person while the ceremony gains heat signature in the cold ground swelling with the firepit’s orange wiry glow. Tells a story. Everyone listens. Blakus most of all, who sighs. Range-weep a dill-pickle-kind of soak. For many years, in reviving fluids, with an oxygen mask affixed to my face, I dreamed many iterations on the same dream, maybe a million times. It felt like, anyway. But forgetting me, the hall was walking itself. I was coming up to the door where pair of tines blocked the way to a loaf of bread and I couldn’t move because I couldn’t speak. Herald low. ¶ The Adviled-often pearish flock like a hive mind was tempted to write erotica on the on-go. Go. Gol ber teep of da flursh lobe. End for never waxes and waxes wane. Obvious. ¶ Terrapin softy aura to the humble self in the stormy wind aflurry a-fro. A part of the mind anchored to the sod wheat and not in the field where his spirits led but appraised by a story that seemed to write itself and pen moving erotically on the page the hand displaced from the mind there were words writ I couldn’t tell you the meaning of but somehow I know, undoubtedly, what they are, and it scares me—honestly, it scares me so. ¶ Wanting to get  a grant for nothing but writing and putting nonsense out into the aether as a rather dull octoid ho. Capitulating fragmented sleep coming up with the dream where I walk down the hall that walks itself and just barely make it to the door. Where a spoon in a garbage heap in a bag weeps and with its convex face crying again tells me of the transgressions and hardships and existential cruelty having to do with being a piece of trash in a trashbag. And dog-gone an empty space on the floor where nothing dreams. Nothing woofs in its sleep. I have dreams within dreams sometimes where also I imagine things happening hypothetically in the dream and then snap back to the world of the dream as though it were strange, and it was, but—so, I have day-dreams and dreams within dreams, and they all have intricate architecture and I love being asleep, oh. ¶ Well that’s no good, psychonaut. You’ve got to get your head about you. Roll the dice in life and have fun. Great fun. Missing the point of everything while you’ve convinced yourself you need to find change and existence is just offering you the time to come and play. On the dreamed-up shoreline where… oh, I’ve said this before… but the waves—they break. ¶ Can you-can-you pull us out of this quicksand real quick? Where it leads is always out of the narrative. I don’t want to go there. But I am here right now trying for the middle path, maybe. Unaware of how to give and take. But I am aware, some, I suppose, all this internal voice going on all the time. Is this what it’s like to be normal? Now that they’ve shored up? The voices? Tell me. ¶ But these are all commands “…” Blakus. What do you think, Meldus? No. He can’t say. He was in the last thing, or the thing before the last thing, or so…. Crimp my hand upon my chest—left hand on left chest a little over the area of where the heart is so the blood-pump creates a feedback loop of feeling-heartbeat-going-going-go. Go. Terrible lamplight beautiful but broken by the white reflection of melting snow out in the yard in the gloam of clouded subdaylight inching taking rims on the board to eleven over nil, no. There are signet rings he wears—ten on each hand—each of which has a different meaning and a different manner of speech and a different altogether flow, but hey, you. You. Over there. Reading the words from there. You. Yes—you. What are you doing? There. We’ve put you in your place. Us and all of us raving parasailing lost pageless bindings of empty space. All our information scattered to the wind melting on the ocean, oh. What are you doing there? Reading? Go.

Pour me a drink, please. I dream I find a bottle of beer and take a sip and ruin my sober streak and stop and go… well, I guess I might as well…, and go. Go. There is nothing you can really do to prevent the wonder of words as to what the cherub’s got in its back pocket for the narrative you tell yourself if you’d just once listen to the agents go, go. Go. Go. Go. Go.

The Golden Damned (XXVI): CONFESSION SERAPH

CONFESSION SERAPH

Lay in habbard the green-star-encrusted sequences of living code—again, a living code. Not the armament of Saturday’s fair hound. Not the least of sequences the lost diner going numb over catch-all AWOL respondents. Not the airless tee-off in a vacuum well below par until it finally stops somewhere, lands. There’s the scent of an armamental bustle going on in the leaf-variety haste arrangement. While on fluid verse I describe you to yourself and watch in dire tide, the anxiety leave the eyes. Coin-up tune tamborines in palls way divination prepared to bring up on a pair of Converse All-Stars. (While the opposite action was me in my Nike Airs falling on my ass jumping over the sidewalk’s bulwark of grimy snow onto the concrete’s icy sheet; the left glute still hurts a bit.) ¶ And to leave it be in prehistory is what the Meldus said, going on afact. Having three pairs of wings and sextillion eyes. Peering through the doorways of the various indrinate souls down here below getting turned inside-out along the 4D ribbon waxers. Showing the nacreous swirls in mint blake and refining Moses salt in lakes of blue fire somewhere someplace out beyond. Never a spanner the life can see. Pink hedrical spats a cheerleader lifted up doing a flip ascendant midair untouched wears which shine as ankle touches overhead point of light upside-down. Nevermind the argument, nevermind the fine-print definition, there are how-songs in the Meldus Mind I don’t want to hear anymore but which play inside my own head anyway. And per tab an igneous aura that gets passed on by the ones in the black layered fab-wear staking out God’s daughter Agent Entrance as she leaves the hotel for a silver-bullet biker entourage which whisps her away into the night. And appall the oxygenated environs of blue-wafer grandcurrent folbien. Excar luu. Excar endtrion luu mer.

            Asking all the figures in the bleached-white headspace fresk what they think of you. Depending on their answers, sinking cluelessly unaboved un- with love. A whole terabyte-sigmund feeling drenched coming all-to-hand the toothpick thinness of a warped film over hodged proforma nexadril openers.

            Do you quench diamond fees? Do you quest to the edge and damp-mind sift careless over craft-quinode? Does Meldus know our angel’s over being a messenger does not want to understand? The words he gives through sheets of blue fire to the ex-Ozmioid plasticine melting dranks whose sentences are eternal for some unnamed crime are gobbledygook anyway, so hey, now.

            Hey, now. Hey, now. The sports illustration of oligarch prone dog looking for its ball driven under the chair by its moist nose is inculcated with detailed rivets of flower species heretofore undiscovered and awaiting name. Pretoria drainus vexed marra ho. Give the business to rave-grating polyp-disbursed enders of dream. Again, now, Leave it be in prehistory. Don’t let the sad mind go all over the road aswerving this way, no: take the wheel and redirect or whatever. Punch my lights out. I am getting high on pain. I am enjoying the numbness that briefly precedes the ache to which all the soreness is prone. I had said something personal about having been sober for far too long but deleted it is the thing, and what you are reading here now is the thing I wrote to replace it with, and you are reading it—still—is the thing. Is the thing. ¶ Before our rapt love we worshipped things. Our eyes popped forward a bit as we watched the over-saturated colors become the synesthetic chest-burrs which caught and ripped into the flesh isle taut main giving joy or something. I was able to write it down with my eyes closed so I could rest my neck and did not bother to italicize the overly-fourth-wall-breaking part this is as I’d done before. But what do you know, I can come to be prepared by a wind that slums the bark off the treeline and here in silvered little subglades between thickets off blue-diamond courses we would plan to eat sandwiches and smoke cigarettes between ski sessions in this upcoming day. The meditation before belit entropy was not all-the-way. ¶ Would you have me rekindle the fray on the cometous andromathy? Describe the gray in the zon-toned plick-plick-plicking of the frozen-eyed Meldus’s fifth-dimensional strange? I am, uh… I am…

            … standing before you emotionally naked ripping off my ego layer by layer asking for a water because I’m tripping balls and this is several months ago at a coffee shop and you are a barista.

            … coming up the long-ride a whale’s length of diamond-studded rose pearls embering over the liquid harp fireplace. Color of the flames—you guessed it—blue. But I am tilting I am yes we are I am tilting my neck up seeing the white flower dysregulate isomorphic undulations on the ceiling and I am hallucinating shadows speaking over the sound of mull-sector O-drone machines in the ceiling projecting down. On sleep-deprivation having flashbacks. Becoming crazed convinced I am under the influence of a maze. There are other things, too. I do not worship them all. Right now, I am…

… tilting my neck up as though an invisible rope were causing my body to hang. I just want to get high; I have been sober nearly six months. This meditation bleeds into strange. The blurriness blurs further as of the line between fictional poetry and fact, but only because everything is already poetry anyway. The cereal box’s health specs; the stone you kicked over in the cold plunge; the name of the face you can’t remember either of; the ass of a woman you want to fuck; the clipping drain; the partial near-octropic ending of an agnail fractalizing off into dust cells; the wonderous age; the variable curve of off-truth into technology; the nothing tonight ends on for forever not going anywhere no meaning prevailed no thing—no thing. ¶ And do we wonder, all too much the central disfigurement of the cleft chins of the angels a signal sign. A marker for the war of beauty going on all the time in the human mind relative functions ablaze with symbolism. Cruel detractors pretending they are the ones for whom my life’s designed, who don’t exist except in my mind.

Crosses lined on the road.

My soul a captive of its own signature, going “Sing this.”

The ventricular swindle on a round of fights with gargoyles holding space for me.

The end of the sentence, again—another one the point of which is questionable.

The Golden Damned (XXV): HAY-BRIGHT

HAY-BRIGHT

Then please regale us with the ponsmut to all this living code. Hale in burk lest the shirt lee. Caressing little dime bags on the bureau by the drawer of your desk. Long mythological desk you have in order to keep your life in check. Left in Alabama. What will you do now, deskless, out here? ¶ Control from P for place-names, but not in the recounter’s dreams. Left to the loss-fund of leavers whose bottom lines are their smack-sums in deference, not to be confused with our Main Points, which are multitudinous. For one, Leavey Brank 690-KJ2N0 wants to form a loving relationship with somebody at some point in his life and until then to make his career work, what little of one he really has, and then also to find some spirituality or sense of belonging in the very vast universe. What happens when I-Chinko drops his binder on the wet-top saber-tooth-tiger-escrow undulant spurs, where Saturn wanes on a gibbus moon and Clack For Death-Tow doesn’t seem to spatter any bleeding desires on his heart’s canvas, or look any farther into the diving of the crystal ball for which he’s known. Save it. ¶ What’s more is not too long ago we were all bent in blights, saving throws. Away from the windows hoping not to catch any Danger at their heights. Tempting Leavey Jank 4892-JS5N0 with a little mistle-toe prank he’s going to be sorry he fell for when it turns out the partner he thinks he is kissing is really a monster in human clothes. The long dark exegesis to the night-oft in blank heat despises itself its own death throes. Can’t a call to arms then make it better?, asks the large heap. No, says the professor confessor. No, and as a matter of fact our time is up for today. So then slant. Rhomboid lefty sect lowers us into the vine from which grapes grow. I don’t know what there’s to say, but otherwise so-glow nainaeves to globulate the empire of words. Across from them nothing stakes the light show. ¶ And, as if to make matters worse, there are grass stains on the pleated skirt of Leavey Fruel-Donnat 9418-JP0G0, whose scant closeness to the brim of flies makes her want to escalate. Scanter, even so. Along the line of time to the next place-name. To create a gibbous moon of snow out in the yards of frozen homes. Lie like an angel and make rhymes in her head and glow. ¶ Can’t for all of us determine meaning. What’s then the sacrifice of getting over yourself to time? Of head-remission creeping up in dank droves showing heavily. Clasp onto the heel of the heart, if you can—know. Dray lever spreed truce. Tank ober tried twine and bleak vay. For inn less log and driver. ¶ But yes so, there was one more thing. I forgot to mention at the outset, which I definitely should have. Not all of our sources are correct, so to speak. Some are greet-pain. Some are freak-zone. The freak-zone we splay ourselves under the philosophies of and waver beneath. Become prostrate loyalists to a time table determined by acid heads and light shows, light shows, light shows inside our minds’ eyes, the great great flow of precordial endrospherical venom bree. Paralytical cavern bats afolded in the dark, scared to flight at the sunlight emulation of the flashlight’s beam cone. Can’t afford to underestimate what it is we’re doing here, apparently. Only on the nights we save does the harbinger like to come and play us for a fool. Only on the nights we save does the song really strike at all and does anything make. Toward us fleeting greet-pain freak-zones. Tried and true-blue. ¶ Then orf in dweetz palazia stanis overdrone offinda wayaback moniscraze. Can it slow balloon. Back home they’d call you a weak fry, and you know. But here you are whatever you’d like to be, honest-honest. Don’t give into that dumb vein. Pull up yourself by your string, kite. Ray in deferring to the lone. Cap us luster and a crew of heavens over growth acumen glone. Carrying forth forks ‘eavensward off a trip of daisy-run foreverpast waydone windbreak. Never repenting wretch’s glow. Also a tool for God to voice himself, maybe. Two of us in a long chair pretending one is three. I know, sometimes, I know. I don’t. That’s maybe kind of the point, see. I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. We are never alone. See, that angel eye watching spiritually over your body ‘s astral projection’s projection’s projection sees. It really does. All of you. At all times. In heavenslight through dark beams. In across-sensation numbing agents of the sight and then forever the feeling engrained but kept fortunate. Bolsom bertwain jipsum salamandrom overboon elate. Heave untoward betyousnapped ohbutwait. There is a solemn poem, here, on the crave. Leaving us all untoned, all bearing giftless spiritual presents and mirth for the salvation of souls. Perhaps, through work and meditation, on the self in grimus wight. Perhaps, in treaty with the blond hole in sun where to wear up graven an image forms in the third eye or your analogue for same and then for all of us nothing takes, but the rake is run. How do you explain that? ¶ TZ for P for the place-names. And you trying to find a reason or R H Y M E behind the words, there, for ever a flow taken over you want to control itself on its own terms wants you to let go that is life. I know, I don’t know, all the time. But love and for passing stints home is friends of pretty lights and taking. Gif of a Sunday post abuser going hay-bright. What do you say to that? Nothing. Tan as a whole milky diamude rudding bruntly. Coming to rest on the pillow of night and then not very easily falling asleep.

The Golden Damned (XXIV): DRAGON'S LIGHT

DRAGON’S LIGHT

I keep thinking the door is getting opened, but it’s closed. Wanting with everything to find some change for the 30 cents I’m under. Finding two tarnished gold coins with the lady of justice on them, blindfolded, holding aloft scales. Whose values are unknown. The beach outside the massive hotel-school descending from shore to -line in levels. Call a quat adobe loft renectar. Over in simple sheets. One of which has all the answers I need to the test I’ve determined has the things I must find but which doesn’t ever seem to go as well as I’d want it to, and I end up being somewhat lost by the time the timer is over. Forgetting to bubble in some answers. What was the meaning? Lavender flowers cut my hand, stained themselves in my plasma, and I retracted it. Not wanting to be a part of the floral furrow, or the soil’s hearth of warm knowledge, or the grass’s purview in the sleet-show. ¶ God stiffed me, so I thought. “Maybe I stiffed myself,” I say. Don’t you know? You were waiting out in the cold when the fire underneath your mantle back home was ablaze, and songs were being sung, and thoughts—warm thoughts—were being had about you.

            Whole in dots of colonized pointillisms interlaced and connected (some o them) via jagged linework to form the face of a friend that’s lost. Like the spirit of the one for whom your brother got his first tattoo, which he says he saw him floating out there on the interstate beside his speeding car before ascending with a smile, like he was saying goodbye. Your brother the main character to some epic novel going on in life all the time. It would seem. Everyone around you to some degree a main character. Feeling poor and self-pitying and sad for the transgressions of others, but still so harsh. Still so backgrounded and ashamed.

            Lie on iodized fun. The truth in its Humboldt breadth pertrofied and passed out on the slunk blaghe of the beam your heart walks on. Fibers crackling under the weight. Not knowing why. Crying, being born.

            Lay in waste the soon-too shadow-having solemn omen of sadness you must consume every day every night unaware what’s really going on. With you. In the breezeless windchill. Nonair in a cycle of space going round you. You’ll be subjected to another test, now. The test is to see if you eventually understand what the test is for, but it’s graded on a bell curve. Ire in the want to complete something for once for your own sake like Dear God, Please and methatic cloves of gusting joy died in the epilogue swung saloon doors of oldtime unpolished wood creaking sable. As Agent X enters to confer with Agent Y about a card table where someone else is joined. “You duly can-not understand.” ¶ “Yes I know.” ¶ “No. You don’t know. You can-not know.” ¶ “Yes, well. Then I know that at least.” ¶ “Well… ok.” ¶ Intuit the hand I have and see which one you see. Come the flush, X goes all in and everyone is forced to restand or sway or respond in some way. And deliver us from evil. “Not on your life, bud.” His and God’s voice speaking out at me from somewhere deep inside my throat. Right there in the viscera of the vocal chords. Tell me you understand, no—I—you…. Tell me you understand, oh. ¶ So when my face melts over the candle’s flame like a crayon and saps onto the floor a bit, my divested lips move and the whisper a song. Not all of it heard, not all of it comes out. Somewhere in the slight brazen gash apart from pretty much every eye that saw me as a fragile heap that day in my personal Doom, who knows…. Agent Y cries for Agent X and says nothing as he reveals a royal flush and rakes in everyone’s chips. I become a wallpaper icon in a triptych unthemed motif including russet leaves, where my figure is a symbol falling sidewise. The background is a kind of cream color and the leaves are illustrated in detail. Our acid tones to the laugh track make the sounds distort and mirth sound virile and ominous. Like there’s some maleficent dosage of character to the universe being screened, and you are a background character who cannot really know. I do not resent anyone else for this, no, only yourself, though you and I are… yes, so… anyway. ¶ Tableaux of congealed screams made carnal and prosthetic ears listening and worse-than-we-once-had-knowns coming true, sometime in the near future, in the near past, in the near present, though… having heard the song your melting face’s divested lips there on the floor whispered by the cast-iron prop upholding the candle, I wonder…. ¶ Glow in radiance, steam escaping from my eyes as I close them and I am trying to sleep. Trying to remember the words to the song, oh, something like… “While across the ocean there, / my nightly death and reverie / was lost upon the self that was then born. / And all across the ocean there, / when fanned-on Greek flames came and went, / I saw that all there was I could not see….” As though David Gilmour himself had sung it in a hushed tone. But what of…

            Infinite dragon’s light on the nape of your neck as the radial energy regrets and redraws… arrows of cosmopolitan ensigns going plural over the dash refrain… into the bitter back of the brain, again, as you’d want to see…. But who on earth could have known? What the book was… what The Book was, who could have known? Over in a hundred different ways, the same story. Who knows where or when or why, but how we determine what we see with our mind changes. And this changes too, and in time. Where with all the muster it can limited blanched cretins demit to walk the lonely roads of life. I on the other hand… well, who knows.

The Golden Damned (XXIII): LIVING CODE

LIVING CODE

Wending hollow morphed sets sought to be a symbol. When symbols are how man speaks to himself and learns to understand who he is. De la ca trinidad un ruin le spar. Heavy sets of glyph structures going kathunk! in the night of the soul, long and dark, and getting registered to the blessed mind as a living code. White-out moments invariably snatched away by the sense something is right or wrong on the node. You in the instant you must speak know exactly what you want to say, and that is what you should say, I find. ¶ Crumbling texts of the longnis spree fair the boon well and satiate the hind mind, where formations weep. Cold trembling hands for once despair the night slanting inward over the soul’s personal bubble where the self sleeps. Deep intricate puzzles in the slough-rind in the mind you call dreams. Nowheres to be going but let up and the self is already changing all the time. Or at least the world is. Fend for a wanting may, do not despair, lean into me. Craft for a plundered why a wanting for a manuscript that depicts all the parts you’ve deleted as well. Then for calls or else from your mother which make your heart well a little, smile go back to dreams. Life’s too short to be missing everything that happens like a perfect solemn while, where whims breathe. Never desceath nend prouster largess. Tumult a while whole brilliant Ninevahs baking in the sun while a stode-past pulls rendiant endrils into the scene and swaying softly like skates underwater for tiller mulls a hundred half-past-anyways and non-forgotten shindrel hindths blubbering upward brilliant nonsense allthewhile not known indicators seethe over hundreds of glacked brutes in travail. Cameos of actors from lesser-known films for the scene. Tea tricks ongoing in the sponner to dinner because Lassey and Agent Entrance are having a meal at the bygone table which moves with them as they talk inside the blue-tinted forest a while. Sipping nakedly, Agent Entrance says, “But when swy gall predicts undiant smathers be, what’d you say?” Lassey barks. AE says, “Recisepley.” Put into different ways, not all not-actuals slammed upside the bedding make war. Agent Entrance is beautiful and a semblance of the Anima. As Jung would postulate. But she is more a symbol than anything. And leftover home-brewed coffee sits on the table all day getting cold because Lassey doesn’t want to drink. Moving through the forest. The top of the table reflecting the canopy tinted blue moving across its surface. Visual fields impeded by monkeyvines acting as momentary bookmarks for the passersway living and unaware this was all their life all along. The grant action on the small void cathedral one. Temperate in trusted wark never the let the thimble fill drinking blue punch spiked with love stuff all along, never the same twine. Over fully anvilled cartoon establishments the creeping feeling there is still enough time—before the end of a dream, or the end of a sensation: enough time before the end of time. There were cool embarks on the sabled wine stalk getting talked at by this constantly really cold water really very cold, now, hurting your feet even just stepping in it, really very cold. Despite what it knows, not. Very much the one of the very knows. So blind despot points out the way to the embered end of the cigarette God smokes, and doesn’t know—he doesn’t know—what it must mean to pet the butterfly symbol his life is on the line for. But sends off the long haul for forever and tries to undertow…. ¶ Nesting us night light in the trenches the foreseen four-havered forever toured no known talking about “forever” as if it is a thing that can be understood, even while dust bunnies attempt to contemplate the rest of dese pert fining and indigenous mud soothed. Tales of prouder times regailed for treatise for the song for layered oont. Grailed fortunes of never denial tooth smacking down on a too-hard sedimentary particle if it's known it’s never known per se, never sound only a crushing blow. But where were thalls not in destray a fumed indigent angry spool of yore forgave itself its stumbles and rallied all. Then for where our tangled pall were crying seawater over the earth’s wake and surface says any mare is haul. Trepidatious figments of the room to waltz. Frequenting tell-army signs on the grist to null for wherever the spark went. The same little vocabulary mostly only getting mildly reordered and faxed out to the outer brain where the fingers’ synaptic signals get received and nerve junctions reimburse. The way portered hulls divide in crashing side-to-side are life are life. Engrained in our subtle Escher’s claw, divined in awe, we find we find a little more space repeating loops outside of time. And the engine always flattening out revives the mind alive alive. For to where our hearts dismay the old recumbent spine. Ordering the actuary out of sight out of mind every time. Training truthfully the acid waltz and craving glaze of eyes and driving through too much fallow haze and walking upright and all and despairing over less and less until the enlightened mind meets the elucidating gaze and stay and finds all parts of itself rumbled and tried and grossly humored for two for where we all were fined our livery souls for the path we’d have to walk down to get wherever it was we wanted to get to go home to be above the bottomless out-down trying to sell gold to nothing trying not to fold. Sibilance in the engine, now, getting flattened out forever wind-wound and pining oblation. Feverish mallets striking down then forever lifting up, unknown, amulet-chorious andrethars ankling the cold-cold water, too, feeling discomfort pass quickly into pain. Where on the river bed how is this the same story I’ve told before, oh no. I must’ve forgotten for a moment, like a dream, what I’d said—anyhow nothing is frozen too long. But where wraths find our legs lace in sequence with the divining rod. Hep-hep the underwater sting to light the way and get to shore again, yes, or the bank, not for too long.

The Golden Damned (XXII): BARN OWL METAPHOR

BARN OWL METAPHOR

Mel Nuth-Traxor zips around on the air smoking a cigarette in the mornings. Holding a Diet Coke in one hand some hundred feet or so above the ground. Mel, though, likes to peruse the mountainsides a little. Zips over them at the speed of a Mach-5 fighter jet smoking a cigarette sipping Diet Coke, snow-capped mountains all a-flying by, humming idly “Lus Foose Nicht Flehr du Plem” to himself, the song which ends when it begins and then repeats indefinitely. Though, this is not a story. Mel Nuth-Traxor is a metaphor for the bleeding heart, living, being alive. The mountains are a metaphor for simulated rhyme, and the Diet Coke is an advert. ¶ What goes on next then is the continuation of the meeting apart, where gluff nazor destrock rumbles down the street in a tank and makes all the little bunnies scared. They hop on into their rabbit holes and divide per sleek the sail. Out on formy lotions, slip-n-sliders make a range of motions. The cross-hatching pattern shading their necks in the sunlight does the spare. Ranted on into oblivion the croft-in-hop delicatessen specs preach number truth to the alphabets. Do not get paid but a little for their words. Maybe become hitched on some feedback loop that they’re good enough, which they are, but they should look for another line of work. ¶ Loud ambro-infused chusex smoothy-brains dope themselves up in the bathroom to Puerto-Rican pop and dis-hale, phase out of minor weathered states; they clam up inide and then release and all about them is the audible surge of water ripplets going wayward, catching the prime. Ambithiomy once said some axiomatic aphorism about this sort of thing, but I forgot. I cannot say either way whether the soul inside my shoes is the reason I dance so good or if it is some skill I actually possess. I know something is going on sometimes, with my hair in my face and expression feral and staring back into the void lime of the bartender’s eyes who’s just said my card has been declined a second time, because I am sorry. That was somewhat a while ago, but still holds true. I am or was in the lost hatch of auf wiedersehen’s lasting touches, when I said it to the man in the park who’d gotten me my simple fix and never saw the strange dude again. Or the girlfriend whose heart I’d broken and never saw again. Or the tumultuous pry ambidronous booze waterfalling over my pink matter from a cartoonishly opened crown of my head as I looked stuporously mid-response to the person who’d knocked into me on my way downstairs, whom I’d never see again. Itching to pad-lock the ultimate intimacy of my own heart so the frieze can collapse I can wake but in due time rolling over in my own grave. Perhaps too soon. Perhaps not in time. Wondering altogether altogether altogether what was wrong.

            But time perfects imporia. The leyline grove beneath us withers in the winter snow but is beautiful that way, too, and serves as the access point for the rabbit-holing bunnies trying to escape the surface’s tankshake. We’d climb in after you if we could fit, because maybe then we’d be able to score some drug we could do. But our chances aren’t likely and the world is possessed; we might as well walk back home empty-handed.

            The claustrophobic vent crawling Agent Exit as a responder firstly had to do was not kind to him; he’d ripped up his arm a bit on a loose screw over some ductwork and cried out, “Hollllly fuck” while the time hadn’t really been right, because then he was over the operation’s bottom line: a set of hostile Amorinian poos who wore cheap garter belts and acted all the time. But whose hearing was keen as ever, and because of the cry deteceted enough so that the mission was a bust and everybody—villains and heroes alike—had had to go home and call it a night. ¶ You want to know the reason nothing happens and you surf well—do you? You cross-bar the exception to the rule and become a fool for kicks. To impress the imaginary friends you’d had as a child who came back that night for one last farewell before they dissipated and the dream went up, too, in smoke. Well because I understand I’ll tell you that I love you. I’ll have to get you to the airport in time to make to kick off this hatching plight. The plain leaves for an alternate dimension where some of this actually makes sense and all of our lives are stories. Otherwise, poems recompense the dying light and day-n-night the postulated phrase to portend something vaguely good but also vaguely strange on the horizon. Way worse than wet sheets of paper fold or let go. Way worse than the dollar bill being indignant for the slot in the vending machine. Way worse than who-knows. But all of us wade in. To the waterhole to swim some. Therein music plays you have to be inside the water to hear. It’s quite beautiful. Songs with no name but melodies going all the time. ¶ Tripped up for year after year and asked what you want most, who on the other hand sanctumed the sweetish call-on-line-four for a problem you couldn’t rope and then met though not-so-secretly the self of creation and the self of lies and the self of mysticism and the self on the windshield and the self in the shopping cart as a child surrounded by fluorescent lights while mother pushed you along the grocery store aisles, and the self in Paris and the self at night—and none of them seemed all that responsive. They just quietly listened, each one, or else were just being quiet politely. Trying not to let the first words last-light, but too fast too often giving up it seemed on the manner by which listening was apprised. You wondering what is going on unaffixed to the way there is a heart on the line. You being the object of the end of the thing you are reading, not knowing why. Except, here come the barn owls just over the branches: Here comes the moon in its seconds-sparing clouded sea of reflective light. What will you do now? Listen to the barn owls; they’re taking over. Hoot—hoot-hoot! Oh, isn’t that nice? Isn’t the way that they perch just…

The Golden Damned (XXI): JAZZ RELIEF

JAZZ RELIEF

Time-tanned were trickly oven bites coruscating up on the main deck. Yonder veins where detailed moons passed by all gargantuan and superimposed on the sky, little-granted nynaemertanuen fishing out their souls from the bottomless pupil of God’s eye. Tillen trekked on sambyu oun. The fiction was the ego of the spry. Unable for the time to come up with a focused thing. The chaos had become the message as it were, thenius thinning thoughts thought, realizing a little there were far more unmade words than there were words. Qualitative in simple, blank readied bold clams could at last watch from their sand banks the sun—their favorite celestial body—rise on the day the oceans sunk lower for a draught. I in my fisherman’s cap even stopped by to take a gander. From the surf leaving the shore for the sandbar, I heard “Low nooz troo fu lei.” It comforted my heart. ¶ On then into other means, where compassion met the as yet unrealized, onion people stealing my money come back to apologize. They say, “I’m sorry” in a not-in-a-lick,-really,-sinister way. They bow their heads, and the lead one offers up some coins and a dollar bill on his upraised white-gloved palm. You’d better be, but I’m smoking my cigarette. Then there is no time for this. Toon melt-yous rescind the offer to my table. I call up the lobby. Ask what building I am in. It is The Car Lot. Figures. Toon melt-yous walking hips-asway down the hall from my door to knock on Vinny the Esper’s, unafraid or else unaware of his ability to melt their minds. I remember back to the onion people and feel sorry all a sudden. I shut the door. Where was the sense that I’d asked if it would come? ¶ Portrait on the wall of indermentory hyperfluous aspartame ghillie sitting down with a bottle of rum and crying while looking into the viewer’s focal registry registers. I wonder what is going on with me. Suddenly my chest bumps and the elevator-ding pitches down the hall and I know the end of the sentence has come. ¶ What in the world would put you here in the land beyond conveyors where all our fleeces are made of gold? Why did you think recalling dreams would ever give you any answers? It is a cold, unfeeling world. At times, yes, but also… what in the world would put you here in the land beyond conveyors? Inching-out thumb-worm in Pleiades dispatch co-queues later the sognit fogron. Tells of peace beyond middled worlds and how nonsense little imp-seats get filled with druthers for writers and it is nice at times. Though blanked beyond the point of one I could seem fishingly to lean in over the railing and ray or skate my hand this way that signified going with the flow altogether. Handed-down many fortunes in a single cookie cracked, oh, open, and message read: “You will have success in all your personal affairs.” Well yippee, Scott. Wutherer jingling its change walking down the street unaware there is a band of onion people in the alley immediately ahead having heard the coins in his pocket, leering back and forth at each other in the dark, one of them patting a baseball bat. ¶ Clean-sea-clean-on-conveyors slipped out of the mind’s packaging and fell as a parcel out on the floor. Lock-in-with-the-eyesing toon melt-yous recurring in dreams but not this one seem to speak another language but do not know what they really mean. Big orgasmigoid eyelets aflutter slinking ripped tunes out of an accordion as they lean over the table obligingly to whisper nonsense into your ear: “Eih? Du fer nu? Neih, luh dur ber.” Cross-contaminating the priz-off with Agent Exit’s pristine mallofactor embion pen, which glows in the dark and spins and whistles if you want it to, on top of providing premium ballpoint gel glide. Ruby rondy-to-know walking past the oblique pellucid window where her outline distorts before the outside shine and shatters against the passing of its darkness because as it turns out, when the door just beside is opened, nobody is there—and she was never a character. Little eyelet droggle high-nighting flute-playing alligators on the side tables doing jazz numbers with their nubby clawed digits wait while you take your seat. And I take my seat as well. And in that time nothing for real happens except—yes, you guessed it: we take our seats. Well, that and the buzzing housefly our waiter’s turned into loses his mind and flies into a bulb in one of the fixtures above the tables. Constant lay-tremier in the cometous andromathy threatening to lack-slay the beneficent ox we parrot to, whose name is never known but whose love is felt. Kind old ox, that one. So but where? Where is our tune going? What is our hell like? Why is it here? On earth, are there any more reasons? I want to know. And to take you, ice-lake-blues-having Pegasus, to the rooftop, where we can see the stars behind light pollution and you can decide if you’d maybe like to fly off into them. With me or not, it’s not my business. Punitive rolling-sparks to alight in the glad made bed heaving rollersway but were not tone. Crassly designed shoes only the elves sport showing off the primary-color-centric insignia of RED, YELLOW, & BLUE. With little holographic Hermetic wings on the sides which seem to flutter slightly as the perspective from which they are seen shifts in the light. Too-nothing noculators brooding over a glass of something about the portrait of the aspartame ghillie in my room in The Car Lot. They, having busted right in, feel sad too, but especially about the portrait. They want a third person to share their sadness with and, from the corner of the room’s striated changing screen you’re hiding behind, as the whole place is as quiet as the dust that’s inside, and their gazes are all but barely visible, they look (at the same instant)—directly at you.

The Golden Damned (XX): SOUL-STOCK

SOUL-STOCK

Smelled in Svilon but were ortive portraits of the claim to moss. Blade in our amberlin fashion now has touched the ground. I was re-read on the portis-sense, given due legs and allowed to walk the mindral scanctre. Where arb me-thaws, onto points of valent noise riling about the vehicular world, cloistered little lemon shells open up and why-they their own maws. Rictus shambles in the O-sound. Clay fermi pigeons getting shattered midair subtonic flights, too. It will at some point maybe make sense. But right now. No I know. Right now, not so much. You can only know. So much, yes.

            Endral Svilon smelled like wild daffodils on fire slightly, on fly lyre sounds while the lemon shells sang a song in falsetto was what the scent was like. Lay me down said the song I was hearing as I wrote this, putting the present into past tense. There are pages to line. One of the angels of the AW whose insurgent hands reach out for the reader is lined head-to-toe in sticky pages. Words in another language thereon which you can’t decode. Couldn’t if you wanted to. They are the in-tongues encrypted spellsong of a lost ancient race of writers left to the reader’s discretion he or she or it the angel is. And I know not too many of us know where, but there is a ladder that leads to The Next Level, I hear. Somewhere. Surrounded mostly by water. A white ladder, like that line from Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.” One to take us out of here, to the next….

            When weepwill wants you, does it enthuse e-ate the nausea? Do you wake up in a blanket, still, and wonder what you dreamt of? Do you wonder if the drum-n-bass you listen to is a signal, as you write, to be flowing? You can envision animated figures dancing to it in your mind’s eye. Doing arm-flings and leg-pickups and -smack-downs and turning axially on the pectoralis plane. Going wurthmer of a long-classed gossamer sheet. Telling the proof to someone you left behind, there. So that it’s just another secret now you’ll never hear.

            “I wonder what was let go of.” Hither despond you, the camera floating back and up away from your enlightened body as your skirt sways in the wind the camera’s vector serves as an emulation for the updraft of. To the DnB song off YouTube you’re listening to now in the present tense. Where you is me and you’re being presupposed and superimposed onto the writer who’s me who’s writing this right now, though you are…

            The reader flanks a smirk on whatever timetable he or she or it might, catching a glimpse of this. Whatever fragment of a soul could be considered them. You might think I’m… yes, you are. We float out of time out of sync of mind and space bereft dimension, yes we are….

            Are you, too, becoming the scapegoat for the praxis? Losing words to a flowchart with a better name and reputation than your own, maybe, though isn’t that at least partially in your head if not all? There is a delivery to someplace you haven’t been to, yet. Before you crashed your car into that guardrail and blew the front left wheel.

            Can you pertain to exit? Over these windchimes? In a highspeed car-chase with the cops in your head with the cocaine in your wallet in your pocket on your gums’ numb surficial expanse twitching silently in your backheaded slink-driving wild-eyed dive. Totaled out the brain’s not-rum too-ethereal state of sprees. Slot in the disk and see:

            Above the clouds where a spirit’s body’s left and it floats there like a prim sector on the cotton swaths of the cumulonimbus beds, does it halt? Rain. No, does it—halt? Rain.

            Combing over the hair in your face with your fingers so it’s out the way stylized. Not in vain saying your higher power’s name in exclamation, going dumber still. Prioritizing the selfish wordflash over the presence of the main text getting dispersed here, not a lesson in crime not a lesson in anything, just lime-flavored loss gone untextualized between the lines forever for all time. The redundancies of wording not lost on you, losing ground on who it is is typing even now, who may be the facsimile or not who may or may not be typing, now. Clastic urn in transit over the clouds like a magnetized plumb line hooked up to the soul’s shifting shape, wallowing graceless in unkempt manners all over the visual field, speeding up toward God in goodtime. Lay levers—lay levers down.

            Who put us on this planet? I don’t know. It was all part of the text all along that we’d wonder this way what was going on that we’d use the words we’d use and misspell and delete and retype exactly the every way we do. To not comment upon the sanctity of the shallow-ended wade of time and life and experience and unknown to ourselves even losing ground, losing ground. Even as we are speeding along, losing ground. Toward God, together. Losing. Ground like plus and minus wires to the fresh Soul-Stock Simulation Box, giving grief to the engine he’s patroned for. You know I am not only here, now. I have written the thing in ways so that I instantly forget. It becomes another morrow on which all bets are hosted and then off. We become we become we become singulators going ruddy fish-eyeing the world’s collapsing inverse spherical crawl to a stop of apocalyptic timelapse. We say, Oh dear, what now, oh God. What.

            And nothing gets answered, or so it seems. Nothing gets answered, but in our dreams some things occur which cannot be explained even awake. How like an ongoing fire the seams curl up and do not hesitate to rouge their smoldering edges. We and in an attempt to bake some understanding of the oft-wrong contextless bray swim out like poor divers to discern for ourselves what of the water’s blue is holy or not, realizing something like it all might as well be. We do not fully understand.

            And that becomes part of the beauty of it as you recline, in bed, and type, on your laptop, these things, to yourself, to be true whether they’re true or not. Wholly different worlds come into contact with one another as their shapes merge and surfaces ice.

The Golden Damned (XIX): X TEST WAS ALWAYS X

X TEST WAS ALWAYS X

What was the prefigurement sighing about? It was on its time. You could tell it had really been dickied with, was the thing. Off-shoots of aspiring authors pretending they weren’t already writers on something like a summer fling getting repertoired by their closest ghosts—getting shoved out to sea to sing.

            It is now 9:52 PM, and the objective is to, as it always has been: write stream-of-consciousnessly about whatever within the twenty to thirty minute timespan it usually takes—shittiness and all accepting, all of it just jammed in there, with more or less minimal effort, as a kind of a meditation on the thing. Usually (recently, on The Golden Damned) I will stop at ~1000 words. This is the usual marker of the barrier or whathaveyou. When I reach around 1000, it is time for me to wrap things up.

            But so tantrime fer luvvers doubly ducked, the spell rill was applied with the quiet of a pantomime. And little of it was known outside its users’ circles, wherein they talked. But tantrime. Leftering hooblervexed gargantuan slant rhymes, onomatopoeic KLANG! brides ran out of their unified churches on the day of their weddings at the same time to relive the freedom of saying no to a commitment, but I would not judge. So many things are already so fucked. Howe can you expect anyone to be loyal to your heart? It isn’t loyal to itself yet. How can you expect better greens to roil true-blooded in the ivy smelt of the hot? I was not aware all the way what was going on. It is now 9:58 and I am barely getting things done.

            The truth apart from yell-pain-words was art. And even then, slowly, my grown ghosts were trains going. We called up the ceremony and asked when it would start. “Yes, no, could maybe, but, yes—when will you—yes. Yes—when will you start?” And then for the more of our seasoned Lou Reed impostors, “Walk on The Wild Side” came on from the proximal vocals of twelve of them at once. I was walking the invisible dog, doing dang with the halt. They were singing that song and it was groovy all the way, you know. So then for heights’ strings, we crept up all the way to the next paragraph: it was going to be an ascension of tongues; it was going to be beautiful; it was going to take the whole day.

            The ebon-draught shine to the cracked earth was wild; the springmaster reigned in the soul—in The Season of Eyes, not even three months ago—and what drew up from that dry earth far overhead for a while was… something like a shadow, yes. A shadow without name, but a reveling tone to it voice as, from its apex, it asked of us, “Oh, who are you? Is this an exercise?”

            And we as me as one of many said, “Yes, we are just trying to write. That is The Golden Damned. You take absolute nonsense and try to put it into a contextless hermetiphoride.”

            “Oh,” the ascended nameless shadow said, “I see. That is rather dumb.” But we didn’t pay him any mind; we were all so drunk off eggnog leftover from the Christmas party of dreams that its predispositions to our strangeness rarely mattered. No matter who it was, it was welcome to partake with us.

            “I have to be going on the late bus,” the other of us who was and was not me said. Right before he lumbered off into the dark snowing vagueness of the sidewalk then that night. I threw him a pack of freshly shipped mittens. “Take these for the road,” I said. “It is sure a cold cold night tonight.”

            Oh little bleakness you do not know. What of our hours is put to the test or right. What of our words is good as it is now 10:09. Post Meridiem. Central Mountain Time. And only about six-hundred-and-seventy-five words have been said according to the counter in Microsoft Word. But then they don’t seem to count the comparative pay-outs. I was pulling up on the machine and barely able to clear the bar when fate said, “oh you may be very weak. And I don’t know how to offer any consolation.” And then what else of us is lost to time? You are thinking, “WHAT IS THIS RANDOMNESS? WHY AM I READING THIS RIGHT NOW? WHAT IS THE POINT? WASTED TIME.” And I am thinking, “BLUE BIRD IS THE SKY. RED OR BLUE. CARDINALS ARE ALL RIGHT.”

            So, to main the ever-present shielding of the sight: no violence would prosper beyond my forcefield I shared with you; there were little blue hexagons in the air that sparked every time someone tried, bouncing their fists back. Oh little sequence showing oh little time. What you know, then? Tell us.

            I know a lot of you are just like me and I don’t want to waste your time. But this never had to be read, in excess, the eagles all settling down in the Canadian forestry about rivers nearly frozen over full of salmon would admit, maybe, if they could get out of their avian righteous minds. I know very little and I think that that may be the point: I know very little and I have very little time. It is now 10:15 and I’m going over the limit already. You do not start to get the point until the hand that tests itself breaks the line. Writes the line. Breaks the rule that measures itself against the hand that breaks and writes the line. Sometimes it manifests as raving mad tongues: Ooh la borglaine off trahbah. Sometimes it’s like a bird touching down: Twer pleet. Though it’s relative and out-of-mind and you can’t say altogether now, can you—but. I believe that trying to pigeon hole the sense makes a bastard out of text in general and reels the winder that reels the mind. It is now 10:18.