the next testament
June 9, 2010
And it came to pass, when restored to wholeness, these angelic forms were given the gifts of prophesy and the gifts of vision.
But some of them lied and abused their gifts and so they couldn’t stay, and they fell to earth and became artists.
And others became the philosophers, and they were like the snakes upon the earth.
But they were looked upon with pity, and as they were practicers of idolatry of the most obscene kind, these lovers of logos.
They were given one to worship, and she was called woman.
And they gloried in their devotion, and joyously suffered. For she was very beautiful and lovely and kind, in her cruelty.
And they loved her well.
But the poets, they no longer descended. Though they passed like the shadows of clouds upon the earth.
Kundalini
May 15, 2010
And with mathematical precision
exactly right on time
without hesitation or regret
She composes the next line
At all moments waking and asleep
she stirs within me so
an outpouring of spirit
her light continuing to flow.
She brings me many voices
of which I cherish dear
of signs given
their forms shall tell
an unknown beauty which I fear.
She creeps through walls and floor
and ceiling yonder high
she reaches through the attic
like fire to the sky
And when those clouds erupt
she calls down in reverse
and under earth descends
her lightning which I nurse.
Electric impulse governs
the signals which are sent
from one mind to another
a rhythmic at-one-ment.
tears of bitter sweet
June 12, 2010
As I try to touch my world
She leaves me all the more
And all alone I sit
To stare blankly at the wall
The pain that I escaped
You find me in the end
And like a long lost brother
I hold your hand my friend
All my lonely allies
In the west and in the east
We pray the violence ends
We pray eternal peace
But you know I’m sick and tired
Of these people made of light
They forget their own shadows
Their torches are so bright
You are not without fault
Use your mind and humbly think
You were born from dirt and mud
Oh, your shit does not stink?
If you don’t see things as they are
And deny the pain that’s real
You get caught in your own bliss
A heart that doesn’t feel
And oh my world you see
It’s because I love you that I cry
Let us feel that joy together
For this grace shall never die
So always deep within
Do I resolve to love you still
A burning brilliant light
This heart that you now feel
mood in dark green
May 20, 2010
Life is becoming removed.
stories, beauty, myth; we commodify and take away. can we keep nothing?
we have become enemies unto ourselves
men women and starving children are bought, sold and eaten
‘and don’t I look lovely in my new dress?’ he says
and sex, final salvation, it has been porn-ed.
Whoever heard of romance? Now a fake nostalgia. Glamour takes the stage. In our culture of craving we are your dancing whores for your entertainment, and you keep us drugged.
I hope you die young and before your time your innocence has become so terribly wise you have become which you feared most
a lovely burning demon
A fool who can’t dance or sing
but only entertain and train.
It’s been the end of history and the end of friendship
cowards, we no longer fight each other and can’t recall if we ever did in honour. the inner life has become unbearably,
violently
serene.
Hope is at its closing, the cynics rain shall end for now is the time for faith. stay pure and hide your chastity
become again a virgin all that remains are our idols
don’t take me too much in seriousness I mean not what I say, my mind is confused
all these too shall pass.
Play
January 6, 2011
The game is liberty, not freedom.
The cherished princes left bleeding
their blood has washed away
all promises.
Such bodies of innocent rest.
The game is liberty, not freedom.
But don’t tell no one, not a soul.
They hear other wise eyes chained
in tiredness.
Barely a light one hopes the devil will find us soon.
The game is liberty, not freedom.
Ears bent over to a tick tock clock
pendrop, the game is over.
Talk to the shadow of the god dead.
Shave one more happy, empty head.
The game is liberty, not freedom.
Played by catching whispers of fallen stars
but they don’t let you think
coffee flavored cinema drink
calculated treason. Intelligence.
The game is liberty, not freedom.
She’ll stay with you for a night,
if the price is right
a minute, a moment, a day
subtract you away, contract you to play
kiss you and say;
Her game is liberty, not freedom.
Face of Dissapointment
October 30, 2011
I walk along with down cast eyes
My vision excavating the cement path into a crater
Only my shame I carry with me as a friend
Andlike the beginnings of a friendship
This sadness has taken its time to grow.
The smile I bear which greets my neighbor
Is etched upon a face of disappointment
People around me appear like old photographs
With their innocence hiding their ignorance
Hollow pitiless shells
They no longer resemble the people they’ve now become.
Like a fatherless child, I am filled to the brim with remorse
Teardrops, like big purple butterfly wings
Tear drops which once were dreams
A monotone away from black dissolution
Are purged from my body, gravitating wearily down
Making a well from which unhappy spirits may draw their sustenance.
Fatigue seeps into my veins, numbing leaden limbs
So that my feet drag behind
Pushing in the dirt, the dust of my memories
Into the grave I have become.
And now as a spectre, I drift with the breeze
A witness to the soft gentle lies piled one on top of the other
Forming a tombstone of irrepressible weight
‘HERE LAYS THE DREAMER FOREVER SLEEPING
MAY HE REST IN PEACE’
So I pass on. Footsteps marching in time
With the muffled beating drum
Resounding underneath the pavement
From inside the hollows of my heart.
The Doll
October 22, 2011
Hovering silently, you hang upon the bedroom wall
Material being thoughtfully pinned
Collage of worlds and spaceless two dimensions
This formula of recycled histories, held together with glue and sticky tape.
Tangled shoe lace hair, your left eye a bottle cap.
The right one a dark blue button, so that you appear to be winking.
Your lips (which are drawn in purple crayon), almost smiling
And speaking the words that are scratched
Behind your tissue paper skull.
Those words only to be read in times of great importance,
Your secret prayer for the world.
Limbs made from the ribbons of little girls hair
Dance rythmically in the breeze which gestures through the window.
It’s as if you’re about to jump off the wall and pirouette upon my pillow,
So giddy you are in the wind.
If you could speak, I’m sure you’d talk for days
Telling me how you cured the sick child
And nursed the old woman to paradise.
Those unspeakable kindnesses can only come
From fragile and delicate waste
Such as you.
Gloria Divine
October 16, 2011
Such stupidity! Truth is never found in the clouds of dreams ephemeral,
But in the dirt under the finger nails and only after much scratching
And when lonely-ness is kept close company, so as never to be known.
… So now for my latest joke: this one for sure shall have you in stitches…
…I’ve developed an advanced attraction
To the woman on the packet of skim milk powder
I visit her everywhere, in stores and supermarkets, spying her out
Her fit body and instant promises. She, my source of calcium
I’m nurtured by her un-preserved, no additives sustenance
Into her cardboard eyes I fixate; ‘oh baby, it’s all smooth sailing from here’
Before the shift, the bus stop is the place to be
Magnificent throne! Here one makes fond aquaintances
With insects, thinking ‘ if only I could teach them to read and write
I’d be the god I dreamed I was’
Paparazzi follow my scent. Suddenly I’m flashed by photographers
Longing for a piece of me
But I’ve styled myself to cocoon, in shy embaressment.
There’s no need to get caught up in the delerium
So I keep a straight face.
Their adoration means nothing to me besides
I’ve become immortal.
My one command is this: to dance like a whore
When you’ve bathed in the sun as I have, you become pure bronze
This alchemy is my witness, from the air itself I can form belongings
I’ve been doing this so long, they’ve made a tradition
I’ve become a sect, a magic formula, a secret number, a philosophy
in short; a grand cliche.
super-vision
October 16, 2011
We who have mastered control to an exact science, psychology!
For those who no longer play the charade
There’s no need for governance, when the ambitions enslavement.
As for my own kind, the sight of my blood makes me naughtous.
… super-vision
Its head strangely elongated, uniquely shaped for its service. This absent spectre kissing you with its ghostly plague, you feel it under your skin. Those black licking shadows crawling inside like a breath, leaving you empty for all revenge. Now that you’re tasted and its appetite is whet, it swivels upon its stool drinking its glory in gurgling slurps. Stuck tight to its optical apparatus, it yearns to become the thing it objects.
Glued in position and held fast over passing millenia, its moulded itself into its vessel, like hot wax, melting from a candle. Over this course of time, it’s developed tendrils to a fatal degree, so that its eye now maintains the smile of a telepath. Though the cost has been severe.
For its muscles have fused into its skeletal frame and it twitches and blinks in spasmotic intervals. The slightest movement from you alerts its interest. As it probes you wit x-raeifiecation efficiency. It’s thin lizard skin fizzles and pops with the excited heat it generates from anticipation. Rubbing back and forth its buttocks have become calloused soars. It shakes violently, rattling as it sees you searching for an escape.
Evening falters close. The watcher eventually succumbs to its rising crescendo. It stretches itself out in full length, cooing in delight. Then its borble head slumps down in between its wasted thighs. Sleeping in the pools of its expenditure. And for a time you’re free. Until the next work shift starts, that is. It waits, to gain you in its sight once more, its vigour aroused anew.
Juggernaut
October 11, 2011
Centuries slept and still its continued presence resounded a drunken cello, eclipsing silhouette, great behemoth floating by full to the brim with ships, legends and junk of the most precious kind. Heavy and laden with its instruments, it rests by a mountain wall to lighten its load. A tentacle springs forth from the chambers in its breast as heaps of gold fall from its paws, crushing the multitudes below. They cry out rejoicing in their death, which their god brings to them.
Black clouds trumpeting from out its head. They herald the call of the new world, lurching and staggering towards its prophetic calling, now near. As it reaches its goal by design, you hear from a cavern deep within its frame a melancholy, resounding sigh of woe. Its limbs begin to shake in ecstatic release, as they fall screaming from the heights of its convulsing torso. Its skyscraper legs groan at the knees as steel bends and window panes shatter like drops of rain. Now on the ground, it eases its pain. There for the first time its face is seen, so shaped with such gentle intention. The worshipers standing around, now grimace and laugh at the giant shell of shame. The light from its eyes slowly dying with its last thought ‘…I was never meant to be…’
Ideas
October 11, 2011
What is the origin of ideas?
Last nights remorse is mornings turning, hungering
For tastes which have not yet been sounded
From silent desires these creatures transpire.
The sense of day aroused from the dusk
Meandering slowly from the palm of your hand
And gaining momentum, in conspiring ascendence
To scatter abruptly, as they sense their vulnerable nature.
Before their conception, they’re sentenced
To many years of impoverished freedoms.
They’re stored in chambers and like bugs they crawl,
their hairy legs glue and remember,
soaking each other with antennae-ed excitement.
There they swarm and populate worlds and
Pollinate stars and planets, saturating, copulating, mutating
With slow and even temper, winged beating frenzy
They vibrate apparitions.
And when their eggs are ready, membranes alerted
Warmed by the rising of day
You see their beauty seeping, from pores
Longing to conquer.
Vanishing
July 28, 2011
Leaving a world behind
Departure of a planet
Destination of a sun
Stepping into this
A world is beckoned forth
Passing inside
A shadow and a shade
Caught in between
The illusion and the dream
It is there a temperature takes hold
One with out degrees
Neither hot nor cold
Numb feelingness
Which has never been touched
But mixed with the colours of a Saturn
The greatness of this held in place
Magnified by its universal black
Passes beyond yourself
A planet in its orbit around the stars
It may as well have never been
For it vanishes out of view
Cowherd Street
April 27, 2011
Every day I stroll on down
Good ol’ cowherd street
Where folks share a frown
Such is the place
They spend all their days
All of the houses
are really just graves
You know what they’re like
These mansions there brewing
Elegant teraces
Made for comfortable ruin
Or perhaps they are hospitals
Just for the sick
Where they burn them all slowly
Right down to the wick
Wherever you go
You see all the liars
Made exactly to fashion
No great gods on fire
But you can if you choose
Turn back around
And head for the hills
Just get out of that town
Take the next train
Leave it behind
You know in your heart
There’s mountains to climb
Do as you dream
Travel so far
Just take your note book
And your happy guitar
They’ll say you’re afraid
If you run from it all
But I think the reverse
There’s no need to stall
You make a choice
To do the same thing again
Stroll on down cowherd street
Or Run wild in the rain.
Rose
April 26, 2011
It sits in its den
All jealous with zen
Looks just like an angel
this holy specimen
a soft, gentle and sweet
flower fermenting
or rather an honest one
only repenting
sits very saintly
in the shadows of dawning
but look very closely
do heed this warning
so very peaceful
within its chambers
yet still it is chewing on
undigested flavours
when the window is open
and the light shines into
it lands on the surface
it does not break through
make the incision
to get to the fruit
have to be ruthless
rip it out at the root
now it is true
the face is a flower
but let us describe
this beauty so sour
pointed ears of a wolf
two towering steeples
dots for the eyes
enough for small peep holes
the head a black prison
when turned inside out
the mouth is a mute
though begging to shout
with shoulders all bent
cast your eyes to those arms
covered in tar and feathers
sound the alarms
the back is all thorny
what would be expected
so pointed and painful
when petals inspected
watch out for the flowers
as all roses sting
such is the case
of this innocent thing
the boy who plays his flute to rats
April 24, 2011
Let me tell you a tale, of a cheeky young lad
His body’s spindly like vines, he’s dishonest and bad
His hair is all curly, his overcoat burley
With holes just so huge, he looks like a stooge
There are no human eyes, in that big empty head
Just large glowing orbs of deep burning red
In the twilight of night, when the moon is all full
He sits under a street lamp, and oh how he is cruel
He knows with that wicked, thin smile of his own
that his music is melody, but for the disowned
He owns but one instrument, elemental gift
Made of sky, wind and wood, through this does time shift
He does very little, in the time of the day
Except visit a church, and the rats that there prey
He sings many colours, that they love and adore
and teaches them charity, upon which they naw
But they are just rats, and squeak like the meek
They’ll follow him anywhere, upon scurrying feet
They look up at him sometimes, from the filth they have chewed
Their beady eyes narrow, so critically shrewd
He plays them melodies eerie, grotesque and vile
Yet charmingly sweet and with lyrical style
Those tunes that are special and all end in C flats
Even makes them believe, that they’ve turned into cats
He plays simple hymns, so they understand
To take them across, away from the land
They’re led far astray, over bridges and seas
To drown under tides, with their miserable fleas
But he cares for those creatures, and he likes their kind
For these vermin come, from the gutters of ryhme
Oh that rascally boy, with that tune he does toot
Spins many a fib, on his little ol’ flute.
Sounds
April 23, 2011
Take a time, a trip with an ear
Visit the world of sounds
Which mostly scrape, are hard
And strongly resistant
To music
They come about
From off the side
Drooling golden, trumpet smiles
Showers of fears and flooding
Choirs of need
Leaping off from heaven
Vague black utterances
Streaming down the gutter
They reach long, outward natures
intending to grasp
Your inside space
Forces that move glittering past
To make spinning stars
Blurring depressed agonies together
Forming a language carried in explosions
Of an ephemeral weather with beckoning
Mouth agape
When slow they come to being
As weary soldiers wandering without care
Through a dense masquerade
Or fast as red waves punching
A forced heart-beat
Pressing in their crowded cruel intentions
Silvery cascading scales of light
gently coiling, softly
Secretly, strangling
Sounds
Made of Dust
April 17, 2011
My hands are made
These eyes are made
They are made of dust
And they go easily with the wind.
Made of a real kind of dust
The kind that remains
That builds on the base of an easel
That carries an odor of old book smells
Made of that dust that turns to stars
Against a black night skin.
Made of the false kind of dust
That artificial dust you get
On a neon light or from a factory
Choking on the dust
That we are made of.
That dust is made
Of burnt paper memories
Words that are made
Of dust
And they go easily with the wind.
Go so easily
It’s all so very new
And made no more of dust
Except in the way
Like the dust that stays on an old guitar
In want of play.
But remember we are made
And your eyes and hands are made
Made of dust
And they go easily with the wind.
The angel and the oracle
April 2, 2011
Now your sighing wings are lain down and the spindling branches of your crown have broken into the sea, though they’re wishing to be lifted. If I understood your sad desire, I’d behold you and tear your wings for good, away from all those laughing folks. Were I but a feather, one of yours, oh yes, but I’d know your melancholy worth. In that dying light, to caress your shy halo in sin. This, our last flight together. My lovely dead bird, because I can believe no more, I cast my soul in you and with the strongest faith. Angel of my saddened heart and haunted dream, herald of a call, flyer of the gods in the spinning city. Only you can paint this world, with colour.
Oh Oracle, that I could be the water for you to drink. Thereby to kiss that open voice, your music tasting under my tongue, such fine wine. I’m heady. Drunk so into the future of your cascading locks. If I could climb and orbit your star for but a night, it would be as if to live forever. But those fragile eyes of yours, openness of the universe, speak with such a warning. I’d stroke those pages of your open book, in child like manic glee. My poor wretched beauty, who’s bound herself naked to the river. I beckon you and coax you with word of pleasure, let me take off your chains with my tongue. Have I startled you? Where is your reflection in the water of your pool? Your hand makes ripples across. I can tell your face no more.
I shall love you both and burn our tepid flesh. Together shall we lay, to murder each other till dawn. Wearing your future out of you, in ecstasy and rage and falling. You will chime. Your wings drenching in oil and wax. Perfume rising like a serpent. The gate opens wide in glorious sweet screams of a million voices pouring down my throat, so do we call to you, breathing us back to the end of life. A sacrifice to you, my heart and my mind. To you, this earthen gravity slipping into shadow and world. Evaporating together like a myth. Our robes, a sanctified, soakened, patterned weave. Centuries cover us in cindered lace, burned by a candle in a shell, the silent remains of a rains departure.
The Messenger
March 30, 2011
Some say you’re crazy, all messed up
Inverted in your way
Looking at clouds and pictures
Just for something to say.
When all you think with your sleeping heads
And writings on your wall
Talking voices and mouths with legs going nowhere at all.
You open books and speak through looks
Reflections in midnight calls
Traveling with me the inner sea, truth tellers talking whore.
You pass through places on your way
Across noisy earth etheric verse
You fall through skies with dancing eyes
Crafty patternings in reverse
Take apart these broken cries,
These tears without lament.
Tear into your peaceful sighs
Until the will is spent.
Why have you come from where you were,
Sent down to bother me?
What do you say? Speak up you fool,
Cry your ancient plea.
The Chameleon
January 8, 2011
Creeping crystal camouflaged collage cooly copulating
Entwined extending existential eyes
open orbits observing objects
Transgressing tongue tasting tangible
Ingested invisible institutional insectoid ideas
Pores prophetically producing paleolithic patterns
Morphic malevolent maligned magnificent magic
Scales suckling sustenance seducing semiotic solar
Bathing basking blending breathing brain
Reptilian rex repeated reified rainbow
Absorbing adapting absolute abominations
Disquieting digitized disappearing dinosaur
Falling
January 6, 2011
All day I am falling
to angels arriving to rescue
me.
What is their name? Whom do you take today?
Take me for an example
exemplify this;
I sell names in folly
dependent in a mechanical body
I’ll take you a mile with my machine gun smile
teeth flying all places
every body traces faces
magicians and apprentices
come buy again and buy again
those slow waving hands
with english elegance
with decadence
lust and admire, seduce me on fire
like you’re watching a lion stalk its prey
with stealth and precision
falling into
television.
Veil
January 6, 2011
Imagine that! a woman
babbling before, ignorant,
delicious fly
testing the tongue of a toad, Isn’t she cold
under that skirt.
Imagine this, what a dive
I would take her too
buried under that thing, that
creepy hand covers her, holding
onto that skirt.
Imagine if, bobbling behind,
intelligent chubby face
is talking stories
dirty secrets, past fates
jealously obedient, skirt.
Imagine, nothing else
all histories vanish after
this secret worlded
planets etheric cloth
light, drifting skirt.
Imagined by so many eyes,
moons taken by gravity
a ballooning, empty cavity
shit and flesh
cover it, hide it, skirt.
Imagine that, praying!
inside this opium clouded inn
breathing it in
sliding gods, oceanic spells
hell inside a skirt.
My Happiness
January 6, 2011
I used to dream of ceremony
pale and from afar
through chance I flew on demons wings
alone and from the star
I cherished splendid rainbows
flavored favorite wines
with poisoned arrowed brush
committed many crimes
now I rest on castles high
in distant merry mile
in sanctuary in sane city
in clever opera style
I hate my freedom now its won
I love it like a cross
I wish to think into the sun
to burn this bridge of floss
Telescopic Intercourse
January 6, 2011
My lady love I penetrate with such intelligence,
With cold and hard-ned metal glass, your silken indulgence.
Why when I enter you so rightly, are you as cold as I?
I yearn to touch, to know you, yet you’re the farthest sky.
In anger do you break me, mine metal twisted shattered lens,
In revenge I cut you open, dissect you to the end.
What you thought you were, but broken bleeding bone,
Decaying on this bed, your rotting stink revolts me now you’re known.
If you had stayed in sight, and known my pleasure like you should,
You’d still be alive, have I been understood?
Why were you not pleased, when I know you distantly,
You’re only bloody flesh besides, there’s nothing inside you and me.
My lady love I penetrate with such intelligence,
With cold and hard-ned metal glass, your silken indulgence.
I forget myself I came from you, for I can only see,
Through telescopic intercourse, with my heart blind to thee.
last night I watched you dancing
July 30, 2010
last night time seduced all sense, so stars were there becoming summoned by a glance, through slyly peeping lemon salted tears then again there were, disappearing dueling ballets dancers lost behind mirages, drunken patterned woven curtains laced with silvered crescent moons, a weeping and a playing pied pipers lovers lull-a-by, captured wandering miracle too free.
calling out so taken back, from softly starving centuries, cloaked through wilderness of song, stretching, bending distanced, heard within an other, not followed frame by frame momentary caresses by sleep, then sudden lightness then after not intending return, but reason all in nakedness toes rung round the universe all recluse, swimming headless unable not to laugh.
colorless taste undone, forming unto itself splendors undoing forever, lost clouds drowning far tides of silent currents sweet, erratic flavors, lazily flowering joy just so cooly entranced everything now mirrored into rooms, abiding there in secret and evening conversations shan’t ever be let it in till dawn, take the gift away into yonder paths so very fallen underneath, happiness is all that shall be dancing.
the end of love
July 6, 2010
no more tears to cry and nothing left to steal no one to care for all empty and unreal I’ve lain upon the earth a bleeding, wretched stone the body all outworn, and craving to the bone oh how strong I felt I was and I danced with so much zeal but now I’ve known too much and there’s nothing left to feel
thrown out into the cold with love a pillow for my head I’ve not a woolen blanket and soon I might be dead the funny thing is I know this time I speak no truth how can I end a love? how so and with what proof? for she continues always now and wherever I may hide even though I lost you all because of pride
but now the road has ended as abruptly as I’m found always I am forced out and into a white sound I do not recommend you take the burdens of the mind for all your search for truth there’s nothing you might find a little gentle caring is all I want to hurt and when my wings are mended I’m back being a flirt
to lose again another heart and hurt my very own I could not sell my soul to that but I put it out on loan and now my love has painted me and hung me on her wall a picture of a million flames all growing ten feet tall a funny gentle picture I must be to you but no more talking now as love sings you into blue
journey to the east
June 8, 2010
I went for a holiday, I needed to escape from the hectic life that I lived. Our tour guide took us in his travel bus, to the land flowing with milk and honey. We crossed a big wall and many arabs were there crouching in the undergrowth. We also saw the great pyramids of long lost pharaohs and kings. Great were these monuments with noble faces. We were told how the pyramids were built, some men pushed stones across the desert floor, it was all very interesting. We went in a little boat. It was an enjoyable journey across the river called de Nile but my ice cream melted along the way. For some reason I felt sad when this happened. It wasn’t sweet any more, just sticky and messy. I wanted to go home to my house. I loved Egypt but the way they treated women was despicable! I wanted to find some inner peace as I had read Malcolm X did. I guess I had to be Muslim or something.
It’s A Good Thing
May 15, 2010 at
It’s a good thing don’t worry
when they cast their stones at you, hopefully they’ll break your skull
the blood will rush out through.
It’s a good thing don’t worry
when they stab you in the back,
when they break your knees and poke your eyes
you are on the right track.
When they hold you down and you can’t breathe,
and can’t yell a single word,
Can’t cry for help,
for all it’s worth
You never will be heard.
Don’t worry when the world is dark
For nobody can see.
We are all blind, and dumb, stupid fools We are yes
you and me.
It’s a good thing don’t worry
When karma’s at its end.
You can redo what you have done,
forgive and make a friend.
When you are standing at the end
And breathing your last breath
Please take my hand,
together we’ll go
falling into emptiness.