Crumbling Flash Utopia

Vernacular butterflies flayed syntactical turpentine ruptures repeating
a disinterested look in ambient eyes, crystalline flesh
pressd down upon this glory

A shivering speaking of
just when I think echoes
render acrylic personages
viral encoded blue

Hermeneutics we choose to live inside of,
a transferal reciting ashes on the bloody carpet,
heart pulsings entirely up to you, Mr. Marginal

Spiritual abyss as brutality between a
dried-up loving one who pleasures God alone

Evenings and mornings alit on a thousand miles kissed,
cruelty hiding in the tomb of your prayers
slowly dying of thirst

Weather damage around the last unfurling,
eyes regimented to see nothing beyond
the all better now

Vision returns a popular inside chambers of progress poetry,
licking stars until they see the skull behind the smile.

(no subject)

Potassium: In Our Own Words

Fields of equity billowing the ghosts

of their past mumbling amends along

scales needing your carved wood dancing

the night in our own words

Potassium hears nothing,

one thousand frozen branches

time the eclipse lost in his chest the Otherworld dreaming experience damaged
vital signs orate unforgotten passions,
breaking apart in deserved silence.

Semiotic Potato

Drifting disconsolately, furiously attempting to tear the future from our eyes. Fate boarded the bus, the stifling heat of the streets leaping from its gelatinous antennae. Opium is love, a self-contained manifesto throbbing with the last vestiges of patriotism, nationalism, and that look in your eyes. Her buttocks lifted and curved just so. Pandemic hedonism availed itself of the end of the day, sticking and moving, sticking and moving, no longer sure what to think. Anemic elevation. Whorling combinations of thought declared illegal, confined to the back alleys of ontology. You really aren't all that unattractve when you comb the insects away from your miasma, leaving just a slight residue on the carpet for our olfactory enjoyment. Three-quarters of an illumination, half a nihilistic spectrum around which machine-grace can lasciviously embrace its own prayers for desire gratified. Animism is clearly no longer the enemy, its aesthetic absorbed centuries before our current predicament. Anomie washing its face in public toilets, a wan grin its only defence against the harsh stares of secretaries rushing by on their way to work. Plasma was definitely in style that spring, sucking its teeth imperiosuly at assistants, riding linoleum limousines everywhere as it hopelessly chased after the moon's encapsulating light.

(no subject)

a deep tender ineffable feeling of fondness and state of worry
to have to deal with or relate to the condition of not being imprisoned or
made into or as if bound in a state of subjection of being free from
a feeling of agitation and a state of uneasiness and
fearful anticipation of the indefinite time yet to come
caused by the presence or imminence of exposure or vulnerability to harm or risk
the unlawful use or threatened use of force or violence
by a person or an organized group against people or property
with the intention of intimidating or coercing
societies or governments often for ideological or political reasons
to feel hostility or animosity toward
authorization or certification; sanction, as given by a superior
The Art


there is no god.
there is god, no?
there, no is god:
there, no god is.
there, god is no.
there god no is!
is there no god?
is there god, no?
is no there, god?
is no god there?
is god there, no?
is god no there?
no, there is god.
no, there god is.
no, is there god?
no is god there.
no god there is,
no god is there
god there is no,
god? there no is.
god is there, no?
god is no there.
god no, there is:
god no is there.
  • seasand

(no subject)

Morning comes quicker, next to you,
moss headed stranger, I knew you "when".
two lips, a primrose promise at dawn,
and fumbling little limbs, we are bells and buttons,
things kept like dust on silken flowers,
french doors and dainty corridors winding
slow, like honey.
We hid with skill.

marmalade fingers, farm land instincts of herding,
calling, hoarding,
sleeping belly up in huckleberry overalls with languid legs,
under the spruce,
You offer up handfuls of yellow, cupped like last hopes of water,
skyward, north bound, flying,
this is Home.

The wheat is the keeper, of secrets,
rust parts, and lost dolls dressed in bartered silk.
Her name was Bess.

Out in the open field now, I'm not afraid to be all bare legged, letting the earth kiss up against those raw chigger bites. Under my nails sit the charred skin broken and ripped from home and my belly is full with a baby. I'm counting dead stars and thinking of lion made promises of kings watching everything the light touches. Pondering about sugar roses atop those birthday confections I eyed in the city windows. Dew drops, and tears and tea bags all liquid, all cousinly, all sprouting from the same location on my radar. My wrist doesn't tick and I keep the hours with the colors, purple at seven and navy at three. I keep colors close by...

my reflection in the Koi pond is swelling,
you'll think I'm fairer naked and freshly scrubbed,
heady apricot mermaid at your ribs,
I do love you.

and in the graveyards deep into the a.m. hours they will find our names
eloquent old folks, weren't we quaint,
your soil heritage and my roman roots,
we will be framed rice paper, just like the postcards pressed
with lilac and cyperpedium that I keep,
under pillows, in drawers and bound in twine.

whisper me to sleep with Baudelaire,
rip me bare to bones,
assault my inner yoke and sprout me out from the bed of decomposition gathering
at my spine.

Fountain lovers,
toy parts,
separation and the waxing moon,
I have no head for numbers and figures,
But at least I know that four and seven make eleven.

be small with me, please.
The Art

The Eat Feet Lady

i like i like spraying your face with humiliating insect le prophet EL
g's of emptiness
you are one it is i who am the
iel spraying things with butane to be of nate's brain
EMPTINESS! dial a digit in your general
did the picot prophet dial a digit in your general
nathannathaniel my jizzle fo shizzle izzle
embodied inside the temple
iel direction asking you for communion with Lucy as of yet?
EL, you see, you heathen thoughtspace
Ne0phyte did the picot prophet
..uh ..huh but, more importantly: I had asked you a question
thoughtspace direction asking you for communion with Lucy as of yet?
Hedon Lucy seeks Weird Motherfucker
that is 'whack'
you need to disconnect
you know what you're... you're fucking whacked exterminate
we place on a series you haven't learned to heh it is only the linear
thought problem is, order the woman?
all rational heh of eh heh
seemingly un-connected coincidences , heh brotha. dots eh heh heh heh.
The Art


Life always ends like that. I trod directionally, there is more than a weakling attraction past what is fabricated, just past the portal. That's my first addiction. I'm sexually sketched onto that... thing. It's as if you won't refuse. My ego is trapped in these fractals, he doesn't truthfully admit why he's with them or what is gathering, or who he is jogging with. He is like an unjust "Yes." This, then, is chaotic, belonging to humiliating insect legs of emptiness. He don't lust to see before us, his eyes roll backwards towards the brain. He's frollicking, and presently all is vaginal. But there's the phallus-hermit. I don't know why, or where I am, but I possess the instinctive "depression". Thus, I've always known me. I work to spew, but he dials-a-digit in his mannerisms and tells me to shut up, passing me the Koran. I graciously approve, that THING, and peel it back, penetrating the first opening I find. And this is the Alpha and Omega.