intrrrimediate

East, yet to be seen.
I want to be there, and feel the stares of people I will come to know.
Mutually.
And in the meantime, get to know the homegrown.
owned, breeded and sold.
purity, no washing of the product.
sources.
it’s the weekend. oh it’s a party.
but my party. and i will last through it. and sustain in the daytime.
sleep is close to secondary.
primary and a half.

and as the lights go out on the train, everyone is sent in a tender panic.
the changes are comforting to my own cycle.
and it has returned and i can maintain it.

i can see the natural white blonde which is stunning. in any setting.

my hunger unsettling. no problems with it.
blonde is like cream in my strawberry champagne
and i just want something to fill me.
as unappealing as the formentation white may be.
it settles a desire.

influences of kerouac, jack
discussions of junky and bringing it back (junkie)
sugar and her heart attacks
in the emotional standpoint
an aspect of which i have eliminated madness
and respect with total control.

today's date.

depart from this ego
comfort in your own state
learn to love yourself and the folk
it’s okay, sometimes.
to enjoy the sensitivity.

Careerism Cassandra

In a cool, dry, place, unkempt:
holding a hospital in yr claw, what should be holding you.

Stop, tether, stop. We don't walk so good.
Staggered amongst recordings, seeded and dead,
proceed to dive, without warmth.

I've gotten nowhere with these moans,
these nighttime initials.
Tumbling feelings, parasitic infections, burrowed in seagrass,
shivering between blades,
coming home to sand and a shell I expected to grow into.

But the flesh does not move unless by dragging, unless by wolves.
I do not grow myself,
Tumors don't diagnose, the plugging does.

Fix and kill, fix and kill, you can't plug a home because we do not rescue behaviour. Behaviour satisfies within cages. we do not monitor you.
They'll feed us to the dogs, Cassandra. ou'll eat yrself and I'll rattle through the howls...so fucking depressing, so fucking depressing. Fix us. Kill us. Stop. Tether. Stop.x
Bodies in a cool dry place, classified, and never known.

If I'm going to waltz I'll do it clumsily
sloppy and incomplete
wrist to wrist, like I sleep
because there's plenty of opportunities
to do things well.

were not

"I have nothing to say. I have probably never had an original thought in my entire life."
When I'm biking it's okay to have these bleak, self effacing thoughts because they're transient. I can fix them to a location and leave that location so quickly even an idea could eat my dust. It's when they stick or catch on my tongue in the getaway that they become a problem.

If they stick I have other ways to fix them.

I can pin them down with words and stretch them to the point of caricature. Shout them into the palms of my hands then rub them up and down the keyboard. "Look, look at what I've done. Would you tell me if I was wrong?" I don't think I'm wrong.

Let me tell you what it feels like.
Okay, imagine what you want is in the first panel, center of the frame. Okay, second panel now and it's farther away and a little bit further to the left. Third panel and it's almost gone. I think you get the idea. I think you can handle the closure between panels.

Keeping Track

heavy pumping in the legs and a steady rhythm
stretching as you cross the line then a tearing
push the skin to a new personal best
keep moving

the rabbit runs with paws pinwheels
alarm clock heart in its doomed orbit
white fur gone tawny with rust and wear
racing parallel

everyone runs their own race
and even though you've never hungered
you want the oil in your smile
the weight round your shoulders

as you cross the line look back
the rabbit in your jaws kicks
and at last you begin to stagger
you haven't won

but at last
you've lost everything just for them
and just imagine how pleased with you
he'll be.

the curtain hits the cast

when the actress stands
steps from the box whole
expectation of blood mocked
and having bent
steel to her will carries on

the audience waits patient
as the trick is staged again
and again until it slips
and a set of legs kick
one two and stop

magician made the fool
confirmed and canonized
in his falling upon the sword

the patsy's victory
earned.

second by second

.






.

nose bleed

it's a familiar rush of something behind your face
slipping as though in your wanting the body you invoked
this wine

bringing forth something richer than words
shaken loose from shuttling from one end to the other
in flight

thicker than family in it's resolve
but flowing given the moment
of crisis

where danger and the safe are twins
who hate you or love you or failing that
just fuck you

and your nose bleeds even when you're alone
as though you've been dropped from a height
and lived

looking at sand as thrown stones
or anything at its most basic elements
a cacaphony of simple things emerges
recesses and combines to produce noise
static that can't be differentiated or broken down again
but rather marched upon and held to one's chest and pinned
in the way we refuse to do to each stone
but find as a compound something simpler
something ugly and easy

all i want is to melt it down
put it in a centrifuge away from stains
and sounds and poison and keep it there like a secret
until we can see every strand
or stone divided and bathed in light
held tightly and dearly in suspension
we'll call it a suspension of belief
or a suspension of hardness
or if nothing else just a testament
to how frightened we all really are

i don't want to feel hard anymore
don't let this cup pass me by
rather keep me cold and wet and pliant
formless and too easily shaped
like skin or clay
sand
if you'll ignore it's finer features.