idiot box

Faces on the television

speaking in tongues

senseless
and desperate

with empty hearts
beating
the shit out of my brain

fill the bag with my head

and then i can breathe better

than with the air that they gave me.

Pyrexia

i'm not getting the fever the heat or maybe the lamps come on like fire furnaces blazing through a thousand years of holocaust rememberance ashes in the wind from the dead bodies of innocent people with the blue faces slandered and slanted to be responsible for the weight of the problems those immeasurable deficiencies un-abounding into the slaughter of the merry-go-round with the painted horses going in circles and circles and circles and the square tears are cried opaque opiate square tears i was running through the dangers of time without any shoes got blisters on my feet and then on my hands from touching everything i see AND THE FEVER I NEVER GOT THE FEVER i never felt the fire of the strange love of the fire with the erratic need for deliverance shining bright whites the flames and then the girl stopped to paint the merry-go-round horses with her gold fingers from the picture on the wall in her mind in the back near the synapses where they used to make her wait for days like a cat in a bag drowning failing to remember where is the lamp in the dark it's a fire i didn't plan the petals right my flower fell apart

the naked girl in the tree

abducted by descriptions of sex

dreaming of naked girls crouched in surreptitious trees

practicing voyeurism

watching strange boys upon park benches down the distant road

(dream, night of 12/16/09)

designed to fire my imagination...

Cool Head, Steady Trigger Finger

Dried Up Seeds

All the lines on your face

Speak more words than you do

I know you’ve been crying, baby.

I’ve been crying, too.

Here we are in the rat race.

Here we are like dried up seeds.

I’ll take your body-

I’ll take it with me.

And when you crawl to me

I can’t help but look away.

I saw you standing in the shadows.

I saw everything –

That place you were going

When you had a name.

Oh, breathe in the fumes now, baby.

Let it take you, too.

There’s only one of us to live

And it won’t be you.

A Vacuous Daydream

Something about my humanity has ceased to exist. It seems that I am forever indebted to the empty heart vacantly beating inside my chest and this solidified isolation that I’ve inherited from the moon. For as far as my selfish hands can reach out to another, it’s true that they are merely grasping at another’s throat, causing acute strangulation both around the neck and the heart of the innocent. I’ve wasted so much time and space fooling myself to think, to actually think, that I, some jealous shrew of a woman am actually capable of giving myself to another wholeheartedly and without question. I am capable of no such gift. I do, however, pass out pamphlets of Caligynephobia from my crafty hands of dissimulation. This sticky film surrounds my skin. I’m a woman wrapped in wet paper.

'That's all for today, Monsieur Antichrist.'

L'Entranger (translated in English to read The Stranger) by Albert Camus has illuminated me. Although I do not subscribe to nihilism, I do, however, subscribe to The Stranger's notions of a world without God, a world without meaning. This broken home is as empty as the grand palaces of facade.

FUTURE OPIODS

"If we could sniff or swallow something that would, for five or six hours each day, abolish our solitude as individuals, atone us with our fellows in a glowing exaltation of affection and make life in all its aspects seem not only worth living, but divinely beautiful and significant, and if this heavenly, world-transfiguring drug were of such a kind that we could wake up next morning with a clear head and an undamaged constitution - then, it seems to me, all our problems (and not merely the one small problem of discovering a novel pleasure) would be wholly solved and earth would become paradise." ALDOUS HUXLEY 1894 - 1963

entitlements

people are small
its just that they feel
that they have felt God
but that leads me to nod
off the line
towing me to heaven
heaven is not here
heaven is not there
heaven is not anywhere
we are small
microbes in the billions
evolving into bigger
doesn't give us the right to feast on our friends
and scratch down the poor to a bleeding scab

Acid Garden

[found this from 2.13.08]

there is a place where sanity is second best.
where electromagnetic waves send colorful beams of flashing love and lightning visions.
a euphoric brain...
here here!
yay yay!
but nay!
part of being human is dying
and part of being human is sadness.
and part of being alive is free-thinking communication.
but if only they could just plug our heads into machines
we could see the acid rays of the future freaks.

Slugs would have been better elected

The paraplegic is spineless-
is limb-less
in a forgotten corner
draped upon a wheelchair
whose rust is now reaching the floor.
Recovery is tauntingly talked of
during the depression.
Waiting for someone to bring it to you
from China.
But nothing will come from those communists you once loathed.
You are forever, America, the
vacant,
uncultured,
fragmented,
degenerate,
posthumous
broken spine of my youth
that never cared to teach me
how to tie my shoes.

Begotten

Daddy, do you love me?
Or am I a science baby for your
Paternal Kingdom Come?

A test-tube of tears and
sacrosanct odium
is all that I am to you.

My Mind is a Microwave

My mind is a microwave-

Some rogue heat wave,

Some criminal contraption of a Radarange, and yet

Something that still belongs in the kitchen.

With their white hands, and black top hats
they planted my seeds in cement

So that I could never grow

And never know my true entity.

These lamented gray chips of stone

Beneath my boots

And above my eyes

Are the anguish of my republic prison.

Somehow I still see her,

That girl I was supposed to be

As I see her in my blue lamp dreams.

She stands, perfectly postured and smoking-

a silhouette on the top of the shadowed hill.

Her eyes are into the sun, and her hands are coming undone

With reasons why not.

Awake to the real America.

The land of the free to pay taxes and suffer at the greedy hands of partial aristocrats.

I take it,

All this shit I’m supposed to be doing

Given to me by the powers that be-

Dare I say God?

There is no light in the sky but the sun, and so I am a scientist.

Dare I say Government?

-the crooked spine of humanity?

Pencils, and papers, and lies, lies, lies written in

Plain English in desks, desks, desks.

And this heart, what is it?

What is this selfish organ whose meter is but a beating nuisance

Keeping this body from falling down some idle stairs,

Or slipping some infectious yellow pill into my tea,

Or carving some new decoration in this blandly pale wrist of mine?

I’m good for a joke,

But when I awoke

The dream didn’t end.

Wasted

The walls are caving in on the dreams that once stretched out
to the end of the sea.

The logical Age of Reason has been reinvented
in response to the Romantic
drowning in the bathtub.

Hands reach out
but only for some thin air and dust

Finally caught in my throat,

And I choke

On the reality of all that will never come to be.

In passing up this life,

I wait for the next.

When this life drips down the drain

I will laugh

At death

And at myself

For wasting so much space

In this emaciated time.

let us go/ you and i

i had a dream last night that i was debating the meaning of T.S. Eliot's "The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock".