SHINY KEEN PAGEANTRY

But the air dreams again
and she is disentregated
into circles.
Only that shiny dust
Is left to the shadows:
Perpendicular glitter -
dim fragments of those pale girls.



excerpted from "Bleeders" posted 4/9/2010

Fuck Me Running

carnal.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KIM GORDON

I love the way you make my ears bleed. Keep it up, baby.

Walk You To My House

I get fever in my veins when the vision of this woman enters my mind.

MAGIC TAPES - The Mysteries of the Horse

MAGIC TAPES - The Mysteries of the Horse from MAGIC TAPES on Vimeo.


MAGIC TAPES is the side project of Sister Midnight and Rhiannon Finley. Rhiannon is 8 years old. She brings the imagination while Sister M keeps it raw and steady.

MORE FROM MAGIC TAPES

Audio: John Cooper Clarke: Evidently Chickentown, UCD, 1981.

You Fucking Wait, You Fucking Wait

You must get a psychic stain
Coming up
Behind Me
Thinking of those high heat wavelengths
you are
Sure to break some numbered bones
that way.
Too bad
the cracks in your eyes see

the truth.

Bleeders

Blankets of dust
Collect from sitting in stale corners 
Untouched
To be swept up
Like a dirty thing 
Maybe a compass
Or a clock beating 
Every minute 
Of every hour
Of every letter
Of every dirty word
And tortured 
tousled
Thrown in with the peasant trash
Wilted and scratched down to
Bleeding scabs of unsatiety
But the air dreams again and she is
disentregated into circles  
Only that shiny dust
Is left to the shadows
Perpendicular glitter - 
dim fragments of those pale girls. 

dead dreams

When we are awake, our brains produce beta waves. As we drift into the first stages of sleep delta and theta waves run through our drowsy heads. Then, as we begin to dream, our brains revert back to producing beta waves, the very same waves we experience during waking life. To me, this is a profound understanding of the significance of our dreams. Somehow, we are alive in being comatose. We are awake in our minds despite our paralyzed shells. Our dreams are towers of the subconscious.

I revealed to a friend the other day my cache of high anxiety involving death. I showed her this poem I had written in result of the death-stress weighing upon me. (I have edited the poem from its orginal version into what is shown below; the original was drab.).I think the poem still fails to be a "good" one and is rather a sorry acquisition, but the poem itself is not what matters here. What matters is what happened after I wrote it. I wrote this poem about the Big Exit and my fears associated with it and then I dreamt of maggots. The maggot dream is what is really important. Well, here is the poem...

"VALDIS"

My head is caught in the claw of death
and beaten by the barbed-wire grip-

the black fear of the white horse.
The End, with all her aches and moans, abstracts.

I am strung up,

harrowed, cramped, and racked

by her routine voulge.

I can't fight her in the murder-hole.

She is coming
and her closed book keeps cold paranoia.

The spell has been cast upon every rat, priest, and mother.

I pine for my mother,

clean and canonized,

not to expire.

I fear her bright whites turning grey,

her empyrean eyes but a dry decay.

-----------------------------------------

And so, after I wrote this, I dreamt of maggots.

MAGGOTS, people, maggots. Don't you get it? This was my dream! This was my somehow conscious sub-conscious. The maggots aren't even maggots, they're something else. Something bigger and braver than I could see in waking life. The beta waves... the death-stress in waking life... the beta waves... the maggots of the dream arena. This is the metaphor, the interpretation, the metonymous relevance flowering in the sleep kingdom where the dreams are real. Don't you see? It's the maggots. That's what is important.

MAGGOTS
"To see maggots in your dream, represents your anxieties about death."

I think it is so strange that we could completely disregard anything as "just a dream". What about the maggots?

(photo: alwayscarryalightbulb.tumblr.com)

I can be sometimes dismal.

There was a girl who wept for you, but you did not see. There was a man with bright white eyes, but you did not see him running to you, running right to you. I walked by where they were laughing. I saw them throwing stones and making jokes about me. You did not see them running toward me with their hands tied. I met a girl . She had died, oh, one day because she couldn't say that right words to the kingdom. Then she flew away like a white dove in the sky. Oh me, oh my. I didn't see her yesterday when i went down to the church to make amends with myself. I didn't see her walking by yesterday. Yesterday was the right day, but today i feel like i could die for any given reason (existentially, i don't mind).

Hidden (Decadent Scum)

i don't know but you came to me. dressed in black. revelries. and i ran away to the back alley where he came from. he went out. sympathy for my inconveniences. and i ride off into the night like a phoenix out of fire light. how do i let her know? she's going to go where they keep them hidden. oh you were all i needed. you had me, so... so what? "light my candles in a daze"... i don't know i just got swept away.

(image: kills.tv)

deadpan

i have used up all these words, here and there, and now they've become exhausted. they are weak. they have no use. i feel blank - like an empty bottle, or a pale virgin . i feel down, down, down, cambering where there is nowhere, sinking... slaving to the pretensions, those lofty expectations, hot and foaming in my mouth. suddenly i'm some rabid dog, the sick lamb, wearing the white veil. that was my craft. now, i am here. flat and watery, a waste of anything. deadpan and drowsy waiting for this featherbrain to change into sharp math.

Been reading Voltaire

Optimists are negligent to reality's rude awakenings: wars, rape, murder, hunger, greed, deceit, Lisbon earthquakes, shattering bones, disease. But naivety holds your brains together... for now.

NUMBERED BONES

(PHOTO: http://lmccaule.intrasun.tcnj.edu/windeby.html)

PUNISHMENT

(by Seamus Heaney)

I can feel the tug of the halter at the nape of her neck, the wind on her naked front. It blows her nipples to amber beads, it shakes the frail rigging of her ribs. I can see her drowned body in the bog, the weighing stone, the floating rods and boughs. Under which at first she was a barked sapling that is dug up oak-bone, brain-firkin: her shaved head like a stubble of black corn, her blindfold a soiled bandage, her noose a ring to store the memories of love. Little adultress, before they punished you you were flaxen-haired, undernourished, and your tar-black face was beautiful. My poor scapegoat, I almost love you but would have cast, I know, the stones of silence. I am the artful voyeur of your brain's exposed and darkened combs, your muscles' webbing and all your numbered bones: I who have stood dumb when your betraying sisters, cauled in tar, wept by the railings, who would connive in civilized outrage yet understand the exact and tribal, intimate revenge.

---------------------------------

SEE THE BOG PEOPLE

take the cure

Dear Candiru & Dysfonctionnelle,

Get out of my head. Both of you... stop walking behind me in the shadowed hallways of my dreams.

Stop xx,

M