I litter the cabinets with poems that should have never seen the light of day. / The cabinets are for everybody. The cabinets are for nobody. / I could donate and refute my exploits. The slow build impedes. / The slow builds are multitudinous away from the molehill. / But nobody here is the boss to the beacon, so a toast to the missions lost! / (We have lost many things. I will be grieving nothing.)
This version of Nicotine Forever is the short version.
The full version will be released on a later date.
(Probably during the release of All Life Is Comedy.).
td.jumper_01, td.jumper_02 ...Read more
Chiedo alla Donna in rosso, che lavora la filo Rosso
Di nuovo, il Dio-Signora stessa, i pericoli, i pinnacolo, e culmine,
i punti più alti e zona di massima luce del benefici dell'anima sicura…
benefici dell'anima sicura et convinto… Piccolo Io–
Io ho– la il risposte poco chiare dal Dominion dei sue Capelli.
Shall I risk what is already the-sure-happy for the road that is not conquered?
Shall I envy before, with the roof over the head and the limbs of my body,
The excitement of the rolling? Shall I give in, into greed, razor-backed,
Evolved into and up from the land, gently, f ...Read more
Gospel of Tempers 2:1 – The Satelliting Thoughts of January 6, 2019
The bad edits of me are the ones that are sticking.
My students, my bees, please think and never blindly romanticize.
I need my students and my bees to be happy. I need you all
To be not like me. Eventually, eventually
We're all to discover that even the undiscovered flower doesn't need the validations.
Even the wildest of us doesn't need the copouts and pascals and parabolas;
And flicks and films and drugs; and occassionalities and alkanes and prelights;
And the suffering. O', the suffering is an endless thing, it s ...Read more
"I believe, though many before me disagree, that the soul is not the only part of the being that ascends. The mind, too, ascends. The heart, too, ascends. And still, they mourn the body left while they are leaving. And still, the soul, and the mind, and the heart never forget. Hollow is the being without a soul. Hollow, the lonely traveler in time that sleeps through time only, and important on a period that is a blink only. But do not be deluded, those of you with hands that hold and eyes that read. The body is where the ascending four is developed. The body is the shrine. The body is the gen ...Read more
I. Re-desecration of Beauty
I have not know all heart breaks known to mankind, but the one that I know is powerful and active–
That I, with the early sprouts and sprites so beautiful, have already peaked, and that only moss groweth downhill.
I remember the Word of the Lord as it were rewritten, and I have ridden it ill since the gardens of the soul,
In the day by day, unflatten. In the day by day, sink. In the day of the gay, rite-eous tubular sans cure,
And I take with me the remainder of the power I can take. I will rake it all, for sure.
The hair of Samson is cut once more. There is ...Read more
Part I. Memento mori in the morning
There are no new feelings. King of all trades, Joker
Of every suites, Hail Maries and anecdotes, and
Flesh jacks, and entry-level fruits. The no good
Emissaries– them and their memories and drizzle
Of slackly hours, frostily and dwarfing, rendering
Battling fatigue and scours… But there are no new
Feelings. Just fresh druthers speaking in less, and
Less delivers. Some pamper the fire too much– A
Beauty bowl loose to consume the beauty of others,
Painting hell over hell, barter over garter, and a
Meter of pacifism wished in coils, like crows ...Read more
1. Prelude To The Prelude:
He thrives in chaos. He thrives. He thrives.
“Same old demons, hello. I’ve slain this balrug before,
I’ll slay it again.” He chimes.
The dead gardener, having said good bye to the company of the gimlet consumed,
Lets out an exasperated smile– a weary that doesn’t reach
The eyes of the unproductive dream-killers as it does their feet–
The feel of their ankles that are stone-cold like more forks in the righteous road–
Only that the roads are cunning– Only that the roads are different.
The roads are ever such revisionists. So be everything tha ...Read more
I. Christmas Shell
I sit here again about to be an emptied man,
With my menacing keyboard and a full stomach of cheerful food, (Hurrah!)
And the mostly passive clock, silently ticking, hurrying up the reintroduction
Of the re-hollowed man, is the one honest company at this hour.
I could care for some company. I guess everybody's busy during the holidays,
Or at least, everybody's pretending to be busy; switching their phones to vibrate,
And looking every thirty minutes, or during commercial breaks. At least. the TV
Is never too busy for anyone. The TV is a well-drawn plan for the empty ...Read more
A stray enters the manor. Everything here was architected, down to the very Inch,
Grey but never stingy, flimsy but never had a carrot. The utopia goes underground
By one unwanted fly. (Every Inch has a name. Every fly, flounces and frills.)
Tap, tap, tap! The blast doors come a-banging.
Escalating devotions to the self-kickers and perusal of lumbar sentinels,
Brawling, gabbing like a nerve, a mutton on the relocated pier, skin-piercing seltzer;
Grey utopia's most humiliating–
You did make me happy but it was all deceit. Longer were the days spent in misery,
Lengthier, the counting o ...Read more
A stray enters the manor. Fifty to five-hundred thousand volts delivered through a non-caress.
Fire. I will leave the unimportant details out as I affirm my own. I will leave the manor to the test.
The legate against the soft quarantine, the legate finding new ways of letting me down;
Plodding and plotting from Small New Zealand to Switz'; plummeting through
Cookouts, the unchecked tarmac, numismatics, schools, dander vestments, scarcity of the soulless–
I tell you: Emotional unavailability is so three decades ago. It's the Era of Vulnerability now, young hero.
Let it fill in or you're ...Read more
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man.
Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted.
It is good for the foolish that he bear the yoke in his early days;
Grief-giver ho, bitter-agent ho, now agitated-naked-in-decay tho.
(Nine-One-Four-Five ho, versa power top and tap!)
I try to contribute my many a bones to lesser known museums
Of seaweeds, of poisona skin, of reprimands and recommendations, of ballots of shallots,
And many more gore legendariums tussled, and gigantic screens awfully repainting civics
And never disparaging like my castle ...Read more
Anarchy of the mind.
I wrote some welcome-to-my-blog remarks, which you can read here.