Saturday, July 2, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Thursday, December 9, 2010
A Grass Upskirt
'I' is the pronoun; it lay / I lied…
I'm laying lying prostrate-ical
me eye sacks black, looking torpid
and pussy-full as a raccoon's cheek!
Slowly a new one gathers up
bunching its dress hem
and dithers out in steps dizzy
harps plucking on step one and
second step two pitter patter
suddenly lined up slide rule sharp
and through the thick of it
pulling such an unbelievable face! God!
Everyone here is banking on empathy
as a skyscraper high signal shone
to all and any embellishing or
searching for a way out
of the other guests and their mouthing
Suddenly I am one becoming; one now in the knowing group
of celestial black-hole witnesses! All be converted in the act of
seeing true the shape of that saddening vortex,
eating unchecked at the center of a longing, naked cloth
of party dress hem sucking ever inwards,
into them endless shingle pink butter folds
Crying and whipping my neck to hell
is me in the wet head of revery:
all to shambles as the universe spins and scoots its
peach and plush doily knitted under-bridle, hurriedly
overtop the squamous cinnamons of my flushing face;
Dusting briefly above just little me and little mine,
some spilt ice dripping from underneath this here mane of mine
so true and sweeping, each thatch behaving in solidarity, ending at tails
whose tips I believe am become spirit soaked,
drunken so as to match at the me and his mine, all hanging wild like…
Kiss at me then!
Kiss at my souls and sightings of oblivions sought!
For see... it is that 'I' is me in the pronoun! and so me lay / or so mine lied…
all happily ignored; sat out on the 'floor'-izontal as an outcropping
of some shell-body I left fallen; of which I rob any or all motions!
So all and again, it's hence that you sit look-reading,
after these said must be surely now hearing them harps plucking out all as one, in a uniform tone tuned low and sour, sarcastic.
Now heard are they become thus a mimic of me and mine?
Such a one who makes at a kind of imitating of me
and my sloppily felled person;
mocking it's bashful conquest of space
and that flatulent din that accompanies
what 'I' as me and thus, me as mine only culprit must
advertise and inspire?
I am become what we say is the most desolate way, incarnate!
Am I seeing now in some mismatch or miracle
something of what had spoke thus that Zarathustra then?
Or rather some different, separate sneezing of life into creation?
Craning gullibly to gaze up hungrily instead into some other mute finality?
Me here on my back fixed low in note and vantage point?
Kiss at me then,
with a piteous lip balm;
at me and my staring
at this naughty constellation:
Yes, up and over moving is
only the chubby dirty pearl
of some girl-nobody
stepping over me
and mine.
I'm laying lying prostrate-ical
me eye sacks black, looking torpid
and pussy-full as a raccoon's cheek!
Slowly a new one gathers up
bunching its dress hem
and dithers out in steps dizzy
harps plucking on step one and
second step two pitter patter
suddenly lined up slide rule sharp
and through the thick of it
pulling such an unbelievable face! God!
Everyone here is banking on empathy
as a skyscraper high signal shone
to all and any embellishing or
searching for a way out
of the other guests and their mouthing
Suddenly I am one becoming; one now in the knowing group
of celestial black-hole witnesses! All be converted in the act of
seeing true the shape of that saddening vortex,
eating unchecked at the center of a longing, naked cloth
of party dress hem sucking ever inwards,
into them endless shingle pink butter folds
Crying and whipping my neck to hell
is me in the wet head of revery:
all to shambles as the universe spins and scoots its
peach and plush doily knitted under-bridle, hurriedly
overtop the squamous cinnamons of my flushing face;
Dusting briefly above just little me and little mine,
some spilt ice dripping from underneath this here mane of mine
so true and sweeping, each thatch behaving in solidarity, ending at tails
whose tips I believe am become spirit soaked,
drunken so as to match at the me and his mine, all hanging wild like…
Kiss at me then!
Kiss at my souls and sightings of oblivions sought!
For see... it is that 'I' is me in the pronoun! and so me lay / or so mine lied…
all happily ignored; sat out on the 'floor'-izontal as an outcropping
of some shell-body I left fallen; of which I rob any or all motions!
So all and again, it's hence that you sit look-reading,
after these said must be surely now hearing them harps plucking out all as one, in a uniform tone tuned low and sour, sarcastic.
Now heard are they become thus a mimic of me and mine?
Such a one who makes at a kind of imitating of me
and my sloppily felled person;
mocking it's bashful conquest of space
and that flatulent din that accompanies
what 'I' as me and thus, me as mine only culprit must
advertise and inspire?
I am become what we say is the most desolate way, incarnate!
Am I seeing now in some mismatch or miracle
something of what had spoke thus that Zarathustra then?
Or rather some different, separate sneezing of life into creation?
Craning gullibly to gaze up hungrily instead into some other mute finality?
Me here on my back fixed low in note and vantage point?
Kiss at me then,
with a piteous lip balm;
at me and my staring
at this naughty constellation:
Yes, up and over moving is
only the chubby dirty pearl
of some girl-nobody
stepping over me
and mine.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
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