He said he saw heaven
when his eyes rolled in his head,
and that it was a spider’s web of light.
So crystalline the silken robes
that shiver like everything
is connected.

The black oil was so thick.
I couldn’t pull him out -
to stare down the sickly sun
that spins you green with
every waking day.

The coffin falls in the icy grave.
To be a pallbearer,
to bury the spider
is to know
the dirt is too honest a teacher
as it thumps and
it cracks,
and men listen,
half dazed,
half dead,
and shovel.


The Mind of a Painter

It comes from the centre.
It comes from the mirror;
the genes which hunt us now
are blades plowing the wheat fields
while above all savage eyes
is a meat factory of light.

It comes from the edges.
It comes from the night;
the memories which strangle us now
are knives cutting the flesh of a cow
while above all pitiful eyes
is a golden field of clouds.

The farmer does not know he is a butcher of ideas,
throwing away everything that
might madden him with failure.

The butcher, in his frigid back freezer,
flaying the day away with his metal teeth
does not know there is an art in the
skinning of an animal,
throwing away everything
until only flesh
and madness
He does not know his bloody easel
is a painting
of God.

And God's eyes know madness.




A rocket launcher fires
Helicopter miss-matched spins and falls
A Police station explodes.
She was watching the war.

I was watching the moon!
Full beast, breath high rising like a cold evaporating stone!
Who made her?
Who chiseled her face and sanded her pores?

The dreams of carpenters snorting legislation like crack?
The pointing spikes of marching idealism?
That she might be alone in her tranquility
a billion years
though the Earth may shake with a thousand nuclear clouds.
She stands watching!
Peaceful queen.
Mortified, eclipsing star.
Frowning, smiling, frigid, bound to
circle our follies and our sparkling crystalline obsidian,
our swashing careful seas

and she pulls! On the TV set
as though the stupidity offended her.
The rusty boat of the Earth heaves with her!
She pulls tighter against the shore!

The sound of her teeth
Crumbles like chalk
on pavement
and she gurgles.
The moon shakes on the ocean!

like eagle wings in the updraft
(Sand Dunes shiver smoke)
I whisper to the stars:

She's rising to the moon. She's rising to the moon.



Mouth opened wide,
she just wants a little more:
The blackness is too dark to scream.
All this time I shook the dice,
I learned the laws,
I cracked the hour glass
with a curious mind
for nothing.

She claws against the velvet window,
her starry sweat on my forehead;
the whore that is the universe.
“Just let us try it again...
Just let us try it once more.”

No one is going to tip the fucking glass
for us, to watch the sand move
upside right
or downside wrong

Black holes will suck
the very last particle,
the very last dream
into the starving void
with hungry, drooling jaws,
and then turn on each other!
Nothing, not even emptiness
will breathe.


This transit is chugging along

The slime from the womb of an animal
is what we are,
nameless as death,
murky as life,
that we should call it something between
monster and majestic Lord
sprawled on a filthy floor.

In a bathroom she moans
with a mantra
too young,
rusty waves rising in
deja vu, squeeze, contract
she sweats, she drowns,
a universe is dying
a universe is being born.

(In a dumpster a figure in tatters and mud is singing
Marriage of Figaro)

A wailing dune, a falling star,
a shrill cry echoes from afar,
from a window world,
he plunges into a dirty light
with no memory of life:

He’ll freeze to death tonight.

The slime from the womb of an animal
This transit is chugging along.


On Clouds and Black Diamonds

To the bold that failed and hover on the night:

There are souls in the clouds
and they scream by blocking the stars.

The scream is not a loud scream:
It is a rodent caught in a trap that has collapsed its lungs
and gasps
tiny little gasps
as he fades(as you too shall fade),
abandoned by the void,
only to fall back into the clouds
and murmur soft and moist
his acid rain,
to an indifferent world of steel.

Never reaching, no change, no escape.
Ah, but never to grasp and slip
is bitterness to life and all its broken dreams.

The sky was black and crystalline that night,
but the edges such blunt, brilliant monsters
that they eat greater men than I.

So then, you sickly sliding apparitions,
be bitter, and sing your water song
and hide from me the
shadow diamonds
that I might not dare to stare,
and love,
and fail,
as you have failed.



Scribbled memories meet irises on the window and there in the twilight is a painting of a blue box.

Have but all insights died? Do these words reflect the dull me that feels no pain at all? Art without pain is as useless as art in a five star hotel. I am become my plastic image of security and it frightens me. On the trail home last week I tumbled down a rocky, muddy hill and cut my hands; brown and red from the fall, pants tattered. In the stream a reflection I could not immediately recognize. Oh pleasure, oh sick, twisted face, that you can be a filfthy piece of bleeding flesh in the mud and be all the more happy. I think now as I bent over to clean those hands, I may never wash myself of the concrete that has taken a hold of me.

"Out! Out damned spot!" And I am just the painting in the five star hotel(abstract, oh yes) that pretends to be more than a colour splattered mess. How can I write?


Blurry Night

To awake
"Surreal" she said and
a nebula is vibrating in her hair.
Red. Green. Amber, somewhere,
her shoes are leather cracking the gray milky way
while all eyes stare down at her.
Flotsam and drift-shine

on the dingy drenched asphalt.
She is cosmic
And her craven eyes mere marbles
of ice
in a furnace of sky.


And I saw a rose die

The top trees of the far mountain were as shadows;
olive statues over looking the
deep green slope stood out as sentinels
or the sages of old, staring us down,
ants on asphalt,
with bitter indifference.

This is the path I take.

When I stare at the velvet tapestry of the night sky,
woven together as roses in a garden of thorns,
I cannot help but think these petals have compassion.
No, they cannot be as indifferent as the desolate forested island from which I claw.
caring for the dystrophy and soft crumble of the universe's puzzle
as it falls apart,
to be reunited...

is a beautiful petal... Still disinfected, scratching across the widening void of space
to save us from the fall,
to save us from ourselves.



(It takes an hour of musing on writing sitting on a rock in the wilderness before you discover, with your cindering heart that you have nothing new to say.
Well.... Let's fail anyways.)

Green-scape shivers
feeling something like wind
or nothing (swaying, swaying for nothing),
like the seething sun spinning me around and around
in its rage against uncertainty.

Don't move little particles, we can't stand not knowing where you'll go.

Spin the merry-go-round, faster, slower,
pain and pleasure all we know,
children laugh, blurry,
not knowing how to cry anymore:
Whether God is dead or he's in a shot of heroin.

I carry black feathers in smooth palms
that ant hills have forgotten with their materialism.
money mystery
career destiny

All of it, useless as this dangling junk pile of branches(which leaf,
my God,
which leaf to aim for!).

We are no more than
slingshot rock.
No less, than a billion pendulums.

We turn and swing(the merry-go-round spins)
and I fall to sleep sick to my stomach(we're not supposed to feel it)
and we can't see the sun,
and we can't see the pull,
and a canopy of stars covers the depths of the green junk pile
with a dirty distant light;

And I dream I'm in an amber nebula,
lungs full of a cool undetermined gas,
And I dream green leaves
of zenith,
of meaning.


On Power Lines

And he folded his knees and sat
under the long metal poles of power lines,
his sinister black trench coat soaked by the rain,
his dark black thoughts drowned
like his running mascara
by a talentless rumble.
Where is the lightning?
How can we write without the lightning?

So he takes his razor blade and cuts his pale flesh
like so many before him,
scratches pain and depression into words on tapered paper
with an axe and a crane with a wrecking ball

...and laughs his trendy little laugh,
and thinks of how no one ever wrote poetry under power lines
in the raging rain.

Well no one ever writes poetry on power lines either,
so consider this a tribute
to everything we've forgotten.


Keep feeling, keep learning

If the journey had ever been easy
Prometheus would hold back his fire,
and there'd be no Sylvia Plath or Edgar Allan Poe.

She walked crippled with weight on her back,
and in her pale brown eyes
burnt a fire singed with philosophy and pain.

Every morning, stepping into the furnace outside,
with each dry expansion of her lungs
came the weight of her musings
sending little chills against her arching back
which, having receded the billionth time,
made her wonder on feeling nothing for just a little while.

"Oh sweet, slithering sun, inspire me;
make me a phoenix and build my nest!
Let me rest in my ashes,
bear my burning wings,
and born me a new back to carry the load,
and maybe some new shoes."

Then the furnace flickered
and that was all she said.



Everything beautiful dies. Everything pure is corrupted by entropy or wisdom. Poison, it seems is the conscience that screams at the blazing edges of photons in the sky, that knows beauty and suffers for it endlessly.



We are all just little ashes from the embers of a fire,
heaving our lungs to the milky stars,
always on the verge of luminous and darkness,
as we ride back into that cold blue flame...


My God, My Heart!

Midway into the core,
we see the broken wings of God
spilling in large red goblets into the stars that,
for no reason,
burn as gelid glaciers into the pulsing mystery of space!

My blood raves,
my heart ignites.

I will not chop off my ear,
but empyrean has shattered,
submerged me into a calloused dream of arctic light;
an aphotic stare of an ocean reflected with
silent shards of

murmuring milk and
malachite mist!

The murmur, like a cannonade of meteor bursts
across the eastern sky, reverberates
through my veins.

The mist, crepuscular and dense with the thoughts
of a billion tiny and ethereal lights, jingles
on down plasmatic lanes.



In the dark the floor boards rattle
and the wind creaks through the rotting wood.

You live,
you die,
and in between
the fury is the stream the animals drink from
as decay sets in
with the dirt and fog and poison,
the bitter worms,
the swamp swarming inch by inch
from experience
up the clearing
where the structure stood.

It rocked and bent to the bog
saluting it's fierceness and greatness
knowing it was more than it could stand.
Like an old moral,
or an old truth,
sacrificed and let loose
for some great cause,
or some great lie.



And she drowns

The interconnected wave of nothingness
washes over her lips
in smothering strides
from shouting words of poetry at the
dying stars
exploding ever so quickly
too quickly
too slowly

And she said nothing.
Perhaps there was nothing to be said
on strings,
on life,
on stars,
on big bangs

or sea breeze,
oak trees,
spring leaves,
or salmon tracing their paths back up the stream
from whence they came.


The Curtain, the Play, and the Opiate

If God be for us, who can be against us?
- Romans 8:31

The voice was thundering against crumbling bricks in the deepest dunes of the desert, fat and slurred like pigs, were tipping a crystal glass to the sound of filthy grinding insects spitting out a thick, black passion for power from the Earth's entrails.

It speaks! does it think as well, of the crypt or the raven
or the decay she stares in the face from day to day!?
Economy!? What now?
The voice of Queen Necropolis!
Let flow your bitter loathing upon the walls of this latest Iron Curtain of ignorance!
How close will she come to destroying it all!?
To launching off her missiles of self deceit and grinding her teeth as she chops off her own hair!?
By the gods how it falls to the floor!
Terribly lost like autumn's terra-cotta leaves swirling in the sunset of what is to come!

RELEASE your hand from that damned trigger!
We're all hovering on emptiness,
repetition, rhetoric,
and running on nothing but perpetual shadow!
How many times can we play the same play without the epiphany?
This is no time to play Russian roulette with our lives!
It's no spectator sport. Stop damn ye!
Stop cutting off those strands of hope and honour,
and take the bitter bullets from your mouth,
and gently from those hardened eyes.

For as long as I've known you and your sweet lies of
between the trenches,
hidden and puffing with flaming disease
and sickening poison gas carving out the flesh of the lungs,
over a loudspeaker,
in the hearts of the ant piling in infinite rows upon silver rubble
against the heat of the sun,
laser guided meteors,
even between the old gallows!...
And even now, in the desert, bubbling up from the Earth the black cancer of our reminder:

The shadow of politics is still hot and seething from your lips.



Death in Beauty
Beauty in Death
they dance together in the tapered rose garden,
eyes shifting between syllables of their twilight song
merging for the chaos of a dying sun
and its crimson light.

"If only I could die," says Beauty,
her smooth arms around his shoulders,
like her pain streaked eyes lost in the raging whirlwhind.

"Oh darling," says Death,
switching his clumsy feet with the dusty times,
"you'll be there soon."

And no one could explain if there was any purpose
in dancing,
if there was any purpose in moving at all.


Of Life And Death

The vibrations are screaming between the margins of the paper as he writes like a desperate madman; possessed by the margins of life and death. And Mozart is crying at the notes in his head. He must get up and pester the drab of the tide. He must sink and swallow whole the flame of living, though it smells of life where there is truly death, the ashes burning his eyes all the while. Against his brow there is contempt for the aristocratic fool! Who shall know of music if no one knows of that candle against the mahogony desk in its meager flame? It could be killed at any moment! Its life is a testament to will! It must get everything done, must burn out everything it knows!

And Mozart is crying at the notes in his head, and moving his brow to descend with the tide in his heart and the ashes in his soul.


Never, ever let the flame in you subside. Never, ever forget the fuel that drives it, or the wind that contorts its shape like the winding of a cliched road, or the keys of a piano, between the margins of Mozart's own immortality.



I passed by the sunset with its sclarlet silhouette
wasting the day's last light on the barren earth before me,
springing alive against the winter's sinking snow
it caught my eye in a sparkling reflection.

On the horizon was the cold pale moon
and I had forgotten the salty warmth of the equinox's air.
There it glared!
Solitude, indirect, a soothing yellow light,
a full circle of memory for the silent starry night.
Did you rock the Earth to sleep a billion years or more,
and surge the silver ripples to a lonesome sandy shore?
Did your rays cut through the twilight atmosphere,
and stand an eternity of the sun's savage sear?

Oh, it doesn't matter how many times the seasons change,
I'll stand in rapture at the moon.



(hope you don't mind my posting this, Lex) ;)
"And so the storm does brew, out of sight and out of fathoming. Does that make it less the danger? Does that stop the worst from coming? Ponder, oh sweetly brooding philosopher, why the sky grows dark. And ask thyself, with rain downpouring, how this came to pass. Wonder so, to proceed in life, why you are struck by lightning arms. And wonder so, sweet dying soul... What brought about the first dark storm..."

And if the sky grows dark, as it has so many times before, will it be the end of us? Will we drown in nothingness and sink below the tide? never rise, never rise, but she can't help but look upward and study the patterns in the stars. how they form shapes, and we give them names, and how lightning never changes how they constantly arrange? think nothing of it, but that all storms do end, and we could live a thousand years without ever seeing them move. Orion can be your saviour, even if he's already dead.

"Ah, but what is a savior when they cannot help? When you are caught in the eye of a storm, that you may have created. Who can be saved from what is inevitable? It dies yes! But in time, so do we! And would not that be truly tragic, to die in the storm you were saved in."

What is there under the moon that cannot be torn? Rise, I say. Rise above it or plunder through it. what is there that cannot be worn from effort? Be vigilant I say, and smile when you reach the eye with another silver lining, for but half you've done, and yet another half to live another day!



And she sways to the beat, the one she knew had again assumed control, like mangrove trees in the heat, like Toth laughing at cancer, like thunder clapping its noisy paws at the moon, like rain drops against the window, slowly, slowly but to dissipate, like a purple mark on a fragile arm, like a bitter word flying through the mouth of a careless man.


Spectrum Crumble

Truth? Bullshit...

Her cry shrieks throughout the temple bouncing off the multi-coloured mirror walls
calling to whatever demon will grab her up from her knees in all her bitter musings.

"Enter me!" she pleads, spitting at her old Gods, refuting all meaning in her old prayers.
If she followed another path would she arrive at the same destination through another mirror?Shaken like the beaten little bruised girl in the shaded corner that she'd always been.

Now she doesn't care, doesn't care that God doesn't care, just wants me to fill her up,
the way demons do,
and possess her with empty words on philosophy and love that I never believed in myself.


Spiritual Armageddon

Hark, now, the beast is marching on to Israel
and there's a star in the east burning my eyes,
wormwood falling, falling for this rotten mercy
like a downward spiral playing a mourning orchestra for something without ears.
And Jesus Christ is on his knees
and the beast laughs because no one believes in anything anymore but their own apathy.

I drank to escape it's morbid disarray,
to find the best tasting wine,
but half of it was too diluted, losing its reassuring answer,
and the other half would make me so drunk on answers I'd be lost in ignorant bliss.

But I don't want it... No... I just want to listen to my phantom orchestra.


Ether Lost

Air pierces fire pierces my will to escape your holding cell of sagging dirt; I'll consume you, I'll crack the plates and open hell on earth, will bathe in poetry, and scrape the ocean with the sky and merge the stars with no alibi but loneliness piercing all the while my winding path, elements will leave no trace but one, will turn her face, because I have no nature left to give.


Hold the Fire

She keeps putting her hand over the candle,
waiting for her blackened skin to remind her where she left the moon waiting.

She keeps pouring out sentences between star light and waste,
not knowing where the line should be.
Blurry was never a word to describe her fictional little world.

If she was dying surely there would be plenty of signs,
more than midnight and empty dreams;
more than the hurt of the sun in the morning.

Surely there'd be violent shivers and screams.
But to her surprise, it had none.
Just a mild crackling of a dimming flame.

An oxygen starved beginning is all anyone ever had.
A hand encased. An ocher fantasy playing itself out in shadows on the wall
like children grasping at something other than emptiness.


Goobara Returns

Derricke 3:16
For Goobara so loved the world that he gave his only hippie son, Fred. That so whoever believeth in him shall receive eternal beer, pizza and weed in heaven! But whoever does not, shall perish at the centre of the sun where it is not lukewarm, but blazing hot! So is Goobara's eternal and unconditional love! HAIL!

PAsalms 4: Death to Heathens

In the depths of darkness seering
all the white trash rap fans peering
like a snake in pit with god
we'll slice the arm, impale the dice
till nod, with equal sword and equal haste
give all those fucking heathens taste.

Of what it is like at the centre of the sun!!


Save It

(Something old and unedited)

crimson: weirdo

wait...the Annunaki are coming!
theres a crop circle forming in the dust of the midnight sun
in twilight expectancy it waits for remembering
the silence of the coming shade of aurura blue

we all knew it was coming kelly
we all knew it
but it didnt matter
because violence is a genetic set up synapses
so dont bitch to me when its all over

but under the bed
There is a loud speaker who spoke up and said
and I didnt know what that meant...

until I fell asleep and the laws of physics started bending
in a wormhole seeing mending
all the little colours being sucked into one

and do you know the colour it was kelly?
it was....the colour of chaos
shifting through street lights to find order

crimson: seem to be typing pretty fast

do you know what spirals are?
On the way to nirvana one night
I saw a spiral
etching into the grass like a thousand different shards of yellow
in every economic living class and the LOUD SPEAKER SPOKE UP AND SAID

crimson: aaahhhhhaahahahahha

and I didnt know what that meant kelly..
until I saw the spiral
glowing above the steeple of the church
and jesus said 'come inside my son'
and then ZOOM to a million different cities all looking for another way to glow

and then my mind it keeps on racing looking for another trace of just
another light bulb to find a statement in the mess of the late night show
and finally as I sat down in the aisle ten million babies crying
looking for a mother that just didnt want to show

and then it hit, I was too crying in the silence of the morning
when the loud speaker just spoke up and said...
And I felt like sleeping instead...

crimson: well, write it down, save it.