Thursday, November 26, 2009
thanksgiving
peripheral breathing
pəˈrɪfərəl briðɪŋ
i know my body with brush strokes.
i know when my heat be rising.
i know the woman who constructed the moon with two hands,
with two hands she let
enough crescent nails stain her body
with blunt scabs and silver tattoos
that flood up the strength of her neck
and pooled together into phases of eclipses with no meaning.
now she speak in quiet muscles
lifting up tragedies out of concrete cemeteries
and the granite projection of wordless
poured onto this cursive
born out of carbon and opium,
she’s important
like the circumference
of the earth in one heart step,
she is.
sometimes,
she string yards of lanterns
across the hallway of lit match sticks
burning down six week old candles
and i’d carve out her biography
into the red wick wax
and then one into her back
so she’d never have to see it,
but inevitably have to feel it.
i know when she liberate wind children from her slant jaw.
i know when cold iris blink from the root of their birthstone.
i taught her to speak to me in perfect tongues
where the petals
preserving imagination
paint their stain glass wings themselves
and themselves i call to her
like a voice in the subconscious
of the universe peeling back layers
of dialect changes,
like a wish for things.
she move rhythmic body to the energy
of flames she been feeding
and unzipped her hips
like the burden from her blessing
would spill out from within them
and she would choke on cracked bottles of
surgical needles
and they would take her
unlike a lover
in this framed nighttime
spinning clockwise
like some kaleidoscope deity
patching together each sacred palm
blooming with road maps of soul luck
and swelling of infinity,
so she be quiet.
so she keep silent.
so she let all the secrets
float gracefully
‘til they settle in the
inbetweens,
‘til i can settle with
i is she.
i know she who has a photograph of heaven tattooed on the inside of her eyelids.
i know she who spells beauty with an L for life
i know she who be daughter of dawn bringer.
i know she who breathes.
pəˈrɪfərəl briðɪŋ
i know my body with brush strokes.
i know when my heat be rising.
i know the woman who constructed the moon with two hands,
with two hands she let
enough crescent nails stain her body
with blunt scabs and silver tattoos
that flood up the strength of her neck
and pooled together into phases of eclipses with no meaning.
now she speak in quiet muscles
lifting up tragedies out of concrete cemeteries
and the granite projection of wordless
poured onto this cursive
born out of carbon and opium,
she’s important
like the circumference
of the earth in one heart step,
she is.
sometimes,
she string yards of lanterns
across the hallway of lit match sticks
burning down six week old candles
and i’d carve out her biography
into the red wick wax
and then one into her back
so she’d never have to see it,
but inevitably have to feel it.
i know when she liberate wind children from her slant jaw.
i know when cold iris blink from the root of their birthstone.
i taught her to speak to me in perfect tongues
where the petals
preserving imagination
paint their stain glass wings themselves
and themselves i call to her
like a voice in the subconscious
of the universe peeling back layers
of dialect changes,
like a wish for things.
she move rhythmic body to the energy
of flames she been feeding
and unzipped her hips
like the burden from her blessing
would spill out from within them
and she would choke on cracked bottles of
surgical needles
and they would take her
unlike a lover
in this framed nighttime
spinning clockwise
like some kaleidoscope deity
patching together each sacred palm
blooming with road maps of soul luck
and swelling of infinity,
so she be quiet.
so she keep silent.
so she let all the secrets
float gracefully
‘til they settle in the
inbetweens,
‘til i can settle with
i is she.
i know she who has a photograph of heaven tattooed on the inside of her eyelids.
i know she who spells beauty with an L for life
i know she who be daughter of dawn bringer.
i know she who breathes.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
s/he
he says it’s ‘cause he be greedy.
searching out too many caves of pot
luck under rainbows,
chasing a dame that drew
out a sword from his smiling gut,
and that’s not even a tragedy
because if you sew together makeshift masks
of alcoholic binging and 35mm photography
you might find something closer to truthful meaning
than meaning to
write out words of beauty
onto a tear stained cloth
in all capitals rising to the ranks of the city
and he might kiss you
‘cause he thinks you be so pretty.
he says it’s ‘cause he speaks four languages
that date back to centuries
before linguists knew what we is,
that his text book get heavy from ancient scriptures,
that his skin tone get lighter with each orthodox fixture
and he’d fake your organism
‘til you come
to his awakening
still long
because no barriers will be breaking
just like flare guns pointed at
your glottal
stop.
he took magic out of the missionary
position and excommunicated it,
be fathers of tradition
never allowing incense burners to settle
and i’ve planted my prayers ten times over
with sages burning brush fire
and tried to smudge out his refusal
to accept the act of his betrayal
and how he guided you
out of the world of men
and into the caves of women
and that for a while you’d still be bleeding
and consistently needing his validation
but he’s moved on
to get the shit beat out of him
by verbal rhythm
and two step death dance ‘round
which woman’s the right one for him
and he can’t decide,
more or less fight
because he thinks they’ll just come to him
crawling on hind feet
with a mating call
because he’s got it all goin on for him
but he can’t create a life
if you paid him
so he might as well stay lost
like his virginity
because it’s so easy to scrape the surface
of insecurity
than actually
just
be.
i said
these wings didn’t suffice enough for deployment,
that your span couldn’t tie him,
that those tips couldn’t bind him,
but wanted to.
i said
some things.
i said
that i heard in russia the cold creeps down your throat
and pulls out scallywag soul
makes no profit off your selling price
makes no heaven off your poltergeist
and i said
that i heard that in
bathroom stalls
they make lyric out of permanent ink
tattooed across the plastic walls
that one time they said,
i love a girl and a man
that one time they said,
i am a pagan and a pillow princess
that one time i said,
i am the moon and this is the madness of my cycle.
he says it’s because he’s too deeply unaffected,
that he’s never shoved his soul down the windpipes of her existence
and he’s too busy day dreaming about cartography
and planting seeds of money,
he’s too busy breeding heart wounds
in stuffed sarcophagus
to practice punching gold demons
so he just turns and runs.
and he acts like some willow tree
with my name carved on it’s base root chakra,
it’s heart etched in like a sorry archer
plummeting her way through the sky
and the trunk has green muscle under the skin,
but that doesn’t guarantee anything about an october harvest
and i’ll bet he has fists
that would turn flaccid at any threat of an attack
and he would still try to be that intelligent conversation
as if he had you,
as if all the hours you gave up to serve him,
as if you need any more reason to not retreat back to him
to hear stories of how he’s too scared to be him,
that no truth will ever be lifted,
and how he’s just so fucking wounded,
if my prayers hatch like pearls
from a demon,
then you’ll never have to answer to him
and you’ve already shed light your skin
so rebirth isn’t even needed
but restriction and thought process
needs to be limited,
you’ll never
have to answer to him.
he looks like magnified metallic
with roaring glory
like a slice of crescent blood stream
hut he’s not holy
and he’s still filthy
and he’s so untrustworthy
that even the Moon don’t want him,
and he will never change
...............must....finish...........
searching out too many caves of pot
luck under rainbows,
chasing a dame that drew
out a sword from his smiling gut,
and that’s not even a tragedy
because if you sew together makeshift masks
of alcoholic binging and 35mm photography
you might find something closer to truthful meaning
than meaning to
write out words of beauty
onto a tear stained cloth
in all capitals rising to the ranks of the city
and he might kiss you
‘cause he thinks you be so pretty.
he says it’s ‘cause he speaks four languages
that date back to centuries
before linguists knew what we is,
that his text book get heavy from ancient scriptures,
that his skin tone get lighter with each orthodox fixture
and he’d fake your organism
‘til you come
to his awakening
still long
because no barriers will be breaking
just like flare guns pointed at
your glottal
stop.
he took magic out of the missionary
position and excommunicated it,
be fathers of tradition
never allowing incense burners to settle
and i’ve planted my prayers ten times over
with sages burning brush fire
and tried to smudge out his refusal
to accept the act of his betrayal
and how he guided you
out of the world of men
and into the caves of women
and that for a while you’d still be bleeding
and consistently needing his validation
but he’s moved on
to get the shit beat out of him
by verbal rhythm
and two step death dance ‘round
which woman’s the right one for him
and he can’t decide,
more or less fight
because he thinks they’ll just come to him
crawling on hind feet
with a mating call
because he’s got it all goin on for him
but he can’t create a life
if you paid him
so he might as well stay lost
like his virginity
because it’s so easy to scrape the surface
of insecurity
than actually
just
be.
i said
these wings didn’t suffice enough for deployment,
that your span couldn’t tie him,
that those tips couldn’t bind him,
but wanted to.
i said
some things.
i said
that i heard in russia the cold creeps down your throat
and pulls out scallywag soul
makes no profit off your selling price
makes no heaven off your poltergeist
and i said
that i heard that in
bathroom stalls
they make lyric out of permanent ink
tattooed across the plastic walls
that one time they said,
i love a girl and a man
that one time they said,
i am a pagan and a pillow princess
that one time i said,
i am the moon and this is the madness of my cycle.
he says it’s because he’s too deeply unaffected,
that he’s never shoved his soul down the windpipes of her existence
and he’s too busy day dreaming about cartography
and planting seeds of money,
he’s too busy breeding heart wounds
in stuffed sarcophagus
to practice punching gold demons
so he just turns and runs.
and he acts like some willow tree
with my name carved on it’s base root chakra,
it’s heart etched in like a sorry archer
plummeting her way through the sky
and the trunk has green muscle under the skin,
but that doesn’t guarantee anything about an october harvest
and i’ll bet he has fists
that would turn flaccid at any threat of an attack
and he would still try to be that intelligent conversation
as if he had you,
as if all the hours you gave up to serve him,
as if you need any more reason to not retreat back to him
to hear stories of how he’s too scared to be him,
that no truth will ever be lifted,
and how he’s just so fucking wounded,
if my prayers hatch like pearls
from a demon,
then you’ll never have to answer to him
and you’ve already shed light your skin
so rebirth isn’t even needed
but restriction and thought process
needs to be limited,
you’ll never
have to answer to him.
he looks like magnified metallic
with roaring glory
like a slice of crescent blood stream
hut he’s not holy
and he’s still filthy
and he’s so untrustworthy
that even the Moon don’t want him,
and he will never change
...............must....finish...........
Thursday, November 12, 2009
things that i know exist
and when i'm standing with a fist full of restlessness
i'd stare down 16th street in a dream
and i'd not wake in this
and i'd call cabbies to break my bones against their metered minds
and i'd watch you evolve on a roof top
outwards torso
you'd climb my limbs,
hugging me gently.
i don't understand why you'd leave me,
spilling softly the things
that the forest can't breed
and it's petty things
like dirty prose
and false hope
and talking about you
and welts on my skin
sharpened teeth in my head
i'm a jigsaw doll
i'm a spit slam
i'm a worrisome teenager
i'm an adolescent in white dress
i'd stop
and i'd sweat out beads of your breath
and float like wings
down the stream of your conscious
i'd float lighter than pencils
deeper than wine stains
to stain
to break bread
to send me home
to kiss my mouth
to pull my hair
to let go of my hand
to fuck my mind
to steal my heart
to release my soul
to compliment my words
to pretend to care
to watch me walk
to never say
i
love
you
too.
to remove salted masks
to bathe in vulnerability
to accept masculinity
to just be.
and you destroyed me.
fuck you.
i'd stare down 16th street in a dream
and i'd not wake in this
and i'd call cabbies to break my bones against their metered minds
and i'd watch you evolve on a roof top
outwards torso
you'd climb my limbs,
hugging me gently.
i don't understand why you'd leave me,
spilling softly the things
that the forest can't breed
and it's petty things
like dirty prose
and false hope
and talking about you
and welts on my skin
sharpened teeth in my head
i'm a jigsaw doll
i'm a spit slam
i'm a worrisome teenager
i'm an adolescent in white dress
i'd stop
and i'd sweat out beads of your breath
and float like wings
down the stream of your conscious
i'd float lighter than pencils
deeper than wine stains
to stain
to break bread
to send me home
to kiss my mouth
to pull my hair
to let go of my hand
to fuck my mind
to steal my heart
to release my soul
to compliment my words
to pretend to care
to watch me walk
to never say
i
love
you
too.
to remove salted masks
to bathe in vulnerability
to accept masculinity
to just be.
and you destroyed me.
fuck you.
Monday, November 9, 2009
songs of my week
know the half by blood of abraham (stupid video though)
the ubiquitous mr lovegroove by dead can dance
fantisize about singing this one yeeeee
AND THE ULTIMATE:
SAUL WILLIAMS - RELEASE PART 2
i too have felt a heaviness
the ubiquitous mr lovegroove by dead can dance
fantisize about singing this one yeeeee
AND THE ULTIMATE:
SAUL WILLIAMS - RELEASE PART 2
i too have felt a heaviness
Friday, November 6, 2009
your dad will love it, so will your mom
buy my chip chap book!!!!!!!!! $2 or better offer!!! like coffeeeee or kisses or flowers or cute things or anythings
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