Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Peptides get confused; the decay of the stomach rises in belches and just plain gas. It mingles with the breath, informing it of 'the problem'; a dialogue procuring a strong smell, a dying smell.
And meanwhile? The ingestion of yet-another artificially sweetened coke, takes place. Corrosion of the villi is imminent. Celiacs is glimpsed through the cracks of my deteriorating gut. And i will persist to harm my self... even with a pathetic hypochondriacal prophecy.
///A search is underway.

How stupid to think we'd found.

Time moves in fast circles, repeating itself, repeating itself, repeating itself.

i deigned to think of an answer, and come up with a
shiner of a lie,
locked between teeth and thick as leather and with the
same taste.
Nostalgic cramp to think it could all just be a
(y e a h f u c k i n g r i g h t)
skin it feels so old after a week: mine.
And in a mentalistic void that is a self-fulfilling prophecy,
you coughed up my blood and became my illness,
a cynical fart clouding the air and
is it;

How stupid to think we'd found,

HOW STUpid TO THINK we'd found.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Or else

It seems you found me
In such an unexpected place,
In the corner of the draw.
Or the backing of a phonecall, its
Spinal cord ripped out, so that
From it
I could make sense
Of an intention
~ Clear and pure as sound ~
Whence from your croaky urgent voice you
Called me,
Called to me,
And in it there was a rose of truth:
'I'll see you tomorrow,
At the end
To a faint and gentle question.

And if it wasn't for my own
Hard knuckles of consent,
I swear the flow of
Truth, would
Pass by undetected.
As though eyes had
Clammed shut and
Failed to heed the sign
That is and was the
Fatal omen:
S e v e n E l e v e n.

I've been seeing and in my fate
Recording this,
From clocks and other things
Since I hung by
Tips of fingers
Onto superstition.
Purposes mean more than
Blood and thoughts alone, and
Concrete surrounds to a
Vital core, is
Jackhammered, into
A fallen pile.
And from this
Deconstructive rubble,
Proud of plumage,
On it is a
Simple thorn, a
Simple thorn of truth:
Cut this path I lose another.