3 December 2009

Waiting For A Chance

Bells bleach grasping hands
that distort the sands of

idiots, who grin and bare
bags of paper dreams.

While

Ambition ambles
through halls of lullabies,
vacant of eyes to mourn Air,
who died in the breach.

We

Fly from the mouths of
bird shaped dolls; porcelain
souls, and tickets of memoirs
will steam as we scream.

Die

14 November 2009

The Guild Of The Back Blade

Bandits drafted in the foxes field,
while blind guards yell the names of
stoopers. A four gallon barrel of
coal to gorge on magpie mountains;
who really cares for the thrift o' thieves?
Temptation exposing herself as
hooker - no, lover. Yet wily as
a self birthed coyote.

11 November 2009

Never To Rework

Parched flower of the prairie,
wilting upon an orphaned passion
as an empty quiver appeals to
the reader. Idiotic. Pathetic.

Bamboozled by the birth
of an elementary bed-bath,
Tundra's wealth hails cancer. Butchered
by the writer; inchoate and barren.

"Dear reader," screams Ink,
down the wall of a vile cubicle.
"Don't try to analyse my grace;
demote your liver to critic and drown."

6 November 2009

The Devil's Halo

Quaint, as crimson tipped syringes
foxtrot petal tiled clouds;
meek droplets of haze, weary
of alarming the hinge's mound.

Spittle, caked in soft old lace,

blessing a sienna canvas;
couplets of beads caressing the arch
of unblemished Innocent's face.

Wallow; sloshing gently through

motions of slurred cadences;
rolling gold photos into moist,
anecdotes tailored around you.

Three cardboard kisses stitched
through canabalistic notions of
Winter's leaves in a Spring time garden.

2 November 2009

Homeless

Cardboard mouths to display hope
as the Kings and Queens pass by
as worlds ignore the eyes in the walls
as desperation wraps around a race
of shadows that die deaths of depth.


Recruited in the alleys of abuse,
beer and the ruse of nothing.
Slit throats. Dying babes.
Rotting minds.
Who cares.

29 October 2009

why try

Vocal vomit of an ignored television
ran ragged in the back ground,
developing new forms of deadening silence.


Shit stained underwear, meandering
sweat draped shirts on the floor,
the fabric ocean of deadening youth.


Torn paper lungs crumpled at the edges,
spit roasting a worn belt that cowers
within the thrall of deadening arrogance.


alone
careless
lonely
Talentless waste of British ignorance
desperate
dethroned
deprived
Removed from a single use
appauling
cankerous
let down


In this cavern I stew,
dirty sheets enveloping
thoughts provoked by who?
dead men of fortunes timing
belittled by the ignoring
ambitionless because
no one cares now

27 October 2009

1800 miles Of skeletons On The interstate

Lies disperse themselves about me
uperturbed and doubtfully
encroaching upon my history
Strangers hack them down
for shoots of blue to bleed
up, down, left, right then drown

A sword to hone from ink
grasshoppers thoughts to think
in an endless reflection of a King
Yet the heart disease
causes swordsmen to sink
with no beer or winks to please

24 October 2009

one night stand At THE ok corral

Eyes stapled into the thin black line
of an over hanging bulb's cloak, while
the stale sweat stuffs it's mouth with
the heat of last nights passion. Miles
away from the victim, yet fucked up
and offering the drunken cries of a cruiser
sinking.

Rugged and reckless in the fort of

an eternity's juggling act. Who'd
have known the keys knew this -
yet the amazon seduces the next
unfortunate victim, as he gropes

and fails to stand to attention;
shrinking.

20 October 2009

Bukowski

Don't try

He died.

we're left with a flood
of flotsam that drools
ink into keys and they
like i are nothing on him
we copy we ignore we spit
i hate us but more i hate you
i'm not afraid to drink this last
bottle and write to release that
last ounce instead of jacking off
into a frayed, old sock; an odd sock.
but you cover up our lack of anything
by blinking aimlessly at the clock and
bowling for the big time, take time.

Sorry
Don't try
you died
and with you
we died

19 October 2009

art fag

Appreciate a bag of jumbled letters
to an audience of idiots, like yourself.
Understand what means nothing to anyone,
as to blossom into a old, fresh spun web.
Discuss the work of a drunkard; of a wife beater;
of a cheater; of the town whore who lies to you.
Discuss the shit that has always been labled art;
discuss it and adorn yourself in popularity.
Is it good to be loved? Do you think of it alone?

Or are you as she who wants he to be hers by being his untimely demise by her caressing of oblivous ideas that his body craves yet hers is his, til it's theirs.


Appreciate anything that is not the norm,
that wasn't born with a silverspoon.
Understand the fact I know you lie to me

in order to get a hard cock of a rad guy in your stinking gash.
Discuss how you fake an orgasm as to heave
a thousand collectables into your attic.
Do you understand? Do you love my art?


I fucked you because you were there.
I wrote this becaue I don't care.
I got rid of you because you're not there.
You just pretend to be, but all you are is pussy.


Now comment on the genius of the honesty
that is created in my poetry.
On how the lack of metaphor instills honesty
that is created in my prick.

5 October 2009

honesty And A million flowers

Open up my ribcage to display
a paint palette, adorned with the crimson
of navy and green of the through.
Eloped to the stained bone of you
as it blinks, eating sand and caressing hymen
in lazy fits of ripe dismay.
We appreciate the hiss of wind that
flutters through the wound in the throat,
a cloak of hazel; dry; net.
Don't whistle without a care,
we'll die and so will you.

24 September 2009

the dole, The no life, The future

Within the catacomb of cocoons,
stomach acid waves and dust-winged ships dance
like the slipped disc of a lonely fungi,
while erotic fae blister at gently cradled thoughts.
Lady swallow left and preserved reality.

23 September 2009

aging assassination Of A blunt soul

notes torn from the womb of a sweating flute
as umbrella tears blink in disbelief at the Eve
enticed into the pawns sacrifice
to suffice at being the how?
the why? the when did i die?
the why? the lie? the zebras
undo optic harps that tremble in the wind
agrophobic in nature with the shoots
tangled with the air
savouring every tongue, every eye as the Queen's time is nigh
yet anorexic trunks devour plagues and state the obvious;
moulds blind the flowers who become the cast

goliath's sentence In The unthoughtful

throats like voting, untrusted by the crows

who spiral to London. London. London.
her smog engulfs pleasure as neon's light
appauls the shepards and their flock.
with backs turned, they lick glass spiders - stone spawn -
trusting hungry swine to tend to da kine
shapely hips and knives, parasites and brine.

negro immitation with live alarms

to enrich rois faux below deception.
seas of blonde, remote with floating despoil
in its nest of paradise and air.
crows blessings with bandit tendencies in
the circus of dependent metal fleets
who butcher untouched innocence with love.

vvvsss

butterflies die As easy As wood

Deck the halls in silent whispers,
in patch work elegance,
Fore the pinnacle in passion arrives
and floats like concrete.

Her serrated tongue -
a blessing born of ghosts unto this accident.

Wile, to blemish the gloss of our comfortable life,
Our dancing curses,
and an untangible affection towards 'kicking and screaming'.

She peels back the torn flesh to reveal their reflection,
yet the scribes denounce, denounce the frail blind harpies.
Ravishing are they,
of whom she tears the harp from,
while helpless bards tune ticking hearts to standard...

An eternal struggle of promised,
defaced repetition.

And though she thrashes for the atrocities to materialize,
for the summonings to attribute a dynasty to her spilling love,

They craft quills from the purest of unborn innocence
- Drain ink from valves - arteries raped modestly.

Etching soft horrors of an exposed callous,
in ones fanatical birth of ambition;

Parchment drowned in the script of the remains of grace;
an abbreviation of the shimmering moon
- glorious, as the rose bud beckons her fragrance.

Beguiled by the guise of a thief's beliefs,
we pale and stretch skin over shattered bones.

don...

I wish we'd rode the long way home
said the lung to the breath,

as exhalation adorned the sea,
strangling the tear, who in turn
wept;
wept at the amusement of the author,
who, in all his lightshades nightshade
became afraid of one another.
Yet,
diligence opens newly cast apple seeds to empathetic rogues.
An authors decree.

chaos. drunk.

With the voice of an echo the rooks die
tongues settling with the lattitude of
dancing piano teeth and optic nerves
I advise that you do not follow them
in a Morman's blind quest for a gold mine
as the flock and the drummer piss themselves
enticed by a blue neon light and sweat
Years = the bottom of a brown paper bag
at which resides dying coral and dreams
a flies eye and mint a universe dead


but


however


alas the headless roach dies of starvation


but


however


threadbare mechanics of string and wood live
with a purpose to behead daffodils
reinstating the time I had with her
Lady Bloom the pilot of time outside
the window once lost in the mine on stage
Essayists exchange pen with sword and web
as the cocoon cracks and reveals the egg

useless

Systematic plagues raging the flock
with unfeathered wings of devour.
They pulsate with slings and stones
as the mechanics embrace
a hassled whispering
of a knife
to a spine.

"I am not here," calls the maiden Life,

"I did not die," replies the idea.
Cradled by butterfly wings
they rue the stratagem. "Oh",
the mob will recite. With
clues and forks,
blinks and blades.

Scripts will expose genitalia

with meaningless prints of an attempt.
A drowned crow in flight
who bares marks of cluelessness
but tries
too impress.

The story Of hannah opium patrica esther And Her attempt At revival

Woven threads of unbalanced dialect caw
to the clouds, to the dirt. He plays hurt, she plays the flirt and ambition is gestured into
a glass room, filled with spiders controlling
their marionette.
Question one held the answer
of her answer to his attempted suicide.
Answer two robbed his question of answerable
content, from which hawks would glide.
Question three was the answer to the third answer unrelated to his pride.
1. Blind.
2. Lust
3. Fire

Belated letters fell towards the sky as Eve Blossom
and her father, both adorned in webs, spoke.
Frogs bellowed at the oncoming traffic
which caused havoc upon their back street den
before Devour encroached structure.

Frontless.

Illiterate antaganism, moved behind I C posture,
eating nihilism then attempting measured envy.
Tartar enveloped radicalness.

Noise. Walls. Inspirations introduced to the
dot at the end of the traitor.
A never ending spiral of confused, idiotic readers. Bamboozled!
Engaging the water as it carries away each piece
of the jig saw - declaring it nonsense
but the ramblings of a talentless bug.
But, in the end, the silver spoon will choke
each senator as they burn pages of
said misfortune.

-

Empty starvation waves the shade away
as machines undo the thrills that adorn
the yellowless blouse in her rib cage.
Keys choke under the fabrication of
semi erotic screens, bleeding umbrella tears,
yet rotting in the pitch, drinking distortion,
yet stitching themselves to cum stains.
You, he, she, we, they - what?
Young girl in grey. Bitch. Lover.
An unpretentious coward, who's eyes are houses.
Fill up those negro fingers that rape the light,
fore they know the calligraphy in that sack,
they know the hate
they know the sense
they know the attention seeker
they know the beat
they know the now
they know the time grey clouds snore.
Puppet strings will ignite.