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Thursday, September 20th, 2007
1:19 am
I suppose we're children of a lesser god.
3 murders at the gorgeous opera| set the channel to self-mutilation
Sunday, April 15th, 2007
4:38 am - Wrath Passion Nausea
In the midst of the weak and willing, wanton words wed the woman moon, I am fox strings and evening shoulders, wane sunsets sickly, juxtaposed in furry earth. At times I am a feel-good glow star upon the ceiling, thusly awakened with two arms stretched far and wide, with two legs far and arrowed away, my head stretched ornately upon its neck; as a crown. And the bed beneath me, the sky I sink into, swimmingly, on the surface. I feel I must know things; deep things: things in secret: for I am very full, seemingly, of the unyielding pregnated water of the ocean, that only slightly rips and leaps, every now and again, at the surface; to swallow something up, or to stab reachingly at some higher horizon: only to come to a jattering crash, again, into itself : head-against-cement style.

To Lachre, John Jwilla,
. : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :…
I write to you, hand and eye snubbed by darkness, fingers migrating with wet calcite over stone pieces and rotting wood, a language long swallowed in the ruinous throat, the blunt desolation of this place. I know not the time, nor the season, the year: the length I tarry. The sharpness of the pain once held an esteem of biting acuity that, too, has dulled. From what deductions can be made, this room (if as such it can be addressed) is eight paces by six paces, with a ceiling not blithely commeasurate to my being; I, standing, once, a full six feet by four and a quarter inches; bent, now, nearly doubly in half: a ceiling, then, approximately three foot and two and three-quarter inches... Even in this smallness, I feel the massive abysmal weight of thick, undiscernable darkness. It’s suffocative stigma, a cloud, a dankening milkiness. A haunting paces here, I know it; not so much six paces, or eight paces: no, not the floor. Here I imply more toward the audacious three foot by two, whose crowning I am bent below. It is a haunting that paces up and down the walls. Above my hanging head; having nothing else but to smell and breathe it, my confidence is lain up in the manevolence of its watch; awaiting, Wrath… . . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: Wrat ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . Wrath. . : : ‘ …. …: ‘’ :… . : : . . . : : ‘ …. …: I can no longer own the sense of these directions. Here I can only leave it to you, to find, in the lateness of my life, my corpse in this Minutiae Dirt, this young jugular of hell's cavernous mouth, this small yet universally-wide and undefinable choked space, lain and rotted behind the jagged wall of nninne scratches.::

[Signed] Boar.
set the channel to self-mutilation
Tuesday, March 27th, 2007
1:02 am - This is My Voice, Rising.
oh, this is a beautiful side of somewhere, lost elsewhere, underneath the terse crunch of crowding footsteps, all eager, and golden in the faces, for the moon to toss its reflection in the glowing well; and to show them. The earth, and the moon, and the salvation that blankets them are all old friends. And I, by the sweet rings of maple, ancient with them... oh the glorious tambourine blasts the palms, with a song and a wandering ‘how-do?’Some jingle to make me warm or lucky. How I feel here, amongst the secrets wrapped in walls and what balm of love eludes. I’m sure they’ve love for the martyr, but I, hehe - just a poet, among thieves, spitting the luxuries of warfare - uh-huh... Sit and clap the hands in the corner dust. And fog to cover your face from their faces. Their hands from your faces. Their slaps From your faces. Every one of them. Redemption knows no dirty, no clean. I am open to the blisters of the Holy Spirit, the mutes and mighty warriors. Bite me.


Is this Isis? here on the gravel pelt,
My face, from this gravel, finds gems
To cool the blood that flows from the cheeks
What they say of my head is what they say
Of a turnip,
Dried and used up
And the moon knows all my poems
And the earth knows my footsteps
All my friends are dead – and
Their rest knows my haunting memory
What I’m sayin’ is I feel... old,
But I’m just getting started.

A crumple of blankets situated at the edge of the bed. It is your feet, and I take care not to disturb them. I miss the romance in my life. The more instructional my reading gets, the less inspiring I become. Inuition is a force all its own. I am thankful for the period of my life which suggested seerity, in the most austere of doses. It affectually touched my music, my reading, and obviously, my writing. But I’m through with that. I want to enjoy the passion of each undirected moment, and live in an attestment of living, not detested states. I want to be free of Saturn’s nail-driving influences and learn the art of rejoicing. I peer into irises and feel whole ocean swims there.

hips writhing, flexing in my palms
liberated but barely
burised, bad touch
blazened sylph
braises the young and infantile wood
tourmaline ciabbata
strip bark, promises and I love you’s souvered in sap and questionable summation
nubile and trustive
the red rimmed eye
lucent shotglass
question angling in the corner
cognizant drip
avocado, splintered and browning
walk like a silver illuminate of beauty
red apologeticand hot steer of breath
knowb of stubborn academics at her disposal
knuckles and acorns
weightless vale; when mornings are free of guilt
a good drink, plump lips staining crystal, to receive it
lids twitch pupils press, lessening spaces of sought for and ascertained knowledge
hoping to gulp down some information
I suppose if I were to describe the enjoyment of her nudity, finely beckoning beneath the mauve volly of dress. our lovemaking a lantern entangling every good sense.
a secret carousel of colours the moonlight washes in with the amberness of the streetlights
her lips bearded with blood
I’ll send your invitation later.

I am walking through the cunt of the city. Sweet enjoyment… His chestnut stomach a matter of eclectic vituperance. Granite entreats teethingly Underskin of plethora dying in the whorls of a conceptual soul, freed from the moral restraint of ethics; and right and easy

I Wrote Haikus About Cannibalism in your yearbook

the fear with the soft-focused lens… the feast of past educations will come back to nourish the pallete
the fear and grace slips through the emerald wind songs the moss canes and dead grass

possum head rush AT the gorgeous opera

assuasive, indigenous, miswritten, mantic, numina

This is my guitar covered in salt
This is me getting what I want
These are the open doors to the
music of my room,
as I sleep in my shadow,
pass by pass by pass by.

One day I'm going to be the champion of the world.
2 murders at the gorgeous opera| set the channel to self-mutilation
Tuesday, March 13th, 2007
3:04 am - cocky bitch
:: one wild night :: the seconds pour out as a challenger, this the afterhour of tuesday, pursues, as thoughts clamber to assume priority, position. at the somber moses hours of the day, the deep, delving sojourner. I must bend my head to one side – cocked; and admit, 'it's tough.' The deep delving journey spits ahead of itself, walks into its permutations, spun in its own silk, frozen in its fresh-lain footsteps, mocking circus assumptions... spits ahead of itself, good questions. Here the armor is dented, the army ditched, diligence and passion are, for anger, twined. Inertia trips up in a ghoulish oasis, singing stasis, pastors anger. Whose fingering scabs peel back to linear answers discovered, swear – I, me, them, us – that what is exploitable is only shallow at its most solvable point. Here the dolphins weep, the blue whales harp their stomach songs smack against our jesus lizard feet. Oh Job, whose troubles are irreversible as birth; Xerxes as I, chrysalis: muses :: the romantic seed has poisoned the very romance of the endeavor. Submarines sun-side up. Termites eaten. Teeth and nails missing. We're deep for the discovery, whether self or more than. Some sheep have answers. This then, is Genesis Twinned.

When I was ten, my 5th grade teacher stared cheese-grater deep into me, spat words, and left. 'You think you know everything.' Eons later, the denouncement of my first mentor and role model bitterly kicks me closer than asunder. 'Cocky from conception,' may apt an epithet make, one day. Even now, as humility is seeking new depths in my gut, I smile a toothless smile, lick blood-thick lips, on hands and knees, stare up at the ceiling, at the ethers and anthelia... what bitch? what next. what else... no, that's mean. no, not nearly enough. Oh, Raistlin – but you wouldn't know what that means either. The hands, the life, the tongue; from writing, living, spitting sarcasm – stayed: for two reasons. One, things that, up 'til now, have impressed me, lack impression. And two, I am being pressed into a mold I am not fit to flesh out. I feel lost in this current thread of consciousness. Whatever this is, and what has been, are juxtaposed in such a blatant fashion... Still, nothing changes the fact that I have fallen from familiarity, unsetttled, it being 3am: listening to bon jovi with my soulmate eternally-breathed gently sleeping near.

Whosoever thrives in the privacy, whose words are careful, whose tongue is quick, may he continue in the balm of secrecy. For the strength of the empire stands on the ego of his morale: the quiet voice within, discerned... Thus have I been at my most formidable. The winds of change will swiftly overcome me, for I will allow it. For what is and has been essential lies heavy on my conscious. Time treks quickly in reflection, but the journey tarries long. Commit to change. I am as this. This S u r r e n d e r. This then, is Genesis Twinned.

1 murder at the gorgeous opera| set the channel to self-mutilation
Sunday, March 11th, 2007
6:38 pm - s.o.u.r. notes from a...far.


To thee, Ichabod Rose,
What soft, often studied, opus
Of light,
Traveling bedraggeled arms,
Throat seduction; light clutch.
Thy cheek warm with the knowledge of a caress
Handled often, and softly
As if cloth & linenlike; crumbling,
It be.


The brass score
In it,
A resounding spell
Not oft’ more offered a tell
‘tweenst the notes; sings it best:
I in my shadow am happy and blessed.


Scattered as rogue spiderlegs
screams with her murderous register
its chorys fists us
false temperature
knives & thieves
…from what my ears pieced together, it was a lion there, rushing through the darkness.


soft float umbrellas - open ::
boast, I love you,
I love you no more ::
closed like september throats
conceptual temper.a
e ... (over-, the prefix)
and her teeth loose of gleam - bleam ::
it's all over.
for her, fairweather.

2 murders at the gorgeous opera| set the channel to self-mutilation
Friday, December 1st, 2006
12:27 pm

Bitterness is being bent at the knees, with nary a prayer escaping pursed lips. Tearfall ferries her mistress satellites - It's her confidence - its earthbeams and microphone fins, its tarantula detachment, its synaptic embolism of Sinus Venosus. Hers is the lexis where sex is and was never. Stellar messages furrred in snow words: celestial copse: Star Dwarves. She is her own mistress satellite upon which teethes something something, et cetera, et al, mumble mumbl dgjjday the nimbus plait of scissoring winds, nettling Costellos, mobjobs, enlarged harmonies and so on and so forth. When she dives upon the earth it's like the right song at the right time at the right and pliable moment, Her Super Replier, a gift of infinity. They would seek her: if only, to beat her, to bind her, absolve her, and leave her; there in the soft, angry hallway, escape stitched in its niches, motherly in its mangling, downy in its ebonies. It is a dark as unblithely absenses of light detains even the surest of elves, darting a saffron glimpse only now and then, to reassure a certain swampy cold... Quick, say something clever, bewitching, useful, and full. You know you're aging when the blasphemies lose their throat-catching nausea, are desensitized, thus, more easily digested. I'm not sure how convincing a case Jesus makes for himself, but if I hear one more remark or adult swim-type effigy, I'll _____________. Say something redeeming. Say you don't feel betrayed. But I do... .... .... It is a sullen heart housed with an archipelago of voices melanged, parasitic in persuasion, ulcerating an acidic, swollen tongue. True, none of what was said takes on meaning, becomes literal. This is all a pretension, crafted by fingers beguiled, but a heart so-trodden must make due with what spoils Ego has afforded her. I am shrouded these days, exceedingly cryptic. But if bitterness is being brought to your knees, and bristling with wounded pride, boasting wounds, and chillblain sensations, then the trial of my anjou pear is the masticated fruit I must feed from.

I remember when a flair of the poetic lent great expression to the greater good of one's soul, rather than darken it... She has her hips like missiles, and his a heat-seeking... oh stop.... Her affection is a man of the cloth and knows the WAY OF THE GUN.

When a compromising vision grows moreso abstract and aphasis, when the skirts are upsetting, and walls are unclawable, clouds unbearable - when life just sucks - take rest in the fact that 'you destroy everything you touch,' that 'the roots that sleep beneath your feet' are 'something vague' and unreliable and your 'calendar will always hang itself,' that 'this is your december this is my time of the year this is my december this is all so clear this is my december this is my snow covered home this is my december this is me alone...' And either Transgender yourself or just... DANSE MACABRE, BE, a Maneater, 'make you work hard Make you spend hard Make you want all, of her love. She's a Maneater make you buy cars make you cut cards make you fall real hard in love...'

[unfinished hack job but hey, adventures in humility]

4 murders at the gorgeous opera| set the channel to self-mutilation
Thursday, November 23rd, 2006
3:16 am - Blonde Fugue & Segue Celesta.
The muses that haunt my pacings seemingly unsettle others, as they, in their all but pedestrian haunches, lope about their lives struggling, so inconspicuously, to appear and remain anything but. However, that’s on par with my standards, as on this early or late night, depending on how you would deem fit, I am amidst a voracious cold in the most stationary of clothing, eyes hazed as cotton, clothes as thin as tissue, and a certain slant of madness that, at this hour and depth, can only be viewed as somewhat British, if one is to take oneself seriously, least of all. A Mark Twain chest-thumper this is not; his story being much more controversial than mine, but I don’t rightly care for the lad much: him being neither here nor there anyway. Here a personal harangue would utterly lombast you with grey, for even I myself, the subject and absolute heart of the matter, am neither here nor there... And of this abstract neglect, from which you sit, as in position, to swoon your head and spit dark fairytales of it. Oh please, stop, stop; we’re harboring on pity, as is only allowed by grieving or stale woe... Darklings touch in the harem, with a glint... Wish to be this night, the moon scythe weaned off its ink tits: Blond Fugue & Segue Celesta.

For this address to become a course anything other than apology I must be open to suggestion, and thusly I am and will pay for it but, nonetheless, my shoulder wings are heavy from carrying too false a confidence upon my neck – to tell you the truth; I’d welcome the relief. My relationship with Ego is purely parasitic in nature, eating away far more than it feeds. And here ‘feeds’ can be taken in the palindromic sense, digested if you will, no pun intended… So I will take suggestions for anything other than an apology to weather these limbs and lungs back along the aslant and wayward sounds smells and fixtures of misery malody moon-driven melanoma and all such despondent testimonies of me: where I’ve been and who I’ve been there with… However, I am, as such, a wayward shadow, standing on the wrong side of Light, alit and dismal in a tunnel, incapable of writing something dog-eared and beautiful to account for where I’ve been, or even where I now occupy and, if somewhat dazedly, stand. I only write for you, M____, in hopes you will accept this knowledge and be assured to the fact that I am very much still alive and somewhat divine - as much as one can be at this deep an hour clad in a black, spider-silk nightcap and a terry bathrobe the colour of cloud – and wondering how you are faring on such a google-dicated 39 degree night in Naples, Florida: very much away from me, and vey much missing, as you have been for many a day. I implore you, do not mistaken your darling SKI for having increased in strength or even resilience in this lengthening silence. Much has been made of my misery, and, falling apart steadily, even unconsciously... I cry out to you for help. I do not know if you even still desire this deconstructed shipwreck of romance, storytales, and despair, but, if so, call me. Tell me that you love me. And never quit until convinced am I of your love of me and of our love together. I am in much need of reassurance. What has passed for happiness is slung on my hip, assailed by the Asteroid Belt, leaving me hollowed out like a honeycomb. You have some sweet, sticky filling I desire.

Love Letters,


P.S. As to where I've been [and this is dictated to Life] matters little in the purpose of narration or, even, memoir endeavors. Absences on all fronts have lead to lengthening in durations [and this is probably dictated to the one I hope still loves me] but forgive me, I am weak. and all strength I have left is devoted to madness, and exhausted in the falling apart. I am a bit mousy, nibbling on whatever memory you can afford to give me. However, this is getting better, as I'm growing tame in adulthood. This holiday would seem to eat me of the title of ‘Closet Gloat,’ to which the last mineral traces of Ego can be named and placed. I'm through on lecturing myself: have deadened the bolts in my legs and lungs, hung in a tree lynched for a lexicon grown stale. Star-struck by one's own syllabification, granted the mirror's reflection is an aberrate desire: DEAD, by and by. What has been written hasn't been seen in weeks and I have lost all the writing I've done for FUCKING AUTUMN!!! ... It's okay. At some age importance will roll with the moss and burn with nuclear fusion tripwires. A guesswork would suggest a fear of being myself. What do you call that, hmmm? I feel really neglected; but 'really' is an all-too weak avenue in which to voice yourself. Be something stronger... If I am to seem a bit scatter-brained, confused, with my communication bearing the very dirt smudge of childishness, forgive me, if patience will allow it; for I am really, really, stupid and am currently struggling with Thematic Desensitivity Issues. Madness, I find, to be like the stray threads of rawhide, fraying. It takes a logical cooling, like mathematics, which in turn becomes an almost Sisyphian soothing. Here we shall take the Sieve of Eratosthenes: a procedure for finding prime numbers that involves writing down the odd numbers from 2 up in succession and crossing out every 3rd number after 3, every 5th after 5 including those already crossed out, every 7th after 7, and so on with the numbers that are never crossed out being PRIME.

Cement walls expand with heat. A house breathes in the sun, chokes in the cold. I am in the house that chokes with cold. What am I...
1 murder at the gorgeous opera| set the channel to self-mutilation
Wednesday, October 25th, 2006
3:00 pm

all my hope is in you.

you, the rescue blithely; of my Shadow Plinth.

my observations with no justice due. your face flourishes near the light.

I can only weep and honour.

6 murders at the gorgeous opera| set the channel to self-mutilation
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