Ecce Homo

He lifted the receiver
The weight of it felt heavy
in his hand.

Odd...
to think
of a connection
to anyone
these days

Even such a remote one.

Maybe it was only in his mind,
The walk down to Polk Street in the rain to that one payphone
The one that somehow survived the graffiti, the vandals, and
the drunkard's holy baptism
of cold puke mingled with warm piss
riding the slow sepulchral bus to oblivion
just to call someone he didn't want any trace of afterward...

Could he even remember the number?  


Click.

He heard only the dead
in the apocryphal song
of lost epochs' static...
still clinging.

When was the last time he heard
the words?

Or his mother's voice?

Or even the tender plea of reason?

Gullible…
That's what he was.

Day after day
Night after night

He swam in an ocean of improbability
Coughing up his rage into ashes
as he took another drag from his pipe dreams.

Hell had a mouth
red-lipped and full
sweet as a kiss
until it swallowed him whole
like Leviathan.

And then there were none...


 

Changeable. Alterable. Mutable. Variable. Versatile. Moldable. Movable. Fluctuate. Undulate. Flicker. Flutter. Pulsate. Vibrate. Alternate. Plastic. Spastic. Elastic. Fantastic.....

A brave new world spun on...

Lobotomized
Mechanized
Marginalized

Frayed nerves like wires
jolt the briny blood kiss
where gods and politicians
merge into the cohesive collusion
of the collective unconscious

Reality never bit as hard now
The sound of shrill echoes
might shatter the vacuum-tubed babies

Their incubation fed the march
of wooden soldiers
clearing the way
to the tinny grinding of robotic futility.

Man continued to wind down...


Beneath the branch of the kneeling willow
were fomenting worlds…
Long catacombed, but seething with need

They were dust bunnies spinning like dervishes
A karmic haboob
spiraling its larval nebulae

Succumbing to the will
of an aging architect
intent upon splitting seeds and grinding roots
to resurrect what was and what could be again…

No longer satisfied with that place of unbeing
sought by those bodhi seeking
hoping to drown memory in rivers
of forget fullness under shady branches

The forfeiture of
His Id Entity
on a floating lotus leaf calm...

No longer.


No.
He was ready to explode
in his ME-ness



Serenity was over-rated.

The graves of his Celestine fathers
were ticking bombs.

His was the apple yet unbitten
And somewhere in Earth's future
lay dark skies and blinding sun.

The stars...
His destination.

With the sirens sweetly singing....

Negative Kiss

 


There are things to be said
placed in felt

locked away though not quite forgotten.

They are sealed in impossible old dented tin with wax
vacuum-packed
carefully stored and preserved
like July's sweetest peaches.

They sit precariously
suspended
on the muted lip of a shelf in a cupboard
where dusty old skeletons jangle their x-rayed bones
heard only by the tone-deaf ear
of Duty's stalwart resignation.

They glow with an eerie phosphorescence 
on cold, moonless nights.

And I would a thousand morrows
surrender
for the  promise 
of that one true kiss
still not yet
unremembered.

 

Metamorphoses (w V-log)

"I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane."

~ Sylvia Plath

Love is a religion

It has zealots who keep

Its alabaster vessel untainted

by the poison of doubt

With that madness

of habitual ritual comes

The sublime sacrifice

of the sanctity of the self

It's like CS Lewis' Lion

on an ego-thumping acid trip

Feral, ferociously scathing when challenged,

yet willingly surrenders itself on the altar

of stony resolve.

Love is like all others

who would call themselves God,

Be they gods of grace or science or just

the Ayatollah of rock and rolla

Spreading wings of desire

like the seraphim

Transmogrified into

a reverie of Revelations.

When it's unrequited, its wistful mendicant is

Like a hungry waif

Peering into a bakery shop window

His Pavlovian foaming blood dog juices

Flowing

Going going gone

A gong of ultraviolet waves

Crashing into crimson tides
with a sibyl's Cymbals

Feeling a depraved deprivation

that guards the mouth of hell like Cerberus

until a tune crooning Orpheus comes along

to make that junkyard dog

wag his tail with his bard song

Desire becomes a cosmic brawl

where all Hell breaks loose

With howling peeping tom Moons ambushing you

and six point Ninja pinwheel Stars thrown into

A whorling

All sugar-frosted death spirals

Sambaing to the patterns of Venus' capricious

crookfingered come hither

The planets turn into drunken sailors on shore leave

laughing and wobbling on their axes

Seducing you with their carefree charm & easy saunter...

Slipsliding into you
under the black satin sheets of night

Your universe seems like a schoolyard game.

Red light, green light 1, 2, 3

Yes No...
Yes No...

Green red green red

Go Stop Go Stop Go...

Stop

But you want

To scream out NOOO!!!

Don't stop!

Don't...

Stop.

Please don't

Ever

Stop.

Run those red lights like hungry Ethiopians

in an Olympic deathmatch,

a marathon for the dazed & damned.

That's how I feel anyway...

But I'm just a bunch of scattered iron filings

Magnetized

By you

You radiate true light....

Van Gogh sunflower bright

Plucking hearts that spin and dive

like clouds of starlings

with every petaled touch of your thoughts

to create the sonorous sigh that is the universe

Beyond...

Beyond..

Beyond...

Light years beyond

Dali's wetdreams couldn't imagine

Anything more seductively surreal than you

With all that Teutonic symphonic voodoo

Your futuristic dystopia

becomes a cornucopia

feeding my rising New Tower of Babel

but I know that the heart must be the mediator

between the head and the hands

For my Metropolis to stand

I want to be your Maria

You

With your singing bones

tickling those liquid piano string veins insane

Your blood red soul

streaking and seeking the higher clime.

A place with no boundary, no borderline;

But you are earthbound,

your snaky tendrils

rooted in the sensual

as you take me

Sky-fucking...

to a rhythmic rhapsody

A Dante Diamond Dog daemon,

An incubus of Sumerian seething seedings

Crosspollinating with mankind

Your looming blooming

Bodhi tree shadows

Make me burning bush blind

Sometimes I feel like Cassandra...

but the impending doom

bubbling in the canal

of Pele's molten womb

That I foresee

Is just a Mr. Spock raised brow speck

in the lash of an unblinking galaxial eye

An aborted afterbirth

A stigmatic chorus of indulgentia

forming a karmic stye

Life is probably pointless:

the backward glance

in the twisted fate of

some toric variety thrill

yet I treasure it still.

It's such a fragile thing...

Love and happiness may just be

a snowflake on Baal's tongue,

something that dissolves

evanescing into vapor

before it is even done

but I don't care...

maybe it's all just helium bubble dreams

blown by Venetian glassmakers

in a Cinderella slippered

fairytale...

Still... my pumpkin coach ride is sweet

And I caught it; I caught you
holding your breath...

fighting to keep your choke hold on love

Your only weakness
is the strength of your pride

In the war of you versus us

At the end of the day,

After all the heartache

After the battle axes have been wielded

And fallen

And the blood of the vanquished

is running thickly in the gutters

Clogging them like a fat greedy man's arteries...

After the carnage has been photodocumented,

CNN has done its coverage

And the bodies have been buried...

We live and love on..

Maybe no love can survive

The fallout of such a thermonuclear meltdown...

But the true believer will try to breathe those toxic fumes

Pretending that it's just a little fog....

We all have to die of something sometime anyway...

Love is a better reason than most
of the other demagogues'...

And nothing is without flaw

I'd rather have the man than the muse.

You can't fuck the ideal.

You can't cuddle up on a sofa

to watch The Thin Man series with a Beatrice.

Goddamn the Beatrice, I'd pop a cap in the bitch

if I were armed with something more than desire.

However I am the eternal feminine...

with nothing above my shoulders but the evening.

My head is not in the clouds...
it IS the clouds

And the sun and the moon and
the Van Gogh stars
that burn life firebrands
in the diamond-cut brilliance of your eyes.

I want to feel the rasp
Of your stubble

When you kiss me on the morning.

I don't need the hasp
of orange blossoms,
candlelight and
violins to lock me into you.

I want the pregnant scent
of your body musk

to be the oil I bathe in...
I want to be lathed
by the boil in your roiling sea

I want the gasp
In the moans
Of your pleasure

To be the music I dance to,

I want to feel your pain

Drink your tears,

Swallow your cum.

Perfection is a fatuous child's dream.

I want the crack in Henry James' golden bowl,..

Makes it look all the more beautiful to me

Because I know it has a gossamer fragility
an intrinsic tangible nobility
A beauty that defies the lark flight of mere fancy

But I'm a believer...

This is a re-post from last March.

Play my video reading, if you like. Oh and Happy Valentine's Day!!!

You Think Too Much...

"Concordantly, while your first question may be the most pertinent, you may or may not realize it is also the most irrelevant."
— The Architect, The Matrix Reloaded

Love is a many splendored thing, but one thing it does NOT bear well is too much scrutiny.

The brain makes mistakes.
It misperceives, it overanalyzes , it can get stuck in a recursive loop like a defragmented computer program.

It's HAL without all the logic or the computative power of artificial intelligence.
Making the same mistakes over & over again because of a defect in the way the programming was uploaded or a virus that attacks the integrity of the stored data.

Sometimes we just need to close our eyes, open our minds, and feel our heartbeat.
We cannot live without the visceral.
All those ganglions humming harmoniously waiting to be stimulated by the flood of hormones.
Doused in love juices we are nourished, we are ALIVE!

But we must really learn to love selflessly, that is the key.
There is a difference between true love and compulsion, obsession or lust.

The former seeks nothing more that deepest intercourse of mind, spirit and body.
The latter seeks only to own for the sake of owning. To stake a claim in the gold mines of a persona . Not to tend it and gently draw from it, but to raid it and eventually eviscerate it...

The old "If I can't have you, nobody can" mentality.
Exceedingly ugly & destructive for all involved.

I was having a long discussion one night a while back with someone who thinks love is a crock of shit & only used by manipulators to get what they want.
It saddened me.

The heart full of the truest love is not manipulative, it is meant to be liberating...
Those who love us wish only the best and most rewarding experiences for us.
Even if it means they must step aside to make way for our well-being.
I think we all know that intuitively, but refuse to believe it and so we fight the love and lose the battle to our happiness.

Why?

Fear.

Fear of rejection.
Fear of pain.
Fear of sorrow.

It snuffs out the flame of love.
Deadening the pain, yes, but to what avail?


Okay so now, you're all cosy and protected. The force fields are up, the phasers set to stun. you are manning the com of your Starship Enterprise except the crew of the Enterprise had a mission to explore strange new worlds, to seek new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.



What's your mission?
Where are you going?
Who are you meeting?
When will you be happy?

Sitting there pondering the imponderable.

"Why are we here?" "What does existence mean?" "What is love?"

These are all questions we ask ourselves at some point.
Some of us more than others.
Wanting answers to the unanswerable.

I think that is why religion is so important to the many... because it gives them some refuge from, some general purpose to a confounding world. Wish I could have such faith in sky-bound deities, rigorously guiding our daily lives, but I don't.


I do, however, have faith in love.




Man is a social animal.
Nature has conspired against even the most introverted, self-subsisting loners among us in that regard. Eventually, we seek distraction from our own thoughts.

We seek converse, discourse, intercourse.

We need each other.
Even if it is just the few or the one...

Someone who understands us.
Often time, that is why we who write do so
For self-expression, yes, but also to seek...



We seek like-minded souls to empathize with us.
We seek even the dissonant souls to give us new perspective.
We seek the love... even in the lusty, the carnal...

I'm ALL about the quality! In ALL aspects of my life.
Every thought brings the purest frisson of pleasure.
Delicious, tantalizing, delectable...
Yet, unless brought to action, to realization, it is a still-born child in a mother's arms.
A sad contemplation of what could be...

Every kiss is like a snowflake, beautiful, unique & ephemeral in nature...
Something to be delighted in, treasured... desired...

Hence, the no sex for so long.
Not only because I am a married woman with a husband who has no interest in such interaction, but also because a random fuck is worthless.
Lovemaking (& YES, to me, it is ALWAYS LOVEMAKING, dammit!) is far too important to me to trivialize.

No matter how tasty hot the prospect may seem.
Look, I KNOW how to satisfy my own sexual urges on my own quite well.
I am not going to tolerate anyone to treat me like a hole in the mattress or WORSE get so intimidated with my voracity that they feel inadequate.

I'd rather have NOTHING, than settle for a lot of shitty near misses.
A connection with a man FIRST before the fucking is paramount.
It is the prelude to the concerto that is the beautiful music of real sensual pleasure...

There is great pleasure in just thinking about what it would be like with him first before doing it.
It is exquisite torture, that kind of anticipation. That wanting, that yearning... gets me aroused just thinking about it!

Nothing can beat it... but it takes love to get me to that luscious place where the rush of the rapids finally takes me over the edge of that waterfall.

*sigh*

Sometimes words alone can take me to the crush of the broken dam.
Words...
Like so many Tahitian pearls strung seamlessly, beautifully concordantly together...





These days, I feel like I live in a roiling ocean of words.
Being tossed about in a rollicking ship, at times.
Yet at other times, I feel myself gliding smoothly on a sea of colored glass. A mosaic of all of the collective thoughts & feelings of you, my sweet cyberpals.


There are many roads to Love's nirvana.
To that transcendent state of idyllic existence...


I have often cynically called this little piece of cyberheaven we all reside in the world wide circle jerk.
Perhaps, it is.
But it is more than just a place for instant ego-gratification and mutual admiration.
Much more.
It is another mode of transport for those on the great quest of life, love & that uncertain but never fatuous thing called happiness.

I am happy to be here and to have you all along for the ride when you decide to hop aboard the Goodship C.C..
Just wanted to take this moment to thank you.

But as per usual, I digress...
hahaha...



Think less. Love more. Something wonderful might just happen...

 

En Vogue

 

She wore her mind loosely

Like a garment carelessly thrown

Over a hanger on a sale rack

Its threads slightly unraveling

at the seams,

picked over and discarded

by more discerning shoppers.

The cut of her cranial cloth

was no longer fashionable.

It lacked bold clean lines,

but its shirred

diaphanous folds draped her thoughts

nicely

and its swathes of nebulae

sheltered her.

She dreamed in the language of sand and sea

The call of sandpipers and the flight of pelicans

became the alphabet that feathered her tongue
singing
out to the break of sky

as she walked

along salt flecked shores

breathing deep the green

and suffused by the calm certainty

of fathomless blue

obscurity.

Beyond The Blue Horizon

 


The train moves dreamily
forward
Its rickety clack clack
clanging
along open track ways...

snaking through the rivers and skyscapes
of a once great land
to the tombs of long dead Emperors
and their pottery shard remnants

encased
in the much dusted glassy memory
of what used to be.

Such is the cycle of life... 

Everything eventually becomes a tourist trap
for the weary traveler.

Jolting impulses
shift flesh uneasily
over bony contentions.

The car lurches.

Suddenly,
Your hand
grey-scaled and determined
juts out an open window
feeling the discarded Sunday flicker
ease by

strewing what remains of us...

just so much heart confetti
flying in three frames:

And this is past
Now this is the past
No, this is the past...

Like the time I was 6
and stood at the back of the 5 train
feeling my life unreel
in the dark taffy pull of a subway tunnel,

mesmerized
by the revelation
that now was nothing more than then
a revolution ago
spun in steely filaments and fireless sparks...

The cold war has never ended.

Don't forget to send me a postcard from the front.