Sunday, January 25, 2004

she came from the east coast

tomorrow will be sunday. she will take the child to watch the football. pretend to enjoy the game. her feet will freeze to the concrete floor. the tip of her nose will sting from the wind. the child wont feel the cold. they never do. she will watch him from the main grandstand. doing what he does. she wont pretend to understand. he wont mind that she doesn't. but she will be there. watching. he will know this.

late at night - after evening mass, he will visit. the child will be asleep. he will tell her what was wrong - or right. she will nod and smile, perhaps frown. all the while she will be thinking. how he always smells fresh. fresh and clean. he will be thinking about the curve of her breast. the way that her hair covers her eyes. deliberate. covering thoughts. hiding feelings. she will wonder if he's staying over. he will wonder if he can. neither will ask. eventually he will kiss her. she will walk to the door. smile. he will follow.

when the children have gone to school she will bring him coffee. when its almost cold, waiting for his mouth, he will drink it. quickly - all at once. she will compare the cup to her lips. waiting for his mouth. he will not hear the depth in her statement. he will not feel the silence in her voice. he will see how vulnerable she looks. her hair curling against her cheek. framing her lips. her pyjamas curling up her legs. this he can hear. can feel. he will kiss her. he will know she wants this kiss. he will taste her need.

at night from the back bedroom window you can see the hills. like a postcard. there is still snow left on the uppermost peaks. the pylons loom - alive. hillwalking in still motion. going nowhere. she remembers the iron giant. perhaps his thumb lays there. perhaps an elbow. beneath the well of the nine maidens. tomorrow will be sunday. derby day. she came from the east coast. he came from the same street. she wondered at the plan.

Sunday, January 18, 2004

i hope i'm not pushing what suse posted yesterday down too far or too fast. go to it now, i command you. this nonpoem of mine was written last year. that makes it old in my book but i'm trying to get rid of it so here it is.

caressed by crows

sometimes the rhythmic pulse giggles through my minds. i float mysteries through my pleasant cruise, ploy the wheel and pretend.

truth is told in shadows of the words you attempt to avoid. loosely held words fall right onto my confession. poor confession. mean confession. no words do justice to the nailed palms justice of manstupid

spitting manic causative relic functionally despondent
rising semblance of slightly tittilated secondary germanic-type human tribe that we resemble
qualitatived measures of self inspect nets zero.

at another peer, clueless one anothers skinny breezing tightly. puzzle tempered mommys for jeezus love me too. but in the plot versus attitude wars nothing is winning. back to work, dreadfully. i try not to have little problems about me. i will deny my self. die with the rest of you. try to look past crooked founds and use words instead of the abstract bending of your spine. in the calm current pictures of separation let them be, let them be themselves. let them find illumination in mankindling.

let's consider the consequences.

let's count. something. our blessings. shock. cripples. come again. yes. i'm a player of many returns. i fight endlessly. save. save the indians. they will make their triumphant return and i will be their ancestors - in law. in peace. i can smoke with the particles of sin.

let's quantify our results. they abridge our attempts. they become one with all and forever fill your needs. or at least my fruit baskets are never eaten conveying joy and surprising juxtaposition one nation underwhelmed by leaders trip over that cliff, you lemmings. humph.

let's have many sappy returns nappily given and attired. let's crease things under foot, save a nickle, miss your prime. never fear the retarded sense, the natural worded coiffure for the ages. never mind a failure. a topsy conclusion. a bad clarification day.

never use the word "splay". i'm warning you.

and within that warning becomes the infinite. the hard crested shells of your ambitions splayed out before you and inedible. rotten for years. or what years become when they are no longer with us. what's the point?

the big God's stare is blankly staring on cattle being caressed by crows on their way to the abbatoir. don't ask me why you are bitch-slapped from here to eternity. that is why you cower in the corner with the primer for 'or'... buy a big house and will your lot to abel.

if i were to take any cake i made and baked it better... this is a promise. do not believe it. travailutionary. translate inception. score heavily on the oh sigh leaves me factor. we will slow down now, again, and look at things. dot. dot. dot.

trees rustle cattle and hang from the moon where the cup and the spoon have run away with mable. mable, it seems, had stolen the fakes, and left town with the assistant production. this did not stop the show. it still smiles smartly on the landscape forshadowing danger and rotting teeth - which die in life and thrive in their own shunt corners of planned escape later. but now, in this life, the director has decided to throw up his hands in despair for the maddening roar of serranno's piss-jesus. lest you forget, he will save you if you are easily distracted. that is a life lesson and should be taken with you to breeding parties and red sea skinny dipping. bring your reminiscenses of callow juice and fortune baked.

in the new life it's a modest emporium of clever silk laced handcuffs and wispy blow jobs. it licks tenderly on veins of superstition and drains freely through the fingers of desperation. it sips wine flavored testimonials to how you'll spend your night tomorrow if only you can reach yer wanna and have some left over for the mourning. i'd spend all night on this if i was disciplined by a round spectacled wearing crusading martinet. i'd hand in my paper in the morning and go out for coffee with bill the magical effuser. the f using son of a bitch might call me back and give me all his secrets of how to whip the willing and trip the fleecing. smack you in the face with this fishing expedition guide book. don't go back on your word to my figurative scene setting tarantula crawling. let me skip the life step into your spina bifida. don't reveal any monkeys to be. let yourself slip under the surface of this lake of jesus' pee. don't swim. revel. be happy shit. celebrate de cesspool. celebrate your disease. die of terminal laughter. don't go gently into that slaughter. or do. do unto you as you would have. you have no choice in the matter/doesn't matter anyway.

would you rather be pointless or have a 1932 map? you decide. because, after all, it's the year 2049 and you are dying of smiles. good for you. have a pleasant foreboding. don't forget the.


Friday, January 16, 2004

she gave the baby back
to god
or whoever's responsible
for collecting the souls
she wasn't really sure
who or where

after years and years
have passed
the baby still visits
in the dream
and waves his stubby
deformed limbs
right up close to
her face

his feet are missing
and he has no mouth
but still he yells
mummy, mummy
why don't you love me
the baby is always a boy
and his name is always

he tells her how
he watches his sisters
he tells her not to be afraid
of the dark
but he's only a baby
what does he know?
sometimes in the dream
he's swimming
those are the good dreams

when he swims
he is graceful
and his stubby limbs
move him - turtle like
through the water
he smiles in those dreams
follows her
like a heat seeking missile
his mouthless face
over and over
Why don't you love me.

(C) Sk 04

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

1st whisper

where the scent of your flesh
scetched you naked

speak low
beneath this