Babbles

We don’t all think, but unfortunately, we all are. Do you feel anxious when you hear someone sneeze too far away from you to say “bless you”? You could have saved them. I’ve got sores in my mouth and you look stunning today, commentary on sickness and consciousness, hooray!

Optimism is wasted on the prostitutes in all aspects, does anyone really ever change by the end? Delusion is evolution in one’s own head. You grow? Who grows? We end up as children who are simply dead. But then why do I waste this time in bed? Shouldn’t I work and tread to say what hasn’t been said? Instead I lay and work for unconscious lucidity, a waste of time for you, but not for me. Don’t you see the pride I invent for the sake of being lazy?

Flowers can be punk rock too, ask this Irish dame, she’ll tell you.
This is all an exercise for my fingers to maybe catch your eyes, this is all fiction, please question nothing, not worth mentioning this idle poisoning. I’ll hide some details with a purpose blind, or deaf perhaps, I forget my own lies; I’ll veil it all however I please, my gestures seems Roman, mythologize my deeds.
Artificial inquiries for the forward progression, but careful to mind the words of the literate premonition: ghostly spooks and lover too, picaresque tradition with a golden tooth.

Words are tricky things, ‘bang’ is good and bad? Babel’s still fucking us all in the ass.
Drawing characters on hands to scare attention to work, history is termed, educated and adored. Sit down in Paris and try to remember the globe, keep your questions short and only eat what you’ve grown: silly advice, perhaps out of place, but our idols are dead and we don’t belong in space. Can we not be gods and beasts on our own turf, doing what we need? I gave my own wrists to Satan’s crew, someone might find love in my blood so blue. They tell you a heart is a candy shape, in reality it’s an organ with disgusting tapes of confessions of process, of minute detail, you are hideous on the inside, male or female.

This world is a network of bricks and winds, current stigmata are treated like beestings, by flowers, dandelions, for real, believe what I say, my words can heal. The fabric of a city is sewn to death, there are a few strands left, use them for your health. Actors must tire of fiction in veins, they undress their lives, an address in Spain, décor like a whore with tangerine fingertips, fucked up colors paint a relationship.

Nudist writers sit at my feet, radio voices golden like fresh wheat. Helicopters interrupt gay pride education, sons beget someone, it’s a strange situation. Gender roles boil down to studious penetration, queens are frogs who read out of desperation.

Pieces of mirror and lentils replacing all these buildings made of metal, I now see myself and avoid healthy food, starving self portrait because I’m in the mood. Apples and cigarettes are a diet for few, not this man beside me, shamefully depicting Jews. A rabbi on the page is a balance you can’t keep, don’t fear me though, I’m awfully meek, though I still reflect what I can of myself throughout this city of numb disrespect.

This notion of totality bounces off of me, vicious thirsty community never leaving my poor feet. I hardly hear your words, the cement is listening, I do my best, but do mind my beestings.

Moments on a Filthy Blue Couch

Hello Paris, I come to you to cut my love into hopscotch Polaroids.
Oh, these moments on a filthy blue couch!
Flicker film prostitution, I watch my drunk lust set your divine back aflame
on rusted carpet; I kiss those scars today.

We dig for comfort in pillows and skin,
you leave me your hair like it is sin
but I instead weave a curtain.
Wrap my window with a decent view to the spectacle
of my life in bed with you.

Watching you shaping wings out of guillotines is my winter’s trade.
We’ve got the same veins as birds, we bleed and fly the same.
And, oh! Here are you caressing my chest like you were reading
erotic fiction in braille;
perhaps this is my future in literature!
Burn my poems and read me with your hands.

I hear you craft operas and once were in Japan:
action, fog, and memory for me to understand.
You are a map, my flower among men,
I follow the wine stains along your skin.
Now sleep and I will watch you as Luna watches me,
I’ll smoke and I will worry, but this you’ll never see.

Paris, now I ramble, I apologize, but must ask-
can a man who is his own victim maintain this tricky dance?
Guilty of the voyeur, our egos wet the fabric
of public rotting tobacco scented couches.
We conquer brick princes breathing cold absence like Saint Augustine,
cunning, we laugh confessing and muttering.

We lay here now marrying the gutter’s mud with thoughts of kings,
coal on our wings and under my tongue, bitter spit spent for our song to be sung.
A butcher in the dark room sets my photos adrift,
moments of our love drowning in the Seine’s lips.
Paris, let me thank you, you took the worn away,
this gold now shines brighter with every passing day.


Notes on Virtue

I love the world through you,
that’s delusional,
love is violent choosing like island politics.
I’ve been looking for someone to guide my hands,
asking questions on bathroom walls.
Aristotle might know a few things...

Ethics in volutio carry wine but not water

Macedonian nicomachia is a clever fettering fever-

I'm dosing drugs and sleeping in caves, 

my back hurts but you only hear me complain about my head.

A troll in the corner chimes in,

he's still ripening, but at least he's got options.

Age measures mothers who absorb flowers and philosophy.

Map by my scalp and spit in my mouth,

I'll taste your good, telos, now head south.

----------------

Humph I sigh, I’ve grown hairier,
and if you don’t believe that Aristotle was wrong,
look at the walls of my elementary school-
Feline finality is fate draped on Christ’s shoulders and I love myself instead.
My grandfather’s in a mousetrap like photo lens war vet professor,
his tail’s been around my neck for years,
and Aristotle’s off laughing in mutter by the wine jug.
Dreaming boys with little fists lick at windows,
and I’m still unpacking-
case with only that warmth in my ear to steam green eyes to blink,
these dry lips to bleed then love-
Someone’s beard is telling them all the answers,
but I’ve been thinking lately,
do I have enough habits?
because I’ve built a corner out of all mine.
And I’ll tell you, if a man is defined by the company he keeps-
I must be a pirate.
Broken boots on sneering meek feet, whiskey drunk and none to eat.
Princely paupers with golden filth teeth spitting venom, words, and beats.
Telos! Take me, I’ll be witty the whole way down.

Live at the Cinema Room

Maps (Part 1)

To find love in the eyes of an undead sympathizer is
to let black cats live among the southern swamps of the apathetic heart.
Allow our coffin to be the purgatory of the road-
Here's to the Dewey decimal exits from Jersey to Louisiana:
(Oh, she likes it a little dirty)

The queen of New Orleans leads us to the land that makes her rule great-
there are eagles and pterodactyls in the bleeding golden sun.
The river has gators up there too;
below us they laugh and sharpen their teeth.
The sunset of my life, mirrored by Twain's pisswater.
Behind me, the etiquette of crackheads is addressed,
subtlety in beauty, of course.

Weeping branches scratch at my mermaid tail-
tunnels from here to you.
These streets have sleeping giraffes under majestic oaks,
elephant trunk ladders under pollution planted, graffiti painted skies-
Brad Pitt's wet dream.

Poor boy stomachs and a full tank of gas are what drive the French Quarter-
cigarettes are cheap too.
Hawks are drunk and screaming in our ears,
but the city is divine.

Bougie friends explain string theory wrapped up over
teenage pregnancy and the looming apocolypse,
all while a cigarette lit from the wrong end hangs from her lips.

Alabama carries handbag puppies and blueskygreenwater roads,
speed freak anemics here in Dante's taco hell.
Antique snowstorms and pickaninnies packing pepper-
miracles on the shore today! Flying fecal foliage-
walking on water is left for the clever lepers.

The night ahead is effigy of the sun in the west,
ask Mississippi and her factories,
they can tell you louder than me-
New York taught me volume is truth.

the relax inn

hard to sleep with a roof so freshly painted
amphetamine afternoon means starting novels in bathrooms
and purple toes
my book smokes and I watch it blow rings-
quietly as to not wake you, you a princess
in a king’s used mattress, pushing sheets off
like a graceful drowner
on the doormats of men to whom whiskey cures kidney pain
I read literature on the shitter
lid closed, no tongue to bite
useless hours, up in smoke
the shower’s clean, boy, take a look
balance is twisted, the pill’s in me
my tongue’s been hanged, but the cable’s free
ashtray bedrooms in a tortoise shell
have some sleep, man, help yourself
I’ll stay up, read some books
watch the lights, my eyes are shook
the floor’s real cold, my palms are wet
like a penguin being paid to sweat
bring the sun, and then the road
and I’ll have seen all that you have showed
you are no angel, my dear, they’re dead
you’re alive if I can see your legs
warm me darling, mutter and coo-
these cold hands, they beg for you
cotton lips bleeding through
do to me what you want to do
need my skin or pray, my voice
lose yourself in every choice
bite my teeth and call my name
nostalgia is vile to those strange sane
crack my bones, the marrow’s good
stay the night, I think you should
keep me up with smells and sounds
in love, in a bathroom, in this strange town
sunflower eyes, follow me, please do
I’m the light if you are the truth