Thursday, September 3, 2009

Candy and Stellar Collapse

inside and out

I am an ever rotten and
rotting rainbow.

I enjoy eating

myself in public,

while simultaneously sucking
on the lollipop of failure

to kill myself; it is shaped like a word
and its shine is similar to that of a sad and sickening

representation.

Sometimes my ugliness
causes me to vomit all over those I supposedly
"love,"
as they drink

in my melting color through
a very long straw; as they gaze
up at me and praise me
for my distinctive and divine

ability
to grow knives out of my eyes.
It's all so nauseating
that it causes me to vomit a second time
in and endless

orgasm of refracted self-destruction.

In this way,
I have defied the inevitability of death and
will live forever

...just thought you should know.

Pink Blossoms on a Wolf's Tongue



Stills from Stellet Licht (Silent Light) by Carlos Reyagadas (2007)

born in the nucleus of
the Rabbit King

the poor in spirit brought warm winter soup
and lambs unto slaughter wore garlands around
their throats
and all the angels above sang light from

open wrists

but the baby just drooled on the ground
it just foamed from the mouth

like a rabid dog

it grew old as water's glow waned
and dug for treasures hidden inside its

terrifying

body

and rose higher and farther into the sky until
in the womb of a black star,
it died

crying and laughing
at the same time

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Fruit

Reveal 
Reveil
Reveal
Reveil

Reveal

Reveil
Reveal

Vile are the hearts of all men
Everyman is an angel of the Lord
An angel of God, Most High, Glorious
upon a golden throne
in Heaven on earth;
and lawless is His army
Lawless and without body
Fire-walking to their ocean
graves
Sqealing like snails
Salt in their torn shells
Praising their pain with cinnamon
flowers that twist skyward in
fists
fits

Reviling in their soil
Calling up from their rotten deathbed
Nipping at the final color of a fallen
tangerine

Waves and waves
waves upon waves
of mercy
and of Spirit.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Rotten Soil

Gregory Crewdson, "Untitled (Ophelia)," 2001

You can't crucify a hummingbird.
No matter how hard you try.

But, if by a miracle, you succeed,
the image of it,
the sheer symmetry,
the divine sensibility of its form,
and the Truth that drips like blood from its beak
will snatch up your soul in rapture
and you will weep for the wrath of God,
the Almighty One:

Who cultivates the tusk of the Mammoth?
Who harvests the appetite of the Hawk?

Monday, May 25, 2009

Clumps of Matter, Inter Acting

a rock in the shape of a perfect sphere

turning in my stomach
defying its fate upon the lips of water
rejected by the dirt
(its mother, the whore)
receiving the fluids of plants and animals
sky and sea
the piss and tears from our little sun
the life-blood of time and space
turning in the center of me
denying its self

other people pass by
they put their hands in me
Onto the shape inside and
feel me like a bloated baby pig
prepare me for dissection
ask me questions about myself
(their hands still deciphering my sphere)
I go home and want to bathe
away
the afterbirth of normalcy
coating my neck
sitting on the top of my hand
talking to my face, saying:
"Let me enfold you--

and all of your senses
your pain is not real
I'll show you
wake up, swallow
breathe in and out
drink liquids
vomit 
touch bodies
fall
cut off your head
pretend to understand other people
while the fog of typicality
bleeds over your virgin eyes
like the sunrise dies
sleep, and
repeat this day after day
in precisely the same manner."

The life of the living dead
is interesting to the same extent
that it is interesting how static electricity
makes the hairs upon my arm
stand and then sit down again
stand and then sit down

But, me
I am a kitten
pawing at a ball of yarn
on fire

and I prefer this

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Stasis

Marcel Broodthaers' La Pluie (Projet pour un texte), Belgium, 1969
On a day
once
but not today
a lizard
wrapped its arms around the earth
with
each kiss from its lips
the cement we all sleep on craked a little
bit 
more
desert roses spouted 
from the spots where
it salivated
I saw this happen and approached it 
with a bit of wetness
in my eyes
But the lizard
crawled into the sea
I could not go there
My home was far away
I had to get home
to walk on my carpet 
with shoes
to move between walls
and create
the meaning I manufacture there
in my home
washes over me
over my whole and enticing body
while I sleep
in my bed
My appendages are made 
from industrial plastics
They smell like dead 
daisies
I bleed in technological terms
that you wouldn't understand
My body has been sterilized
and its fluids replaced 
with matter raped of motion
The things I build are aesthetic wonders
I stand
facing them as they face me
I cannot go away from them
They are my shelter 
from the stench of rain
and the diseased dirt
the viciousness of flowers
These things I make are more
massive than the ground of all
being
So as you can see
it was not possible for me
to go where the lizard went
Though I saw my reflection 
in its blue tears
as it slipped
into the ocean
and though I looked up 
from the ground and saw the sky
invite me in
I am only human

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Angel Pi, Lulla By


Francis Alys' Paradox of Praxis, Mexico City, 1997
little lamb
crying
crying
on the mountain
crying
atop the sacred
and filthy mound
angel of death
floating
above her cloudy crown
like a glass wing-ed fly
like a wasp on fire
incantations
incantations
to a God who is bleeding
milk
alone
the eyelids of a strong animal
a lullaby
in sleep will come

Monday, April 27, 2009

a Garden



we have tried to sew our miseries
to the tree wings of the bumble-bee
and we once slept upon
the caterpillar's rainbow underbelly
while her peacock pupils spun a web of jubilee
and received us, disintegrating
into their illuminated womb--
we almost died poetically, coalescing

without form and within eternity

piously, grotesquely, we cry rust
as the corpse of repentence is burned
a pyramid of roses acts as a primitive casket
and floats like flame upon water
the smell, thick with power and victory
we are holding hands in satiated unity
in the glory of the fleeting sunrise
death all over us, having just gone for a swim

in the left over water of baptism

its so hard most always to melt away
out of existence, into oblivion
and to be wept out of the literal 
eyes of God--
please accept these flowers, every one
adorned in finite-ity
and sucked from the belly of the air
wet with mud and gold

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Monday, April 20, 2009

Floating in the Air, above the ground

Joseph Beuys' I Like America and America Likes Me, 1974 at the Rene Block Gallery, NYC
Photo: Caroline Tisdall

Infinite Seed and Spilling Into It

Still clip from Daft Punk's Electroma, 2007
Go on, look through my body of glass.
Manipulate the mirrors inside your eye
so as to illude my perfection into existence.

My driftwood heart is floating in a bath tub
of dirt.

And from this mountain, I can see the red star rise
in the ecstatic sky, like a colored-in triangle.

My eye lashes are attached to the vertical tug-of-blood
drops, sluggishly seeping out from an oblivious cloud;
and, the black-night fire
is reaching down from somewhere to swallow

all

Of the wild flowers, who will stand tall
and weird?
and drip in the translucent shine of destruction?

Who will walk into darkness, eyes wide?

an Other Daffodil Disassembling in Tune


Sunflowers hold the seeds of stars
on the tip of their heart's tongue,
or in the wake of the wind's repose,
and only the flutter-by knows.

She dances endlessly through the flame.
Ablaze, yet she will not consume,
nor be consumed;
while her joy lives by candlelight inside her soul.

We will whither the petals to tealeaves.
Light's blood will be forced down our throats:
a desperate medicine,
a cure for our ignorance, unknown.

In her sleep, we'll pluck her perfect wings,
and blow at them, as if at the bare neck
attached to a dandelion's weary head.
Her body's parts will fall like rain

All over us

Love alone


I can feel my soul unraveling

Stitch by stitch,
left for dead beside my body,
a mound of tangled black thread.

Contorting itself into an everlasting cloud,
it opens its mouth wide to suck the stars,
and consequently drools upon my pillow: blood.

My mind is drenched.



I eat flowers to try



My mouth hole is open but no one can see inside.


It is not me.

Carrying the weight of forests and ecstasty,
I want nothing more than to be no more.

Existence itself oozes from my eyes like an infection,
while I dream of the heaviest knife that never existed
meeting my glowing heart.

Decomposed in the Foreword Fur of Eden


Morning

has passed, is gone.

See morning.
Then, the yellow lake (and the cannibal fish),
the naked body,
rotting,
and the cloak denied.

In the morning--
The ear that heeds not, the great mountain's soft song,
when in the morning, you rise up and destroy,
and the heart of the sun is licked at by our broken tongues.

Morning.

has passed, is gone away.

See morning.
Then, the black sunflower (and the adulterous bee),
the eternal winter,
swallowing,
and the fake snow.

In the morning--
The owl that breathes not, into the mouth of the blood-horn,
when in the morning, you awake and annihilate,
and the sun suffers and settles down now over our rib cage, exposed.

Morning

has passed, is gone, 
far