Pollenfire Honeyblood

Candy and Stellar Collapse

2009-09-03T20:56:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-03T19:29:00.000-07:00

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

Fruit

2009-07-29T21:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Rotten Soil

2009-06-03T09:33:00.000-07:00

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?

Clumps of Matter, Inter Acting

2009-05-25T00:30:00.000-07:00

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

Stasis

2009-05-05T09:14:00.000-07:00

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

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

Angel Pi, Lulla By

2009-04-29T23:52:00.000-07:00

Francis Alys' Paradox of Praxis, Mexico City, 1997

little lamb

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

to a God who is bleeding

milk

alone

the eyelids of a strong animal

a lullaby

in sleep will come

a Garden

2009-04-27T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

Light/Open Mouths

2009-04-21T20:00:00.000-07:00

Floating in the Air, above the ground

2009-04-20T12:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-20T00:51:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-20T00:42:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-20T00:22:00.002-07:00

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

2009-04-20T00:14:00.000-07:00

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