Sunday, 18 October 2015

My Third Book Of Poetry, "Stillness And Echoes" in the works!

Hi everybody,

I hope you have been enjoying my work and I just want to let you all know that I am currently working on my third book... transcribeing my poems from two of my notebooks into my laptop, readying them for publishing.

The title of my third collection will be "Stillness And Echoes", originally I had "The PitchFork By The Halo's Loft" as the working title, but as stillness and echo are recurring themes I decided on giving my new book a more appropriate name.

So, here's an idea of what the cover of "Stillness And Echoes" will look like... useing one of my photos from my old project...

It will be published within the new year (2016), so I will keep everybody up to date
as the book progresses.

Thank you for reading,

-Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

* and here are my first two books of poetry, if you are into that sort of thing:

L'Oeil Du Minuit             

The Tangled Cedaring Sublime & Its Knotting InTo NoThing Of Time

Friday, 9 October 2015

Obliteration Will Have To Wade In With Both Feet Soggy (Originally written for a contest on Oct. 9th, 2015)

You Have To Feed A Cookie To The Soul,
That Magnificent Monster Crawling In Circles
Round And Round In The Core Of A Man's Mind,
Its Approximate Location Is UnKnown To Most
From OutSide One's Skull If Not The Host,
Though SomeTimes Science Gets Bold Enough
To Counter The Pompous Spittle Of Their Holy Zeal
With An Overwhelming Urge To Command And Conquer,
Set Up Bubble-Glassed Research Stations And Bullet-Proof Census Tickers,
Hand Out Pamphlets With Treats For Involuntary Response,
Run A Ritualized Process Of Evolution InTo The Ground Of MotherHood,
And Construct New Churches For Architectural Obligations
To A Million Bird Martyrs And Cupid Worm Compromises,
All To Pass Some Endowment From A Cunt's Wafer Off As A Sweet Deal,
Then Instruct The Wet-Nurses Ways To Silence An UpRiseing,
Before A Lost Soul Can Direct A Finger
To Point Out The Lack Of Sand In The Concrete
Before It Sets Around The Frosted Foot Of A Decorated Enemy,
Lest His Pointy Nose Persuades The Irish To Be As His Hounds Of War,
For Green Potatoed Visions Through The Greys Of Their Lives.

Wednesday, 7 October 2015

Circe Would Be Proud

The Fire Alarm Screams
That High Cold Electric Squeal,
There Goes That Fat Piggy Running For The Exit,
His Ham-Hocks In His Ham-Socks
Run Run Running For The Door,
Curly Piggy Hair On His Burly Piggy Head,
Sweat On His Warted Piggy Tongued Brow,
Certain To Be Twitching In His Fat Piggy Pants
That Cork-Screw Tail To Do With A Piggy Pig Dance,
ABoard A Fat Piggy Bus To His Piggy Piggy Shack,
Then Get To His Invisible Piggy-Club Sty
Meet Up With The Secret Piggy Piggies That Spy,
All Scared Of Fire... Because Piggies Will Fry,
Though They Pray Piggy Prayers To Giant Pig Piggies,
For That Piggy Piggy Paradise Of Bigger Piggy Pigs,
Why Is That Piggy Such A Piggy Piggy Pig,
As He Pigs And He Pigs And He Pigs With Piggy Power,
As He Runs For The Exit For A Seat For His Piggy Pig Ass,
His Ham-Bone Pig Piggy Arms WindMilling... Carrying Him AWay...
Piggy Piggy Is Now UpOn The Wind... Beyond The Fear Of Frying,
He Is Flying...
He Is Flying...
He Is Gone.

Friday, 25 September 2015

A Sea Half Full (Originally posted for a contest on 09/25/15)

What Pierces Through The Nightingale's Chord,
To Rest As If NoThing On The Back Of A Hand,
ALit And Lightly Through The Windowed Maw,
As If Through Lunacy Could It Cure
The Meandering Thoughts Of Clammy Despair,
From Where One Could Be Found Bound In Somber Depths,
Whistleing For Wolves To Shed Their Skins...
When To Be The Cause Of Charon To Tilt The Chin,
To Gaze Up At This Earthly Domain,
And Then Row Silently Over Shadowless Waters...

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

Mother Spider

She Strangles Strangers,
Watch Them Dangle In Their Free-Range Sandals,
Hung Up Like Hams In Circus Tents,
Sighing Over Anxiety InTo Their Psalms As Salt Hits The Safety Nets,
Slobbering At The Ropes... Showing The Crowd Visions For Drunken Fish...
It Is Her Crowd... And Her Audience Claps At Another Dumb Fuck,
Another Fallen God In Debt Up To His Crown Jewels,
Eyeing His Pope's Floating Elephants To Send For Sacred Brethren,
Dissipating In The Final Thresholds... InTo The Stomachs Of Chamber Maids,
Imagining WithOut A Doubt...
For A Wondrous Sundering Of Thunder,
Flaps Opening Wide For A Dust-Moted Blast Of DayLight,
To Wagner's Riders From The Third Act Storming In To Save The Lost Reich,
The Grey Race Of Spinning Puppy Psychologists And Their Apostle Harvesters,
A Brazillian Renaissance Assured,
An A-List Charter OutSide Of Some Two-Faced Muddy Barrow,
Tested Proven Through The Mystic Virginity Of Tesla's Tied Tubes
Nature Is A Curious Cloud For The Stench Of AnyThing Fat And Dieing,
So Naturally All Dogs Piss On Any Gate They Can Find,
Beside Their Uncanny Talents For Gnawing At Bones, Sniffing Ass And Licking Palms. 

Thursday, 10 September 2015

A CrossRoads In Canada

At The Corner,
Go On... Put Your Hands On Your Waist,
And Make Haste,
GodSpeed And In A Boy-Dream
With One Toe Over The Curb,
Cross With The Bell-Curve,
Let The Shadow Of The City Smooth Your Way,
Blotted As A Meadow's Peak Roughened By Morning Clouds...
You Are A Butterfly In A WindStorm...
Separate Each Voice You Live In Colors Of Flickering Irises,
View Lightly In Each Step And Being,
Flow InTo The Following Of Night To Day,
Sculpted As You May Be To The Grand Wax Politic,
Toil For The Gold Of Maples,
Charm The Phone-Line Poles To Bare Loins For Aristotle,
Swallow Those Brittle Wafers Of Obligatory Subjugation
And Cling To Your Mother's Dress.

Wednesday, 26 August 2015

The Fold

I Can Not See My Eyes,
I Climb InTo The Mirror And Through It,
Through Where My Eyes Would Be,
And NoThing Is Stareing Back At Me.
A Face And A Mask Is What Am I Now,
Drawn To Reflect And So I Turn,
InTo The Edges And A Weakening Hold,
Players And Smoke To Mind And Mold,
These Ages Furrowed For Rocks To Throw,
I Ready MySelf And Aim For Thrice,
For The Shadow Of What I Am To What I Will,
Until Beyond The Fold To What I Fill...
Never The Earth To Hold My Ground,
Never In Sleep Could Peace Be Found,
ForEver I Be Simple For Words To See,
And NoThing Bleeding Back To Me.

Saturday, 1 August 2015

(...) As Humboldt The Drum

Chide The Rulers,
Entomb Your Kings And Your Queens Under The Table,
Let The Gamble For Blood Be Pricked And Run Blue,
For Its Purity Be A Rabid Chase InTo The Fold,
With Its Badges Gilded As Its Bridges Be In Kind,
Over Burning Ravines And Canned Applause,
Tense With A Molted Salivary,
Clapping Against The Body-Electric,
Sinking It Deep InTo The Sour Earth,
Vineyards And Vanity... Insects In Sects,
Hive The Heavy-Breaded In Honey,
While Death-Watches Hold Hands For Hoods,
Ticking Steady Near HeadBoards For The Mother Of Pearls,
An Hour An Ear On Signals From Pluto's Orchard,
To Tell Those Red With The Rust Of Eleusinian Mystery
That Her Fruit Has Fury,
And Amber Be Its Garden's Palace.

Wednesday, 15 July 2015

What The Fuck Does Norman Mailer Know About AnyThing, AnyWays?

An Inked Epidemic
To Fit WithIn Borders,
High-Diveing Fifty-Fiveing,
Splattering UpOn The Paved Recess,
With The Obsession Of Rorschach
To OutWit Pollock,
And Resurrect A Cold-Nose To Beg
Joan Of Arc Out From Under Her Corset... Worming In A Fist...
Hinting Patchouli In The HayStack... The Marco Polo Of St.Louis,
Crooking All Spirited To Arched Bluffs...
Arrested InTo A State Of Commercial DisOrder,
Needled InTo A Rug SomeWhere In Tangier,
Liquor-Soaked...  Pursueing A Lesson In Taxidermy,
Old And Dieing And Queer... Coughing Dry As Swine Drowning Would,
Sticking What Timely Bones Remain InTo Stomachs To Drain,
As Hotel Bills Pile Up Beside Greasy Floor Cushions,
To Muffle The Pot InTo A Softly Padded Cell,
That Dead Wife Laughing Last... Storming In And Fast.

Friday, 10 July 2015

Inter-State Peppermint

Gaze Up At The Heavens,
Those Little Plastic Boxes,
Down Here Life Went Missing,
And It All Comes Back To Those In A Piece Of Cake...
Some Days... Lift Blue Eyes To Witness,
Other Days... Blink AWay That Wetness,
Too Many Days Have Come And Gone,
And Skin Only Lasts So Long...
Not Starving Yet Hollow,
Fed Dry To The SkyLit Shallows,
Absurd And Obsolete To Wear Those Masks That Hang,
ALone With Hands AWare...
So Now To Autumn For Heat's Last Grasp,
Long As Those Roads Where Trees OverLook,
Passing By Like Phantoms Of Dawn And Dusk,
Left To Cut Through With Limbs Lost.

Thursday, 2 July 2015

A Little Water To Rise Above High Brows

The Machine Loosens Its Teeth On Habit,
Parts Gyrating InTo StainLess ClockWork And Burning Ethereal,
Ozone Melts At Its Edges Near Eternal Meshing,
All This Is The Flesh On Its Bones... It'll Make You Wonder...
Where Does The Wind Blow From?
Cold Snap Lightning-Quick,
A Subtle Twist In Time Here And There,
An Integrate... Snapping InTo A Life Of Dampness and Skin,
Stareing For What Was Lost In The Rain...
NoThing Less.

Wednesday, 27 May 2015

Boldly The Hum

Write It Out In Blood,
In The Fat Of Your Fathers,
In The Keeping Of Heritage,
Spontaneous And Bricked,
For Dryed-Up Husks Grasping At Cognac,
For High Minstrels Of Abbey-Born Winds,
As They Push The Cornets With FingerTips UnYielding,
To Stab The Notes And Bear The Seed,
For Dieing Breeds Of Militant Pressures,
Under Skins Not Worn With Wine,
To Be Forgotten,
To Be White-Washed,
To Marbled Keeps And Flickering Wrists,
For Time To March In Burr And Fervour,
When Spurred... When Sparred,
For The Crowded Din On Streets,
Then To The Sweeping Away Of Sleep And Solstice.

Friday, 22 May 2015

Yard Sale

An Old Hornet Summer's Sting,
Neatly Cyclonic Cycloptic Chronic,
Airing Out The Garage-Sale Haggles,
Letting Ants Chew On Cat-Scratched Legs,
Clinking Chipped Rockwell,
Rubber Toys Coated In Saliva... UnBlinking Cartoon Eyes,
Plastic MilkCrate DollHouse AfterNoon,
ToothPicks... AshTrays... CardSuits On Shot-Glasses,
A Faded Three-Colored Beach Umbrella,
Warped Vinyl... Groovy Cellar Dampness,
Red Rider And Fisher-Price... Parker Brothers And Milton Bradley,
Fishing-Rod Peeling... Tackle-Box Rusting... Old BackYard Flag...
Cold Sag BackWards... Busts Tickled Pink... Feeling For Roman Gods,
Uncle Miltie In Sparkleing Push-Ups... Barking For Betty,
Gnawing Into The Leather Straps... Drooling Like A Puppy For The Gravy Train,
Bite-Marks In The Lucky Lucite... Suspended Four-Leafed Maiden Humbleness,
Horse-Whips And Bacardi... Ice-Cubes... Thumb-Screws,
Late Night Lessons For Supper-Clubbed Choke-Chained Dog-Leashed Spastics,
UnBlinking Cartoon Eyes... Rubber Toys Coated In Saliva,
Secret Keys... Ceramic Masks... Chalk Powder,
Fat-Stretched Mewing In Wet Latex Pants,
Gagging On Social Grace And Pool Ball Economics,
Defeated... Cloned... Clipped... Decorated,
A New Ornate Mummer's Dance.

Sunday, 17 May 2015

JellyFish And PokerChips

A JellyFish Shaman Born InTo The Emerald ForEver...
The Snowy Mistress Of Songs UnSung Opened Her Teepee Flaps,
And Darting Out From The Smoke Flew The Sparrows And Swallows,
So He Plucked What Feathers He Could Pluck... After Which He Picked A Seat Beside The Devil...
There The Horizons Molted Their Stoney-Toothed Visions Of Perfect Hands
To Bare High Stakes Bets Based On UnCertain Futures,
Simian Parachute-Packs Sweating Through CowBoy-Silk Shirts...Clawing Through The Warhol-Printed Plains,
Fifteen Brave Minutes To Geronimo For Associated Pressures To Relate,
And If No Body Jumps When He Does...
Then To The Sending Of Broken Arrows To BreadLines And Soup Kitchens,
Making Peace Where Treaties OverLap...
Because Here... Here We Are All Eating The Moss Off Of The Morning Rocks,
Out Here... Oh, Yeah...
It's All Good...
That JellyFish Shaman... Feel Him Pull Back Now... Dressed In Casual Attire,
The Fires Of Ancestral Pride Have Receded With Glacier-Like Ferocity,
A Walker On Coals... A Cougar In The Caribou-Firs... Not Kept To The Waters,
Boiling In His Moccasins The Heavyer Sole Of An Indian Summer,
Like His Pony-Tail... It Is Tied Into A Dieing Tit For Journeys In The Sun...
No Curse Of Whey In Here... I May Be Small And By The Savannah River,
At One With The Great Wait In The Sky...
Oh... JellyFish Shaman... Born InTo The Emerald ForEver,
Did You Not Hear Your Mistress Call You Back InTo The Flame... Back To Your Wheel?
Why Are You Still Sitting There?
Are You Still Turning?

Monday, 11 May 2015

September In The Midst Of Things (Originally written as my entry today into's May 2015 poetry contest)

What A Price To Pay,
For Subtlety To Boast Constellations,
A Drowned Out Cry From My Crawl-Space Bricked From Youth,
Where A Spindle Might Draw Out Blue Before Red,
And I Be Made To Sit If Not With Thoughts To Denmark,
Then To Barricade My Self From Humiliating Clarity,
As With Equal Steps Towards Failure To Be Recognized...
UpOn Such Innocent WoodWork Might I Be Crowned By Old Bitter Spite...
While Danceing Betwixt Each Shelf... A Worm Amongst Words,
Cherished With A Communion That May Sweep BloodLines For Pearls,
Straying Not From A Witness... As My Jaw Be Clenched In Sweetness Lost,
That WithOut The FaithLess Muse To Shatter The Ruse Of False Truth,
Those In Its Distillery May Be Cask'd InTo The Shadows,
Only To Bathe In Its Light.

Friday, 8 May 2015

A Forest For A Fen

A Fen Of The Devil,
It Be Wet And In The Deeps,
To Twist The Trunks And Bide By Long Strides,
Further From Being Dumped Off The Banks InTo The Bay,
Coyotes Howling For Tricksters That Part The Dead...
The Latter HoodWinked By Horned Glasses And A Cat's Lie...
In Cactus'd Hotels Lined With DriftWood And Taxidermy,
Each Day Rented For A Catatonic CakeWalk To The Ice-Box And Back...
A Slice Of Electric Heaven For Toasting PureBreds
Paddles In The Pool... Stares Blankly At The Desert Panorama...
It Could Be A Splintered ChestFull Of Hell Out There... Beyond The Concrete And Chlorine,
Some Sickeningly Haunted Hole Where The Soil Turns Rusty,
Old HorseShoe Crabs Would Migrate There To Die,
Their Brittle Remains Pulverized... Then Ground InTo A Martian-Canary Rattle,
Collected In Utero And Serveing Only Vesuvius... To Survive As Its Riddled Clay...
But Where Does That UnEarthly Whistle Lead Its Window-Shopper?
For What End To Compliment An Intersection Of Debates...?
In Whose Boots... In Threads That Guide Growling Bellies,
By What Magician's SignPost... Blinking Arrows,
For Saws To Cut Through An American Balcony,
For Whose Poor Eager Hands To Reach InSide The Wolf's Mouth
And Brush ASide The CobWebs?

Sunday, 19 April 2015

Of What Wyrd May Hold For Threads ForeTold

A Cup Of Tea,
A Swirling Sea,
The Relics Of Disaster,
Gusts And Breeze,
They Cut And Seize
Not Leading To Their Master...
A Quest To Light,
The Rending Sight,
Where Faces Meet Their Hand,
At Tables Layed,
For Pieces Played
By Baubles Filled With Sand...
A Word For Such,
At Which To Much,
It Beats For All To Squeeze,
It Whets The Start,
To When The Heart
Minds For What It Frees.

Thursday, 9 April 2015

An EverDieing Game Of Graciousness For Its Disappearing Act Of ReAppearing Intact

Her Carved-Ivory Vision,
Pulling ItSelf Tight InTo A Redeeming Pigment,
Clad In Red Felt And Skinned In A School-Roof'd Co-Existence,
Lips Pursed For A Cooling Of Condensation,
An UnFinished Hole Leading To Its Ravenous Other,
To Swallow Hardness And Then UnKnot Its Will,
For Delicate Necks And Bulgeing Beaks,
Earning Her Jewellery-Box Recitals Before Paper Hearts,
Fidgeting Upon The Arm Rest With Berated Impatience...
She Fiddles With Stolen Time On A Hook,
While Her Feet Seek Stirrups...
OutFitted For MotherHood OutSide A Convent,
Still-Life Painted Into The Payroll,
Her Cathedral Mosaic Sustained Through Nailed InVerse Fractions...
Marathon Run For SideWinders In The Tossed Plains,
Breached Borders In Contempt With Her God's CourtShip,
To Bask In Cathode-Rays Before None From Troy...
Silent Her Black Seas... If Not Of The Lies Of Nostradamus,
For They Are As Eyes In Her Sockets,
And With Every Rotation For Golden Fools... To Her Place By Lost Grains...
As They Too Will Sprout,
From Her Relentless Mud... From Its Strangled Bloody Roots,
To Fertile Shallows... Then For A Clasp To UnClasp...
To Barren Shadows... Then For A Collapse To UnGrasp.

Friday, 27 March 2015

BusRiders Across The Cable For HighWays To Send

My Split-Haired Future,
Nomadic And UnJustified,
A Warring Syndicate Countering Distraction And Uniform,
No Cripple In Hunting As A Sport,
I Could Develop Antlers If Not The Horns For Debate,
And In That Serene Gap Before The Storm Leave The Judge To Cower,
Under Cover Of His Framed Fury Of EyeBrows,
To The Termite-Ingested Gods Of Egyptian HousePets And Crocodile-Shoe'd Waders Of Dramatic Pause,
They Who Let The Devil In... If Only He Be As Suited Through Public Discourse And Hollywood Tragedy...
As The RedWoods Sap-Out While Being Tapped For Collagen,
Summons Get ReWorded And Shoved Through The Cracks Of BathRoom Windows...
ManKind Shrivelling And Recedeing UpOn Forceable Suggestion Of That Higher Whore,
One With A Devotion To Public Speaking And To Rare Plumage With Forgiveable Logic To Mass-Suicide,
For Clay Jars AWait On Dusty Displays For Donors And Dog-Sitters...
Scar-Faced  And Vaulted To UnCover For The Sons Of Geraldo,
They Sweat Mustached In Hubris Broadcasting To A World Less Than Perfect In Attendance,
Mouthing Out The Residuals For The Deaf To Figure Out,
A Search-Light Shineing A Bridge For Souls Across The Lifeless Void,
InTo The ClassRoom For The Dark Ages To Appear Ass-Up,
For Those Of Them With Tickets And Prizes Under Each Seat...
And For Their Tiny Claws... Clutching Rocky Porous OutCrops In UnderGround Grottos,
Then To The Migrateion... To Conquer And Curve A Flight...
Towards The Moths As They Do Their Damned Best To Create Hurricanes
AWay From The Fresh Wings Of True Monarchs...
Who... Much Like Humanity... Are All Truly Dead When ASleep.

Tuesday, 10 March 2015

Cosmos Sailing With A Kettle And His Best-Friend's Bark

Post No Bills,
The Dogs Of Stardom Are UnLeashed And UnFixed,
Broken With DollHouse Ribbons And Curling Irons,
Heaveing The World Above The Cookie Jar,
For That Stuffed Beaver To Reflect Over Its Flooded Banks,
Adorned With A Circle Of Squares And Macaroni-Glittering On Construction Paper,
Turkey Emperors To Hustle Eight Year Olds In FoosBall'd Potato-Chip Scams,
Tie-Dyed And Flagged With An AirBrushed Economy... Smokeing Ass By The Lake,
Rat-Tails And Pirate-Secret HandShakes...
Suppose The Situation Fails To Teach Whales A Drunken Sailor's Charms,
Then What?... The Years Abroad Could Lead To Jealousy Amongst The Ranks,
Dead Puppies And Higher Insurance Premiums For Those Barn Doors,
It Was Bad Enough With Hay-Fever And HighWay Robbery On The Old Silk Road,
All That Sacrifice To Get The Wheat To The Elevator,
With No Thanks To Those Fishing For Second-Hand Suckers And Full-Monty'd Bliss,
The Truck-Stop's Got Plenty Of Desperate Princesses With Three Dollar Bottles Of EyeLiner,
What If The Cruise Stopped And Let Off Its Passengers?...
Chirpings From The Green Wilderness,
Queer Sowings Of FlatBush'd Jousts... Another Good Reason To Hang A Jesuit Cunt,
As He Cherry-Picks By The Plate Of Crackers And Cheese,
As Those Stairs Creak Under The Cracking Soles For The Shakeing Of Virility's God-Given Leg,
To Pitch The Boy's Life And Pass Around Comic Books To Get Soggy,
Bitch In The Stiff Starch And Beg For Shoes To Get Polished,
While Looking Down At The Clues By The Patent Leather,
Witnessing The Crossing Of Shiney Loafers To Squeak Before The Hall To Persuade...
Another Trick To Sugar-Up That OffRoad Vehicle For A Manned Mission,
Grease Back The Face For Camouflaged Day-Dreamers And Day-Light Discounts,
Dark Clouds In The Bag For Departed Clowns To Wear Out Blue Jeans,
Maturity's Clones... Sarcasm, And Its Brother Cynicism... In That Last Ditch,
And There It Is...
Your One True Balloon Ride...  Its Trip Is Tucked Under Your Cuff And Pinned,
Strung Up Like A Parachute's RipCord For That One Pull...
Hey... Yeah, You...
You Have To Toss It InTo The Tree,
So The Bears Don't Get To It.

Friday, 6 March 2015

Finch's Hollow

With A Cat's Claws,
A Dry-Eyed Dead Dreaming WallFlower Scratches At The Glass,
Diamond Dazed And Playing For Keeps,
Begging For Cream While Wetting The Black Curtains,
Reaching Around Against The Competition,
Sex-Hauled Keepers Born To Wine And Its Skins,
While The Principle Set Lacks Cavalry For Its Educated Houses,
Breaking Brass To Melt Down For Memories Of Baby's First Steps,
As Those Round The Pot-Luck Light The Furnace And Get Tattoo'd For Tigers...
Arms Raised High With Hands Joined In A Circle,
Chanting In A Dark Gymnasium To The Chalkboard's Demon,
Pounding The New Spring InTo Cheap Pants,
For The Saints Of Nicotine And Valentine,
Hex-Cauled Leapers Shorn For Hypnosis And Apathy,
Pretty-Dime'd And Seduced By Faint Spells To Its Corrosion,
To The Stone Yards And Their Climbing Gardens,
WithOut The Meals For Dreary EarthWorms,
Burrowing And Borrowing And Boroughing ALong...
Nipping At Their Spoons... Dissolving Their Silver,
Wrinkle-Maw'd... On Retainers For Crow's Feet,
Flopping Out Secret Tits For Pearls And Hedged Mazes,
Floating With The Phantoms On Through To Bourbon.

Saturday, 7 February 2015

ReImagineing Morocco For The Wolves

The Fast Bending Spooned Breed Of Holy-Watered Actor,
Magically Enhanced With Plastic Scarred Surgery,
Rubber Hose Dangleing From His Bottled Euphoria...
In Another Skin He Sings Of Huskies And Mountains,
Aiding The Loosened Lips Of The Mayflower's Puritan Dogs,
Possibley To Bring About ReRuns In Static And Foil,
Magnetically Pointing To Where All SunRises Fade,
As His Hand Protrudes From The Shellings And Smoke On Stage...
It Is D.W. Griffith's GodDamned Bastard Child,
That Fair Chided Half-Wit Slice Of The Wooden Life,
The Hooked Bait For Snapping Suction,
Yelling With Spittle To The Numbers At The Auction...
Cripples Deserting Their Crutches By His Side,
His Side...Wounded Bleeding For Virgin Strawberries,
To The Farm For Hats And Crusty Pies,
Mercilessly Pommelling His Mother's Thigh,
Wise Beyond ReCreation And Karaoke...
His Brother The Coward... He Sits And Begs For Ravens To Share,
They Pass The Straw Between Their Pecking Order And Snicker,
At The Role... At Its Conditioning...
The Tear-Wrenching Moment Where All Is Renown,
Gifts A Little Powder On The Other Nose,
Travels To Vancouver To Bet On The Races,
Gets Bronzed And Sucks On Inseparability Like It Was A Lozenge.

Sunday, 25 January 2015

One Day, Temple Street By Elevator

Slim Pickings On The Meridian Drive,
Fire-Axes And Dalmatian Blues To The Accident Scene,
Gasoline Slush-Puppy For A Brother's Keeper,
And The Mayor Is Visiting A Poorer Country Of Fools...
This Winter Has Been So Under The Weather
That Obnoxious Prostitutes Have Infiltrated The Missions For A Chance Of Rain,
Whores Wanting The Polar-Caps To Melt In Their Favor,
For Assholes From The Cabbage-Patch To Sputter And Bloom,
Suckling Pigs Racking Up Their Gambleing Debts For A Stink-Finger,
Buttering The Belly Of The Beast's Burden...
Paper-Bagged ShowGirl Pole-Dance,
Tripping On Their Trap-Doors,
Spiders In High-Heels With Coupons For Baby-Powder,
Ugly-Sympathy Fortunate To Be Present When Called,
Then To Rack Up The Numbers And Name A New King For Their Calenders,
Paper-Cuts And Hidden Rope-Burns...
Left Over With The Magic Of Frost-Bitten Allegory,
SomeTimes... It Just Sounds Good,
To Plug The Ears And Wish For A Wiser Youth...
But... Today... Oh, Today...
All That's Revered In The Low-Ceiling'd Vibe
Are Those Aluminum-Starved Zodiac Ministers Of Copacetic,
Harboring Their Whipping-Boys To The Punch Bowl,
Barking, Hissing, And Spitting Their Way InTo Traffic,
Shineing Through That Blue Intercom To Dazzle On Mystic Floors
To Displace Bath Water For Their Jizz-Moppers...
Fuck This Double-Decker World,
I Am Going To Watch Its Bottom Fall Out...
See All Those Ghost-Whispering Faggots Tumble Down,
Listen To The Scratching Clawing As The Night Market Opens For Business.

Tuesday, 20 January 2015

Perseverance While By The Sliver's Noon

Green End Of The Glass,
To The Wave,
To The Wave,
To The Wave...
Message To MySelf,
Mirror The Bottle
Towards The Tow,
Tangent Dissolution,
Streaks My Gaze,
Stretches For The Daily Graze...
A Cat's Eye To Roll
Down That Wall,
To The Wave,
To The Wave,
To The Wave...
To All Reaching For Its Drop.