My 2nd Book THE TANGLED CEDARING SUBLIME & ITS KNOTTING INTO NOTHING OF TIME Available Now!

Hi!


My second collection of poetry The Tangled Cedaring Sublime & Its Knotting InTo NoThing Of Time is available for purchase NOW in paperback And e-book through my publisher's site...

http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000016132139

Paperback Links-

CHAPTERS-INDIGO- http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/books/the-tangled-cedaring-sublime-its/9781460261002-item.html

BARNES & NOBLE.COM- http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-tangled-cedaring-sublime-its-knotting-into-nothing-of-time-richard-william-kirkpatrick-thorne/1120943189

AMAZON.COM- http://www.amazon.com/Tangled-Cedaring-Sublime-Knotting-NoThing/dp/1460261003

THE NILE.COM (AUSTRALIA)- http://www.thenile.com.au/books/Richard-William-Kirkpatrick-Thorne/The-Tangled-Cedaring-Sublime-Its-Knotting-InTo-NoThing/9781460261002/

POWELL'S- http://www.powells.com/biblio/9781460261002

ADLIBRIS (SCAND)- http://www.adlibris.com/se/bok/the-tangled-cedaring-sublime-its-knotting-into-nothing-of-time-9781460261002

E-Book Links-

CHAPTERS-INDIGO- http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/the-tangled-cedaring-sublime-its/9781460261019-item.html

KOBO BOOKS- http://store.kobobooks.com/en-CA/ebook/the-tangled-cedaring-sublime-its-knotting-into-nothing-of-time-1 

LYBRARY.COM- http://www.lybrary.com/the-tangled-cedaring-sublime-its-knotting-into-nothing-of-time-p-663114.html

GOOGLEPLAY- https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Richard_William_Kirkpatrick_Thorne_The_Tangled_Ced?id=4ajjBQAAQBAJ

BOL.COM (NED/BELG)- http://www.bol.com/nl/p/the-tangled-cedaring-sublime-its-knotting-into-nothing-of-time/9200000037713309/

Thank You Brelan Boyce And The Gang @ Friesen Press For The Incredible Help On Getting This Collection Published!

Happy Holidays And Happy New Year! And PLEASE... Buy My Book!

-Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

 Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

*And here's a link to my FIRST collection of poetry, L'OEIL DU MINUIT, also available through Friesen Press...

http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000012629528

http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2013/12/loeil-du-minuit-collection-of-my-poetry.html

Now... A Mere Cricket In The Court Of A Swift While It Preens

His Head... A Pilgrim's Rock,
Fattened From The Precise Movements Of Plates Shifting,
A Sit UpOn ItSelf With No Wall Bricked For Ladders,
Elevators Clicking Like His Brain Rideing Its Spine,
From The Crowned To The Pawned Then Back Up Again,
Honey-Dipping InTo Tinmah's Shroud And Pride,
Towards Brushes By Horses For The Lion's Den,
Promising Wings Dripping With Virgin Wine And Hanging Gardens,
Before The Cage May Take Another Liar For Its Wheel...
...
Now WrathFull He Clings To His Cloud,
Then To The Woods To Mingle And Merge With The Hickory,
To Then Be Woo'd As Desdemona... Though At Least To The Poor Atoric,
With His Bridal Bit To Drag Over The Window's Edge,
Not Letting The Glass Slip UnderFoot,
To The Streets Below... Past The DriveWays And Under The Heavens,
His Toe Tied With Twine Knotted And Anchored Miles Down,
He Floats... Catching Lightning And Hopeing For Openings Over Soft Parades,
His Pillow... A Philosopher's Stone.

Rubik Sarcophagus

Rubik Sarcophagus,
Twist And Turn,
Pieces Change And ReAlign,
Geometric Endocrine,
Meticulous Etchings From The Inside,
Grooves That Prove Valleys For Monarchs,
Revolveing UpOn Usurpation,
Locking Thumbs InTo Position,
To Carve And Whittle The Bones Into Keys,
One For The Hand That Knocks,
One For The Sand That Locks,
Both Halves Hideing The Solution,
Prying Eyes From Palming The Velvet Scratch,
Bandaged... Feeding Through,
Summoned By Its Silence... Breaking For It,
Synchronized With Its Fractureing Ebb InTo Reverence,
Painted Blue With Clouds,
Breast-Fed And Smeared With Ash,
Endowed In Time... Dowsing For Thicker Days,
Letting It Sleep... Screaming InTo Its Own Head,
New Movements For Old Cycles,
Twisting And Turning,
Pieces Change And ReAlign,
Guided... Gilded... Gutless.

Vincent Left The Necromanteion And His Beard Followed

SpyGlass Hours Cascadeing InTo Skeleton Racks,

Umbilical Construct Beyond The Twist Kaleidoscopeic,

Under-Water While I Wait This Out,

Wade To The Other Side When The Shadow Passes OverHead,

Wave To The Smothering Tide Then All Else Fails,

Sails Bellowing And Pulling The Trumpeted Sky InTo Focus,

Frothy Fingers Hooking InTo The Stripping Burn,

To Clutch At And Cling OnTo This Rocky Jagged Reef...

...

Madness Be A Dream In The Minds Of The Damned,

Best To Lock Up Your Baited-Breast 'Fore I See You Breathe Relief,

As You Reveal Belief Before Dread And InDifference,

These Shallow Wines For The Bobbing Headed To Acheron,

While This Table Must Be A Mirror's Figment Of Speech,

For The Trickster Who Be A Third Its Width In The Slight,

To Join Me In Illusion As I Seek None,

To Approach As Ahab Would To Recruit A Ghost...

...

What Privilege To Such Spirit In The Fletching Of Arrows,

To Flesh Out The Details Of A Fish Gasping For A Saint,

While I Count Out The Ways To Rhodes,

And Row ASide For Colossus-Timed Civility,

Not That I May Play As Mutton To The Blind Stride,

As I Was Never A Victim To Such The Pact Of Patience,

So No Myths Would Carry My Names' Ache...

...

...

Goodness!

You Do Realize How Much I Despise A Despot?

                                                                                              

Coffee Cups And Candles A'Long The Way A'Round

The Mortal Coil,
Digesting Reciprocity With Every Twist Of The Tail,
The Never Ending Spiraling Masquerade... Waltzing Royal... Black And White,
Batting The Eye's Lashes With Its Cow-Like Gestalt,
While From Behind The Rose-Tinted Lens... Bishops And Pawns Beat Their Chests Raw,
Hearts In Aquariums While Thoughts Sink Like Concrete Messengers,
The Kindness Of Ignorance Is What Turned Out Humps On Wednesday,
Sympathy Fucks And Finger Sandwiches... Recession Driven And Crust-Less,
All Can See That The World Is Made Of Two Levels... But Bricks Are Heavy,
And Secrets Are Guarded Before Doors Slam Open... While Knobs Can Turn...
...
Candy-Guns In The Hands Of Skirted Protectors,
Coyote-Ugly Pulling The Trigger... Under The Thumb Of His River God,
Sheltered With The Suspicious Element Of Surprise And A Bag Of Its Tricks,
A Barrel Of Monkeys In Every Shake Of Its Paw,
As If Organized Through The Momentum Of Collision To The Camera's Pinch,
To Silt A Dog-Day For A Whale-Watcher,
Green Fields Where The Poppies Grow,
With Its Ceremonyal Pissing On The Side Of A Monument...
...
...
All For The UnKnown... 
...
To Be Known... Named... Only In Times Of Cost... And Candles.

Aryabhata's Predicament

The Oaf Is On A See-Saw,

Flipping His Wallet Up InTo The Air,

Swinging It On A Chain,

Catching Stares As He Jerks Them Towards His Gapeing Face,

His Eyes Pointy And Dumb,

He Sits Tight And Fat... Rideing Each Bump Like It Was His First,

While He Borrows A Friend To Dive The Totter Up And To Shake The Teeter Down...

...

Droplets Of Noon Sweat Arc Into The Marshmellow Sky,

It Is Business Class All The Way,

To Hell With Milk Money Like Molasses And Jackie Onassis,

There Is A Genuine Cause For Concern Among The Marble-Jetters

As The Rusty Stress Of Congress Begins To Squeal,

An Orbital Leverage Was Once What Held The Playground Up,

But As Greasy As The Bolt Could Be... EveryThing Falls...

...

To Bullets And Ballads,

Stomping Chubby Feet Minute After Minute,

Chomping-Simple Machine Wired For The Suspension Of Polarity,

Jaw-Slacking Pulley System To Link The Mind To Its Beauty-Sleep,

With One Thumb In A Thimble And One Pot To Watch Boil Over...

...

Keeping An Ear On The Music... The Borrowed Friend Now Disengages From The Tired Game,

Bored Of Dieing... Now To The Swings He Saunters Sullenly... 

...

The Alpha Male Saddles Up,

To Put The Program To The Test And Check Breaking Points,

His Mother's God Put Fuzz On His Cheeks... Youth Fizzing Right Below His Nose,

It Is Done So He Remembers His Turn On The Ladder,

And He Grips The Bar And Heaves Up...

...

...

The Oaf  Smiles And Sits Drooling... For A Split Second... Before He Releases Tension,

Giving His Best Attempt To Rub Out The Metal's Curve,

Though It May Take Several Attempts For The New Guy To Come Down,

And He Will Eventually Admit Defeat... From Some Niche Near Sun-Dogs And Space-Trash,

But Not Before A Shadowy Recession Hits The Land,

And EveryBody Notices How Heavy Buddha Got On The Ride Home.

Mom, Was Jesus A Skinner?

It Listens,
Long Waxed-Legged Like In Dali,
Carnivorous On Its HindSight While Footing Fifty,
No Dead Skin Upon Its Elbows,
Floating Its Heels ALong The Linoleum Slide,
No Pores WithIn Its Face,
It Does Not Breathe To Subsist...
...
It Can Bend Its Knees Back,
When Under The Bridge,
To Tease Curfew InTo Its Open Skirt,
Playing In Limbo Rouged As Any Bimbo Bell-Ringer Could,
Kneeling For The Knell To Deliver...
...
To Pucker Up A Golden Arch... Or Suck Around The Clap...
...
...
Opaque And Split-Second Quick,
Sticking Its Mouth Through The Threshold,
Its Body Invisible To All But Its Fraternity,
With A Flower On Its Cap... Or Several Inches Beneath The Rafters,
Hidden By The Whites Of Its Lies...
...
It Pokes And Molests Those Sleeping,
As Diplomacy Watches From A Bubble...
...
...
It Hatches New Goofs For Its Nursery Terns,
Boxing The Ears For X's And O's,
Then It Disappears From Breakfast For The Chance Of Trickle-Down,
For A Drip-Feed From Sourced Code To Hack And Conquer...
...
Then... Ascot-Cotton'd Or Scarf-Silken'd Or Neck Bared,
It Returns To SweetTalk Those By The SideWalk...
...
...
And, With No Bicycles Constructed Tall Enough For Its Shadow,
The Skinner Leans Chainless Against The Back-Drop,
Easeing InTo The Bricks For Its Mother Of Periphery,
As It Allows For Distraction To Wipe Its Collar Clean.

The Insane Clam Poseidon

See How It Reigns Under The Surf?
Not At A Foot's Width To Fathoms Under Grace,
Nor To The Sweet Breeze For Morning Chariots,
ACross Such An Horizon Over Bubbleing Brew-Pots,
Beneath The Salty Bogs...Guarded By Its Rageing WhirlPools,
Its Tresses Of Kelp Draped And Trimmed,
As The Tortoise Burys Its Eggs Then NonChalantly Shimmys To Another Year At Sea...
...
...
A Bit Of Jealousy From The Mollusk,
For The Lack Of It Being Not As Nautilus Nor As One With Tusks,
And To Be Forgotten By Both Beagle And Swine...
...
With No Beard Nor Hands To Stroke,
To Groom A Sea-Horse To Leviathan's Yoke...!
...
...
The Ancient Ruins By Its Dominion Of Stars!
How The Old Albatross Has Lost Its Brother Olympus To Water And Wine!
From Once They Ruled Together High And Low,
But Now To Patience In A Kingdom Empty... While Others With Pearls...
...
If It Were Not For Curiousity...
...
Oh... Much It Be The Audacity Of Hecate,
Were It To Be Not The Fault Of Such A Flamingo,
Then The Ostrich Would Have Never Stuck Its Head In The Sand!

The Orange Lounge

Tin-Can Cosmic,
Swing-AWay And Peel Back,
A Step Out Of Time To Kick It Empty,
Down The Corridor... To Its Ricochet,
Flip It Negative InTo The Air,
The White Room... Now A Black Room,
Now No Piano... Only The Horns,
No Whispering... No Talking... Only A Sound Of Elastic Distance,
No Going Back To Pick Up Where Space Left Its Mark,
Now Standing... One Hand... Holding Its Collapse,
Eyes Craveing For Corners...
...
No Corners... Now All Is Curved,
The Bend Around The End...
...
Corners Craveing For Eyes...
One Handing... Now It Stands... Collapseing Its Hold,
Back Where No Space Is Left To Mark Its Going,
No Whispering... No Talking... Only A Distance,
Now No Keys... Only A Pitch,
The Black Room... Now A Red Room,
Flip It Negative InTo The Air,
Drown The Ricochet... To Its Horrid Door,
Kick It Open To Step InTo Frame,
Swing-Back And Peel AWay,
Answer No Thing.

The Bread Also Rises

The D.J. On The Radio Is Chatter From A Marionette's KnotHole
With The Chronologic Of  Sweetened Tea And A Wallet's Leathery Despair,
A Glass Cougar In A Tree With The Signals Bristleing His Whiskers,
One Slip Of The Tongue Could Dissolve The Articulated Illusion,
His Broadcast Of PreOrdinance And Its SoundTrack To Better Living
Through A Guarded Royal Arch Leading To His BackYard Dynasty,
To Roosts Where His Dogs Sit To Keep The Grass From Getting Sun-Burnt,
His Sonic Stutter To Shelter The HomeLess Muse For Her Green Men,
A Performance In Monotone With Slight Accentuation On Trigger Words
Produceing Egg-Layers To Twitch Their Heads While He Roams Freely On The Wire...
...
Seeking Landing Strips In The Vista Of AirWaves And Condensation...
...
...
He Comes As The Spirit Of Sunday,
Cooling The Feral Brows Of Morning Sickness,
Easeing The Suffering Of Alcoholic Coal-Miners With His Waters,
He Has Risen From The Bread To Guide The Lost InTo Fields Of Heather,
Violet Vibrations From A Swaying-Bridgeing Trust Over The Friday BeFore,
To A Saturday Of His Hand Tilting The Creamer InTo Cups In Saucers,
With Button Eyes And Stuffing For Friends Gathered Near,
Easter... After Easter... After Yesterday Has Been Slowed Down,
His Muttered Addition In ReVerb To Be As God To Lactation And Imagination,
Just To Keep Peckers Loyal To His Tree.

Boots Left Hanging

Dirty Black,
Road Like A Ribbon That Stretches For Miles,
Stealing Nautical Glory From Any Landed Shark,
With Its Fair Share Of Allure And Cripples,
Six Feet From The Gravel Or Its Gold,
Down To The Reservoir To Break It For A Ditch...
...
...
Smokeing Smooth-Shogun Soul Spilling Out From A BullDozer's Blasted Guts,
Checkered Shirted Engineers Of The Endorphin Bum-Rush Pulling Its Levers...
...
With Ghosts And Prostitutes Hooking Their Hitches Off The Level...
...
...
White Collared,
ATypical UnTill Typically By The WaySide Evangelical And Tight,
Sniffing Out The Details... Droplets Of Blood On The Braille,
CrossRoads Dusty To Trust The Hanged Man's Tree With Scratched Initials,
Six Feet From The Grave Or Its God,
Up To The Bough To Make It For A Witch.

Jesters By The Clay

The More I See,
The Less I Believe...
...
...
So Might I Stab My Green Thumbs InTo The Sky,
Bring Down The Wrinkled Reign,
The Blues And The Less Than UnKnown,
With Friends... Seekers... Of Trips Through Wooden Horses,
Then Catch The Fire... Be Spirited AWay By Totem Permutations,
A Pecking Order That Freezes In The Skipping Of Stones,
Splashing Down With Medallions InTo Open Snapping Jaws...
...
...
The More It Eats,
The Less I Become...
...
...
To Incubate WithIn That Lighthouse's Hollow Gut,
Heavy Is The Hand That Feeds The Flame,
Light Is The Head That Leads The Hand,
An Amuseing Absurdity In BeTwixt The Smoke And The Teeth,
Fogging Up The Parting Valley'd Sea,
With One Last Toke On The Bell's Yoke,
Wishing For The Queen Of Mermaids To Gasp Lovingly...
...
And So I Leapt...
...
...
Immortalized In Defeat,
With The Lessons Won.

The Clink Of Keys In The Dreaming Echo Where Oceans Bare Not

Barbed And Killing Its Mystery,
Dragging A Hump Dry Across The Aisle Between Pews,
Then To Creep With The Setting Shift Of Fadeing Day
Up ALong The Tapestry And Its Symbiotic Knottings,
Prying With Relentless Edge To Slide Wet And Peeling Under Its Borrowed-True Walls,
Whispering With A Throbbing Null... Worming Its Way To The Pinnacled Arch,
InTo The Golden Touches Of Nuance Amongst The Mistletoe And Apertured Revulsion,
As Cups With Their Swords Collect For Hollow Tooth And Claw,
To Strip The Dancers Below Of Their Spirited Fetish...
...
...
Then With Threads To Descend Wordlessly InTo Hysteria,
UnLocking Each Hand Of Its Life... To The Lines... For Geists As Gists...
...
...
A Cemetery For Elementary Bearers Under Universeal Laws,
When It Be Fit To Sleep Under The Assureing Heft Of A Slitting Fold
Down-Adorned InTo Comfort And Its Symbolic Clotheings,
Spying With Eye Pressed To Chaliced Raise To Set When Splitting APart As Will Arrowed-Through,
Dulling The Thistle Of Its Bobbing Fill... Emergeing As Knighted To The Collapsed March,
Exiting With A Cacophonous Stumble InTo The Face-Grease And Staggered Impulse,
As Armed, Lipped, And Worded-Direct For Shallow Grave And Stone,
To Strap The Singers Above To Their Desperate Flesh.

The Emperor Knew It Was Closeing

Go... As Constantine InTo The Colosseum,
UpOn The Weakening Necks Of Serpentine Gods...
...
...
Spiralling Staircases Winding Down InTo The Eras Of Haste,
You Will Find Slick Boroughs And Stick Men,
With Sticky Meat Piled High On Market-Placed Altars,
Sweet Poison Wafting From Shuttered Cracks,
Catatonic Stoneings And Old Fashioned Barterings,
There Is No Sky... Only Wires And Rain OverHead,
One Thing Or The Other To Stab InTo Your Jacket And Slice Off A Chunk,
The Tribes There Have Their Prophets Etched InTo Their Clocks And Closets...
...
Shrines With Back-Doors Leading To Deeper Markets,
Their Salesmen Have No Lips... And So They Sell No Romance,
A Crumbleing Recess With The Occasional Murmur Of Fadeing Light,
And If You Linger A Minute Too Long... The Light Becomes A Sliver...
...
Embeds ItSelf  InTo You...
...
...
...
Then The Door Shuts... Locks Tight,
All BeComes As It Was BeFore... Hidden From What Was Above,
And The Only Thing Giveing Off A Glow...
...
Is You.

Half-Masted For Days Yet To Be Made ANew

A Nest...
...
...
Invaded FathomLess,
Spitting Images... Fractured Sapphire-Blue,
Spacious Sporadic Spontaneity...
...
...
Inverted MeaningLess,
Vexing Sight... Cataract Ruby-Red,
Capricious Cumulative Conceit...
...
...
Isolated ThoughtLess,
Sucking Sense... Impacted Diamond-White,
Deciduous DumbFounded Deified...
...
...
...

A Taller Tale For Soothing Grass

Little Baby With Arms Out,
Stretched To The Day For Silky Night,
Terrible Trees At Its Cradle's Feet,
Agony Sucked From Perforated Dryness,
StarLight Echoing InTo A Fidgety Mobile Universe,
Pacifying The Wounded Of Its Pity And Aligning ItSelf,
Molding Its Influence With Pulled Pablum Strings,
To Theorize The Deterioration Of Succinct Interiors,
Following ItSelf To The Fenced-Off Regions,
Naturally Selecting From Motives Electric,
Tub-Thumping Sick Bricks For Humane Donations,
Opening Umbrellas InSide Its CardBoard Closet,
Engineering Its Drugs To Reverse Fertility... To InCorporate The Body Politic,
On A LifeLine And Weening For Solid State Fidelity,
Bungeeing InTo A Left Over Rite Of Passage,
Dangleing In Reflection And ReCollected Measures,
Building Its Self High... From Both Sides Of The Saddle,
Over And Under To Claim A Pedestal For Its Ass,
While It Softens Its Breaking Of Water,
Constructing New Canals... Cemented Plots Through Older Burial Mounds,
Layering The Cloth... Folding Over... And Over,
UnTil It UnTills The Soil Of Its Presence,
And It Will Milk The Glaciers For Its Fill To Drift,
Leaveing Its Fat For Archaeology To Mine.

The Junction Can Not Scream Back To One's Own Need To Listen

Cross The Name Off The List,
Off The Page And Off The Past,
Etchings InTo The Quiet Deep,
Let Sleep Not Be As A Route To Struggle,
As It Forgets ItSelf While I Strain To Remember,
To Recognize Familyar Eyes In The Mirror,
While There Is Change Behind The Flesh,
The Bone Underneath Stays The Same,
Holding This Up... Keeping This All From Falling APart,
Teeth Under Lips Near Tongue And...
...
My Voice Through My Throat,
A Traveler On A Bridge From Heart To Ear,
Then From The Heat InTo The Earth,
Forwards InTo The Winding Waters,
Thicker Than A Trickleing Dawn,
Erodeing The Foundations Of Dusk,
To Surround Its Origination WithIn Rhythmic Dissidence,
Borrowing NoThing And Knifeing At The Roots,
Dissolveing... InTo A Sense Of Humor... Killing Interference...
...
Birthing Coherence When The Signal Stabs Back,
Static Fadeing With Its Laws,
Now To Mend When It All Crawls Out From The Shade,
Returning...
...
At The Junction,
Crossed At Its Roads,
Am I My Voice As It Travels...
...
Or... Is It Being Me In Silence?

My Second Collection Of Poetry... COMEING SOON!

Hi,

If You Are A Reader Of My Poetry And MayBe A Fan Of My Work,  Then You Might Be Pleased To Know That I Am Currently Getting A "New" Collection Ready For An Autumn Publishing Through Friesen Press. http://friesenpress.com/

My Second Book Will Be Titled "The Tangled Cedaring Sublime & Its Knotting InTo NoThing Of Time"... A Collection Of My Poetry From 2011-2012.

Here Is What The Cover Is Going To Be Like (Rough First Version)-

So... Here It Is. My Second Work Of Canadaian Poetry On The Way...

And Do Not Forget..! My FIRST BOOK "L'Oeil Du Minuit" Is ALLWAYS AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE In Soft Cover Or E-Book Formats!

Here>  http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000012629528

And Here In My Blog> http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2013/12/loeil-du-minuit-collection-of-my-poetry.html


Thank You For Reading!  And Please... Buy SomeThing Of Mine!


Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne
Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

Perennials In Parallax

Turns To Take,
On The Crushing Gritted Down,
NoWhere In Nor Out Of Its Serrated Fulcrum,
Surviveal Through A General Anesthesis,
To Appease The Scratching From WithIn,
The Frantic Struggle To Maintain Dormancy,
Flickering EyeLids In The Black Shimmer Of Satin,
Hearts In Stasis To A Rendering Of Cages,
EnThroned In Reviveal...In Approach To Its Melting Point,
Saturateion Of Flesh With Phantom Accumulation,
Assimilateing Into A Failing Sense Of Space...
...
Leaves To Rake,
On The LushFull Green Lawn,
Knowing Where To Be Ignored... Devout In Its Swinging Hammock,
Serveing All In A Self-Centered Assignment Of Duty,
To Will The Match InTo Strikeing Against Thumb,
The Gentle Combustion To Forget Romantic Demure,
Flames Licking Lashes In The Blue Summer Of Saturday,
Heated In The Smoke To A BeFriending Of Ages,
EnThralled By Desertion... By Appropriation And Its Mounted Pelt,
Desiccation Of Reason With Infantile Perennials,
Failing To Fully Accept A Sense Of Time.

Somatose Estates And The Skin Of My Teeth

It Is That Below,
SomeWhere My Shapelessness Directs InTo Form,
Arriveing At The Fringes Of Bent Light To Where Ten Seconds Break,
Behind Blood Pulsateing InTo Woven Lineage,
As Time Crafts A Fleshless Escape Towards Another Mother's Tongue,
And It Clings With A Senseless Instinct For A Breath Beyond Taste,
Fraying The Cords That Suspend...
...
And Yet,
It Is That Belonging...
...
Somatose And Sculpted Precedeing A Possessive Nature,
Alive As An Offering InTo A Different Slight Of Forge-Wroughten Conditions,
Before Bone Crushed And Ground For An Unraveling River,
As A Seed Of Archetype To Where I Was Once Only ALone To Speak,
And It Lingers While An EndLess Obsession For All That Gives And Takes,
Knotting The Words That Settle...
...
And Yes...
...
...
It Is That.

Hingeing A Lost Door For A Watch To Time

I Let The Street Beat Under My Foot Steps,
Never Paying A Fuck To The Empty Grey,
Keeping That In Mind... If You Have One... Could Make You Late For Work,
And I Could Let That Day Slip Through My Hands...
...
Stare InTo Your Baby-Blues... Make You Sense A Pierceing Amendment From The Falling Rain...
...
Not That It Should Wash You Cleaner Than A Trip To The Grave,
WeekEnds Were Made To Fill The Holes BeTwixt The Good And The Graceious,
Gravel Pits For Doom-Day Propagations And A Hedge-Clipped-Cultivated Copulation,
Straight Lines For Marching Feet To The Shakeing Of A Tail,
Carnations And InCarnations... The Flower Children Cup Their Hands...
...
I Let The Street Bleed Under My Foot Steps...
...
There Is Only The Shared Sense Of Breathing As I Get Closer,
I Can See Where Some Hide Their Sweat Under The Clouds That Burst,
ThunderHeads To Order With... To Blend InTo... The Wrath And Its Hidden Dread Becomes UnNoticeable For The Five-To-Nine Percent,
EveryThing ALong The Way BeComes A Thinning Streak...
...
...
The Flower Children Have Now Folded Their Hands...
...
Is There AnyThing Left UnSacred And UnTouched?
...
...
Beating And Bleeding,
The Streets Have NoThing Else To Bare.

Pale Rodents

Some Pale Rodents Pick A Color And A Finger,
A Prayer To Mary Queen Of Cottage Cheese,
And Then... They Are Off...!
...
Takeing The Inner Lane,
Passing... Rumbleing Snorting... Digging InTo The Tread,
Chaseing The Outer Line That Fades The Mane,
Magnetized InTo A Tribal Jungle Beat Of HorseShoe Gymnasiums,
Never Late For The Last Bend Of The Zipper-Bunny's Tease,
For The Cotton-Tail And Podium Morrow...
...
One More Dive InTo The Dish,
Shallow And On A ReBreather,
The Honking Of Cab-Drivers And Finite Math,
Minuscule Metropolis With Robots For HouseWives,
Water Runs Off Their Chins In Tiny Droplets To Rain Purity UpOn Poorer Districts,
Tilting Heads In The Canine Empire...
...
Wolves Had Packs In The BoonDocks,
Where Rats Needed A Structure To Twist Tongues,
Knotted At The Mooring For Liberty And For A Deity Of Mental Health,
To Arrive InTo A Fatherly Womb In Droves To Be Assimilated InTo A Bleached Chorus,
Silent Lucid City Folk Leading The New World InTo The Old Country,
Through Prismatic Choreography And Gentlemen Bets,
Knicks Off The Slugger And Chips Off The Tooth...
...
These Days,Some People Will Pay AnyThing For A Funeral... A Motherly Tomb...
...
...
Kings Are Made At The Shoveling Of Dirt,
The Jokes Are Laid ASide For Small Talk In The Office Elevator,
Just Before Approaching The Water Bottle And Kitchenette,
To Fight Over Jam Jars And Cheese Slices,
Golden Ringed Lemurs Throwing Nuts At Tourists Twenty Miles Down...
...
...
...
The Bonding Agent Of Social Integrity In Co-Relation To Preening Morality,
Engineering A Structure Of Compromised Hands And Civilized Bakerys,
Rapping Knuckles And Ensureing Longevity Of The Program,
An Old Boy With An Old Dog And An Old Pair Of Slippers...
...
Sweating Baby-Boomed Discipline InTo The UnSatiable-Platonic BedRock,
For Incarnations Of Ponce De León To Drill InTo And Market To Massage Parlors,
UnLess The Mechanics Of Man Call For Second-Hand Car Parks And Collision Repair,
Those Asian Beautys Poseing So Sweetly Beside Groomed Shovels Of Loathing Grace.

I Am An Old Scratch

I Am A FacetLess Soul Of Assumptions,
Forgetting The Broken Fence,
By A Crippled Cold Bridge,
Rotting Soft Wormed Wood,
And That OverTurned Pitch Black Fork In The Road,
My Name Could Be An Old Scratch...
...
Heavy Killing To Lift The Air For Breeding,
Acres Of Familyar Terrain For Following Minute Irritations...
...
This Way Comes...
...
Distractions And Pretense,
Assertions In My FingerTips To ReWind,
Then To ReLight The Charcoal And Ignore Tantalus...
...
Thirsty Birds And My 13 Scars,
I Can Twist The Wrist To Settle The Difference?
Show The City What Shadow I Might Nail UpOn The Wall,
Let It Bleed Back Down To That FloorBoard's Beat,
Wear My Shoes To Bed...
...
...
Make My Way To The Falling Of Rain,
And MayBe Carve My Initials With A Pen-Knife From This Life's Language
InTo A Pillar Of Thought...
...
I Be LoneSome But Never A Fool... Nor A Flood,
I Can Still Wink And Grin... I Can Wash My Hands And EveryThing...
...
...
...
Tartarus Never Sleeps.

The Breeze And Sugar By The Almanac's Forgotten Gates

If Every Soggy Optimist Be An Optometrist,
Then Every Man's Eye Would Be A Land,
A Crown Property Staked Through By The Pound And Kennel,
With Every Bite Wizened Against The Jerking Strop,
To Sharpen And Polish The Flinching Blur,
And Settle The Charts For An Easy See,
As Age Could Define A Spine For Its Crook,
Laboring Beside The Horse's Heir For Nativity,
As Gulliver Be Dub'd A "Livingston"...
...
An Honorary Title, I Presume...
...
For The Hooks And Chords To Lead And Bind,
UnNerveingly Through One's Field Of Vision,
Patiently Smug In Patent Weathers For The Freeze Framed,
Jack-Rabbit Punch Buggy... Coughing Out Expletives And Spitting With The Salt Flats,
Gideons In Their Invisible Hospitals... Cushions For Cheating SalesMen...
...
Arrangements Of Clay Jars On The Rush For Gold Fillings,
Royally Filled With CareFull Orchestrations...
...
...
Dust... Tears... Saliva...
...
...
All Is Secured By Tipping The Scales WithIn A Happy Dream Of Rulers,
As Its Optimists Turn Life's Fogs InSide Out,
A Blind Lunacy They Embrace With The Leash's Loop,
And Raise The Lens To A Miracle Of Sextants...
...
In Every Black Hole... A Circus... A Dinner With Old Friends...
...
Then...
...
The Circus Is The Hole... And Its Diners With Mouths That Lack Utensil...
...
But, That...
...
That Was AllWays Just A ColorFull Walk In Its Balloon-Filled Park,
Running With The Frisbees And Ducking.

A Walk Through Falling Steps

Taller Than Icarus On A Unicycle,
While Manifesting A Carved Beard For A Shiny Face,
Squinty Weasel-Eyed Paradigm With Morning Yolk Dripping,
Trigger-Yeti With Philosophical Dairy Maids,
With The Lords Of Baccalaureate To Cling From The Cold Dead Sleep,
Tin Cans And String On A Psychic Boob-Job For Back Support...
...
They Can Stensil Wings OnTo Loose Cloud Formations To Induce Spring Fevers,
Aluminum Soles For Walking Gingerly UpOn ReEntry InTo The Boiling Hypnos,
And Then To Talk The Egg From The Hen's Snatch,
Buying Out The Architects For Zephyrs From Strawberry Blondes,
A New Blue-Print For Mouths To Saw Through The Thicket,
Stacking Appropriately With Those Branches And Twigs...
...
...
Straw Bent InTo Masks And Tied InTo Shape,
Killdeer Omens Crackleing Resinous,
The Pyre Shooting Its Milky Way Spiralling InTo Furnace Sparks,
Of Orange Burning Bright To White Then Black,
FootSteps And BootHeel-Clicks Sketching DisSolution,
It Is A Relative Realm To The OutSide Of The Glow,
With Squire'd Pegs In The Crib Board To Keep Watch...
...
...
A Foot On A Pedal,
To Push The Other Up,
Turning The Crank...
...
...
The Sound Of One Head Napping...
...
To Trick The Thumb To Snap The Finger...
...
...
It Is A Walk Through Falling Steps.

A Coarse Mare Called Carcosa, And UpOn It...A Faded Division

The Echoing Yell Laid Low,
All Once Guilded Now Rubble,
In Scorn Of Lovers Guided By None OutSide,
Fools And Their Circles OverHead For Halos And Lost Veils,
With UnderWater Kingdoms Washed AWay,
To Where Be The Intended For Seers To Pierce,
In The Rounding Of The Desolate Crawl,
Played As Cards UpOn The Revolving Door,
InTo HallWays Where Blackened Paintings Hang,
Not Hidden By Soot... No... To Scrape One's FingerNail Across Canvas Will Reveal...
...
A Scratch Made InTo Memory's Delicate Shade,
Where That Mark Might Be Further Widened,
And To Peer InTo Its Distended Window...
...
...
Never The Emptying Vessel For Wanting An Audience,
A Jar WithIn A Field WithIn A Negative Lock,
Under Spells For Killing The King With Randomness,
Lay'd As Dominoes UpOn The Painted Floor,
InTo Walls Peeling From Near Once Sainthood Sang,
Caught Forbidden By Set Pieces...
...
No Pipeings To Mete Forwards To Scruples,
Done Only With Its Singer's Curse,
Whose Voice Not Be As Tattered As Its Vestige,
Vascular And Frozen In Claustrophobeic Implications...
...
It Stitches Nine UpOn One's Lives,
And Leaves All SpeechLess By The Opening Scene...
...
...
Can That Only Be What The HeadLess Bishop Wishes For (?)
As DayLight Ascends And His Dreams Melt AWay?

ShoeHorn

It Was A Trick Of The Light,
To The Wounded Winding Of Springs,
So She Could Lift Her Eyes To The Rift,
Where Mortality Could Be Feasted UpOn,
And With The Rotateing Of Erasure,
Mouths Could Construct Epitaphs In The Corner...
...
Of That Room... A ChamberLess Embryo For A SexLess Sliver,
A ReVerseing Labyrinth Singing To ItSelf For A Body Politic,
Rolling InTo ItSelf To UnCorner And Be Juggled InTo Orbit With Plaster Cherubs,
As Fertility Dug Deep To Bury The Clock's Incessant Throne,
Ruleing InTo HerSelf To UnCover Another Jungle...
...
Ignorance Biteing Worth...  Pleaseing Richer Ballistics,
A Stoned ForEver Swept Under The Rug To Keep Her Hands Flushed,
Insectile But Not ALone,
Cruelty Granting OnTo Its Union...  A Yesterday's Cutting Through...
...
For Stained Glass...
...
...
Coloring The Faces Of  All Those Who Sit BeSide Her,
UpOn Arbor And Brow...
...
...
...
If It Is Good For The Noose,
Then It Be As Good For The Sander.

Perseus Braveing The Tethered Crawl

The Box With No Bottom,
It Never Was Less The LidLess Hoax,
Than To UnFold At The Corners,
Peel Back...
...
And Give...
...
To A DisTended Shadow,
Faded And Silhouetted By Rounder Shapes...
...
Of Falling Simple For Flaps,
In Case Of Hungered Gasps,
Its Last Views Through A Somber Vista...
...
The World With No Geography,
It Ever Was More The EyeFull Coax,
Than To Curl Up At The Curves,
Reel Forth...
...
And Take.

Epoxynihiliberaetoratory

Cloneing ItSelf InTo Submergence,
Splitting ItSelf InTo ReFormation,
InTo Subversion And PreDominateion,
Each Gifted With A Mouth For Weening,
Forgetting A Legion For The Solitudes Of Many,
Hollow-Tipped Lappings From The Flood,
Coiling Symbiotic Co-Dependence,
Siamese Time Machine Latched OnTo John Bunyan's Spine...
...
A Land Of The Vertebrae To Convert Far And Wide,
InTo Immersion And Commensurateion... Duellum Et Fide,
Teachings Lifted With A Bobbing For Apples,
Fortresses Built From WithIn Prosthetic Legends,
Mellow-Lipped Tappings From Above The RoofTops,
Boiling Symbolic Retrospectives,
Pertinent Vacuum Mechanics Switched ForeGoing The Laws Of Fluid Dynamics,
AHead Of The Origins Of Man To Invert Ears And Stride.

The Lost Cause Of The Progenial Mundane

The Lost Son Burned For Hundreds Of Kilometers,
An Only Engine ACross The Spark-Jetting Track,
Silver-Bullet Cometing On InterContinental Iron,
UnDieing Steel Smashing InTo The Thin Air Shields Of Buffoons...
...
Those Gods Armed With Blowing Horns And UnUberance Universal,
Some Drifting On Prairie Fumes And Trade Winds,
Latching UpOn The Wild Grasses By The EndLess Stretch Of Rail...
...
Some Of Those Gods Would Find A Method To Siphon The Anchorage
From AnyThing Rolling OnThrough To Stop And ReFuel,
Then Latch OnTo The Speed Like HagFish On Oxen-Carnival Bleeders,
Recedeing In Their Morbid Weenings To Secret BoneYards...
...
Where All Would DisEmbark From The SoulLess Molting,
Cackleing As Cross-Eyed Ravenous InTo The Circleing Gutted Skys...
...
...
They Could Pose Once Again By The Station,
BetWixt The Legs And Feet And Luggage,
Hugging Against What Life May Be In Exposure To Calming Promises,
AWaiting For ShoeLaces To Be ReTied And Ears To Nibble And Coy...
...
The Buffoons Saw The Lost Son As A Challenge For Blood-Letting,
For Lost Causes To Eat AWay At The Prodigal Drive,
PreTenseion To Swim ASide The Clot From The InGenuity,
Wagering Hoarded TimeShare And Bickering Over First Rights
For The Choice Cuts,
Only To Become Silent As The Engine Could Be Heard...
...
...
It Switched The LandScape With A Sudden Cracking Of Seldom-Feared Thunder,
Tracks Bent Now Straightened... Where Straightened Now Bent,
Hills TransFormed InTo Gullys Swallowing ThemSelves In White-Water,
Bridges Grew InTo DisLocated Forests Only To Settle For Briar-Hearted Mockerys
To Scratch The Former's Hand,
And Where Old Air Could Be Trusted...  No More... Now Walls Fortified For Lazy Susans...
...
...
It Was Enough To Keep The Gods Guessing...
...
...
UnFortunately,
The Buffoons Soon Developed A Trick To Grow InTo Flesh,
Then To Crawl And Not Float,
Then To Walk And Then To Chase,
Then To Stumble When Not Seen... At Times To Tumble, For The Need Of Sympathy's Pitch...
...
All In New Postures,
With New Language And Wearing Silly Buttons Pinned InTo Their Starch-Stiffs,
They Sought An Easyer Method To Suck InTo Their Guts
That Which The Lost Son Had Sung InTo Deliverance...
...
A Forgotten Frequency,
With Its Station Never A Station,
Nor Built With Platforms Too Beggar'd For Destinations Not Scheduled,
And Those With Memorys Of It To Be Cursed With Waiting For It To Pull Them...
...
Out...
...
Out From The Roads Where No Tracks Meet,
And No Answers Come To Pass.

Laura May Be As Single As One Liveing Free To Dive

Show Me The Reasons For Laurel'd Posture,
As You Plant Your Avoided Nearness InTo The Fog,
With Spells Encased In Ice Cubes And Then InTo A Checker'd Plateau,
Loosely With The Office Dependance For Manager Cabinets And Wooded Panels,
With Those High CheekBones To An Alligator's Green Misery,
Thumping With A Blight Of Locusts For A Chance Of Precepitation...
...
GrassHopper Lessons For The Indian Summer,
Wishing AWay The Grammer School Flunky...
...
...
I Only Think To Be... What I Am... Only Being As I Be...
...
...
Oh, If I Could Approach At Will To Thy Wrinkled Ear,
In Thy Final Blinks AWay From The Fadeing Of Grey UpOn Black,
To See The Distant Velvet OnTo Ye... A Traveller WithIn A Block-Book'd Caravan,
Past The Silk Ribbons And Bushels Of Ready'd Wheat At Thy Feeding InTo Anxiety,
Ye Had The Charm To Call Upon A Life OnTo Tears...
...
...
InTo The Giver Of Secrets,
Thatching Not One Straw For Your Bohemian Door Wedge,
Selling The Blank Stare As Avatar... A Mystic In A Cardigan,
With A Face To Tilt The Sea From Its Salt...
...
...
But First Ye Need Only To Scry InTo Thy Pond For Ripples,
For The Heavyest Of Stones To Skip A Beatened Path...
...
Why... For WithOut That To Bring The Cobbler,
To Your Stone... Perhaps... To Thy Fullest...
...
...
As I Take My Leave,
As Ye Would Take Thy Fill.

El Torero Cabaret

Heavy UpOn The Shoulders,
A Mountain Giant,
And From WithIn The Dominion Of Its Skull,
All Wet And Bundled Into A Carriage Of Blankets,
The Grit And Dew...
...
...
Up Above The Slope And Grade,
To The One-Eyed In Recluse And Wool,
Picking At The Meat Left In Fugal Wicker,
When At Leisure Not By The Heated Of Discussion,
Resting Its Head By A Grinding Brook...
...
When Alerted By Snouted Draft,
It Learns To Lean Back UpOn The Nearly Deaf,
A Minute For Depressions Left To ReMind,
For It To Organize InTo Romantics...
...
Chocolately Enticeing To The Immigrant,
Whose Lines Lead Out From Places Of Plantains To Tambourines,
Surrounding All States To Surrender,
Mothers Hurriedly Takeing Those Whites Off ...
...
...
These Days Be As Enveloped As Be Stamped,
Cleaner Than The Ways Of Older Pushes,
Loyal To The Swerve...
...
A Riposte Over The Bulge,
Answering To The Trickle-Down,
InTo The Coded Cork...
...
...
For Twins... InTwine... In Trust To Be Not With Sleep's Brother,
As Those Of  Lacking Be Respected In Age...
...
Though It Be Only Performed In Etiquette,
Never True To The Cutlery... And Seldom Seen Parrying With The Cloth.

The Sword Of Lucretia

Eventually...
...
The Lost Horizon's DownSide Be Righted UpWards,
From The Howling GraveYards Of Rusting Ships And DriftWood,
A Solitude Amongst Rats To Be In The Short End For Hustlers,
No Acquiescence To Complete A Swim To Rapture's Perturbation,
Only Phantom'd Approach From The Angle Of Decay,
As Survivors Excavate From Memory To Scavenge And ReScavenge,
From The Belly Of A Common Wealth...
...
Under Sand... To UnderStand...
...
...
And... To Cross Their Hearts,
Hopeing For The Die To Roll Face-Up On Tales,
As Coins Be As Dice... The Minutes To The Hours Be Flattened,
Laid Easy To Bury... By Last Rites Of Passage Spoken,
Where Cupping To The Heart Be Not A Matter Of Simple Chance,
No...
...
To Silence The Mouth,
The Fadeing Of The Killing Blow,
Softened By The Naked Breast...
...
Yes...
...
That Naked Truth,
See How It Engorges UpOn A Life To Bleed,
As It Feeds To The Broken To Patch Over Chasms,
Rowing The EyeLid To Stutter,
For Milk To Sculpt A Bite...
...
Saliva And Tears Switching To Drip,
To Eat AWay At Sight...
..
And Absorb InTo AbSoluteion,
All Taste To Haste Not The UnBridled Spine...
...
From Future...
...
And Fury.

Inertia And The Hurdle

Sunny Black,
A Little Left Of The Fumbleing Doves,
Trivial Touchings AFlutter To AMass,
AMiss Amongst The Monsters At Sea...
...
The Thick Hemp Cord Strikes,
Locking The Doctrine To Spectral Knots,
Reptilian And Clicking Like Death Clocks,
InVerted To Only The Drowning Eye,
And Weather'd As The Pulling Tide...
...
...
One Lasting Laugh From The High-Chair,
When As Last Done Gasping For Air...
...
To Bang The Drum For The Spoon To Hang,
Wall-Shunted And Stunted In Growth,
Fathering Dagon's Pinkness For The Sacred Shell,
In Heaven UnDone... In Will UnSung...
...
Throwing Drink Over Shoulder With Salt And Grain,
For The Volume Of Curling Brawn WithIn Scalp And Crown,
As The Torches Sputter And Light No More...
...
The Way To Bones Scattered,
For Gamblers And Cheats,
Melted UpOn The Wounded Tooth...
...
...
Not Then BeFriended By Such A Cloven Glass Jowl,
And Yet... InTo Mirror'd AdJunction It Recedes.




(For Chloë Grace)

A Chip For Moccasin Onassis

The Badge Buckled And Swayed Under The Weight Of Naked Eyes,
Plated To The Grill And Heated From The Sit Out By The Curb,
Glinting Like Aquarium Treasure For Snorkel Eels And Coral Humpers,
It Led Its Own Bleeding Blue To The Golfer's Carpet,
At Every Turn And Stoop Spitting Phantom Glow ALong The Beige Walls,
With WhatEver Light Was Left To Luminate Memorys Of A Prom-Queened Babel,
The Lounge Wizards Stepping Closer To The Chance To Chaperone Raw Deals For House Cats,
Catching The Smears By Smudges On The Glass...
...
Deftness Left By Righteous Guts,
Never To Dull The Edge Of The Steady Pin,
Keeping Those Little Black Books In Check,
Tricks Of The Tirade To Season And Glaze The Ham,
Brick By Brick... Assumeing That Assumption Be A Walk Through The Aisle,
Through Those Shards That Stick ThemSelves Deep InTo The Fallen InStep's Flesh...
...
A Purchaseable Fetish As Any For The Bidding,
To The Grocery List Tacked OnTo ReFridgerator Madness,
With Gophers For GroundHog Days...
...
Faberge Snuff Box...Yet, With Cathedral Colossus...
...
...
White Out White Wash Kid Gloved,
The UnLoved Eventually Sift Through Gold Flakes For Proof Of Descent,
Sniffing Sober For Stitches On BaseBalls,
Signing AWay The Enigma And Accepting The Ruddy-Cheeked Charm,
Foot-Long InTo The Batting Average...
...
The Wife... Is A Bitch...
...
...
And Life... As A Pitch.

Calico 1303 oceloT

UpOn That Rocky Crag,
On High With The Founding Ghosts Of Marshes... Once To Be As Kings,
With Questions Travelling Across The Dire Breaking,
Where No Copper Could Be Thrown Up To Cover,
At Times To Eclipse And Quicken,
The RestLess Paramount AFlame... Then To Be As Rover...
...
Treading CoastLines And Then To LaundryLines,
Semaphore Sophomore Surf...
...
Waves From The TollBooths,
Loose Like MilkTeeth...
...
For Crickets To Be Ruled By Cicadas,
Examined As Patients... Willing To Escape,
From Triangles And Bermuda Shorts,
SmokeStacks And Coal-Chambers...
...
...
The Ocean Blue,
Under Bridges And Spreading As Bed-Sheets...
...
Spooling Its Thread Around Fossils Of Expectations Held Great,
Passed On By As Faces Change...
...
Those Whose Faces Change...
...
...
...
Those Faces Have Changed.

LUX MNEMEITS INFERNALE DE CROPULUS TEMPORUM... The Camera UnObscured

Hi.

I Thought That I Would Add An Interesting Entry InTo This Blog... ASide From All The Writeing... A Collection Of My Photographs That I Had Stored AWay On Two Memory Cards For WhenEver I Deemed Worthy The Moment To Share Them To You All.

Back In 2006, I Was Liveing In Montréal... A Year After Being In Vancouver For 5 Wasted Years Of My Precious Life... And Being Ever So HomeLess I Took Up Photography (APart From Writeing) To Fill Up My Need To Maintain My Sanity And Keep MySelf Busy. I Created A Large Portfolio Of Types Meant To One Day Be Presented As A Slide Show Exhibit At An Artist Café Or Gallery.

I Dubbed My Project LUX MNEMEITS INFERNALE DE CROPULUS TEMPORUM ... AKA: The Camera UnObscured... A Series Of Pictures Taken From My Journeys As A HomeLess Man From Montréal To Ottawa To London (Ontario) And The Places In BeTwixt My Stops.

I Have UpLoaded These Photos To A Tumblr Page I Created Only For The ShowCase Of My Project.

If You Would Like To See Them This Link Will Take You There:
http://ishaolm.tumblr.com/

I Hope That You Find The Trip Through The Lens Stranger Than The Common Shutter'd Snap.

Enjoy!



-RICHARD WILLIAM KIRKPATRICK-THORNE

The Pause Magentic That ReFleshes The Wandering Eye

...
Voiced Through Honey,
Simplifyed As It Sweetens,
Amber To The Touch,
To Give Form To Wandering Spirit,
Cage The Wind Fall,
Silence The Nightengale,
Shatter Innocent Peers
InTo A Captured Hierarchy,
Under No Thumb,
Though Guilded By Light Of Hand,
Resonateing Out As Echos
To No Pummeling For A Dirge,
UpOn Sanctity It Pools,
Gathering Thoughts.
...

All Was At Odds With An Evening At Io's

The Mouth Of The World Is Gnashing Its Teeth,
Questioning Former Mountain Gods And Their Animal Scientists,
It Licks At The Partitions BeTwixt Nimbostratus And Nebulae For Falling Stars To Lactate Nocticulent,
Crying Nacreous Trails For Those Of Sacred Tails To Tuck Underneath...
...
...
Woe To Those Who Sniff At The Earth In An UnDieing Dedicateion To AWaken Chronos,
To Beg And Suture FaultLines While Stealing From A Charitable Testicle,
As Io Rides A Quicker Fuck Than Allowed By Temple-Whore Standards,
To Begin Man's Future SaltLess With Stallions For Chariots... Detesting The SubCulture,
Grinding At The Bit... Polarity... With Her Learned Instruction For Guideing And Rotateing...
...
The Mouth Of The World Now Roars As Lions... It Stomps With Its Molars To Shift LifeTimes,
PactLess And Perforated As It Seethes For Islands To Rise From Under The Oceans...
...
...
Bathers In The Melting Firmament... Dinosaurs Dressed In The Midas Touch,
Even As Blackened Hands Have Hammered UpOn Anvils For Helmets To Cover What Wax Could Not,
The Tongue Steals NoThing That The Beatened Pathos Can Stall From ItSelf,
To InStill A Desire InTo The Crux Of Matter...
...
To UnDesire Revolution And UnRotate The Dreams Of Serpents From The WatchFull Orbits Above;
But What If... By Some Stranger Sting Of Circumstance... She Chooses Her Man From No Such Origins...?
...
...
...
To Break The World... And Make It Froth At Her Feet?

What To Do When Faced With Touring WithIn The Bones Of Ancient Red Whales

Blended InTo The Foliage,

The Stick-Figured Spinster Amongst NightTime Mosses,

Old Men Worn Torn Lay EnTangled Cradled In The Roots,

Too Exhausted To Claw Out From The Obscure Damp Chill,

FingerNails Like Petals Scattered In The Deep,

Yet To Tempt The Empty In Spaces Where Eyes Once Blinked,

Clinking Like Familiar Keys For Grooves To Guide The Shakeing Hand,

Kerosene A Century AWay...

...

But With Wax And String,

Candle And Wick... And Then Sweat Can Be Wiped From The Worryed Brow,

Another Step AWay From That Cold Ringed Cellar Door,

To Associate That By A Foot's Measure To The World Beyond The Grave,

Inky Thresholds Pouring Like Windowless Tapestrys To Trap InTent,

Widows AWait For Their NeedleCraft To Tap ALong The Creaking Borders,

With A Ball Of Tilted Silk To UnRavel A Road InTo The Center...

...

Only To Reveal HedgeRows To The Mender,

Clippings Needed For Exits And Entrances,

Arches... Twists... Round-ABouts... Dead Ends... And Fountains...

... 

Yes... Most Importantly... The Fountains,

For To Arrive At One Is To Seek The Next Wonder...

...

...

Be It To Open The Gate BeTwixt Loops,

Or To Shutter At The Thought Of Dry Mouthings...

...

...

Wrinkles In The Forest Floor.

The UnEvitable Nature Of InVitation

All Through The Way Back To Where The Opening Of Different Palls Drive,
To Be Borne UpOn The Shoulders Like Warmth In Tides,
The Blooded Bond That Lay BeHind The Walk To Granite And UpTurned Souls,
Printing Scars WithIn The Last Image Remembered,
Telling No Suffering To The Ring-Bearer Nor Flower-Girl,
While The Waiting Manifests In Parched Hands To Arid LandScapes,
A Difference Of Opinion As An Opiate To The Pupils...
...
With Its UnRetractable Laws Of Attraction...
...
In Class... The Desks Stacked And Kept To The Walls,
With The Chairs And Teaching Implements For Rudimentary Elements...
...
It Is All Rudimentary... In The Shaded Dust Under The Shelves,
A Weaver's Domain While The Rain Falls OutSide The Sand Castle's Gate,
To Follow With Brief Flashes Of Lightning...
...
...
Hugs And Kisses... A Stroke To Calm The Coat Of Dogs,
Remains UnDone With Neglect Threatened With The Chewing Need Of Jaws,
Fated For An Urban Catacomb To Sort Out Balding Legal Nourishment From The Worm Food,
Photographed By Professionals For Use In Future Wreathed DisPlacement...
...
...
...
The Tungsten Still Burns Bright,
As Another Prayer Hits The Rafters From Its Methodic Clasp To Ride,
Mop Slung AGainst The Drying Wall... In Its Pail...
...
Its Long Shadow Like A Finger... Running Its NeverEnding Stretch Across Another Face...
...
UnInvited It Rests And Listens As The Rain Drops Beat The Window's Pane.

My Day Job Pays The Bills

This Morning For Glory
I Nearly Bumped My Head,
And Stayed In Bed,
A Drunken Slide Through The Black Velvet,
InTo The Gentle AfterLife,
Where I Would Have Found MySelf In Dungarees,
Walking Down A Trusted Country Road,
Where All The Trees Look The Same No Matter What Season,
Deer Tracks In The Fresh Mud Off To The Sides...
...
For Hunters Not Hounds...
...
...
A FarmHouse At The End Of The Trodden Rut,
And My Wife(?) With Her Hand Waveing Me InTo The Calming Baked Bread Breeze,
Past A Tractor Needing Fixing And An Old Tire Swing...
...
Oh, My Son(?) Pitches Balls Through That Thing...
...
What Year Is It AnyWays?
...
...
A Corn Field Grows Ragged And Tattered,
Around Me... Around This Life(?)... The Field Is Subject To Cycles For Harvesting,
Crows Cawl BeTwixt The HenHouse Cluckings,
SunSets And SunRises Heralded By Birds Of A Feather,
SomeTimes I Would Stare At The Bright Bulb On The Patio And Watch Moths...
...
One Of These Days A Moth Is Going To Break Through That Blazeing Hot Glass
And Fertilize The Egg,
My Wife Knowing My Thoughts Laughs At The Idea And Kisses The Top Of My Head,
As She Mutters SomeThing About Hell Opening Wide...
...
...
Then We Both Laugh...
...
The Next Day,
Who Knows...? I Could Take Jimmy To His BaseBall Diamond,
Out There... The Field By His School,
Help Him Practice His Pitches,
Take A Break...Sit Down With A Packet Of Beef Jerky And Two Bottles Of Dr. Pepper,
A Five Minute Moment Of MeaningFull Silence Between Us...
...
Just BeFore I Point At That Tree Growing By ItSelf,
On The OutSkirts Of The School Grounds,
Ominous And Fruit-Laden...
...
And I Tell My Son,
"Jimmy, You See That Tree Over There? Well... You Can Eat Any Fruit You Choose From It. BUT... WhatEver You Do, Stay AWay From The Fruit Growing On That Golden Bough! Cause If You Dare Eat From That Bough, You Shall Certainly Know That You Are Dead!"