Glittering Afterthoughts

All that glitters…

The Pilgrimage

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We climbed out of the ocean, squirmed up the frowning cliffs and jumped into the bushes while big-breasted housewives tried to menace us with red lip-stick botox scowls.

With heavy hearts we laughed in packs of threes and fours trying to light the desert on fire before our boredom could stifle us.

We crept at the feet of Titans and squeezed our way through dusted mountains and cried under granite boulders while the cold sun crept across a pastel sky.

With eyes full of fear we strove across sallow plains and leapt over white rivers that were too hot to swim in.

We came in cars and motorbikes and buses and coughed on each other the whole way there.

Amid hazy foothills we shuddered in green and blue trailer parks and tried not breathe too deeply.

We descended on the White City and scratched runes into the sides of monuments until the street lights came on…

We huddled around the Obelisk and exposed our flea-bitten torsos to the North!

With souls unhinged we roved up the cold coast like wild lap dogs and nipped at each other’s heels.

We reached the altars of Industry and crumbled through the alleyways before a cold sun could ricochet through the mirrored mazes of violent skyscrapers to catch us in our most desperate hour.

We baptized ourselves in the salty mechanisms of brilliantine souls and when we reached the steps we couldn’t stop our bones from clicking like marbles down an empty hallway…

Exhausted we fell down at your feet and tugged at your skirt.

You closed your eyes, and your mouth opened wide, but all we heard were coyotes yipping on the high plains of Nebraska…

 

 

 

( Headphones are a must)

Phosphenes

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We’ll graze on each other’s necks like soft satellites or porcelain bullets
And bleed bullion.

Our favorite color is symmetry.

Your day dreams bring heaven down to us…

These mismatched stars,
Our overdue Christmas lights,
We’ll pull them down one by one and hang them in our cold branches.

You’re the spring that came before the frost.

We’ll slip through sheets of sour
And listen to the sunrise.

My hands are so cold.

Womb

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This morning hums blue and pink
White waves wash me out like pastel steam
And we breathe in the soft smog
And nibble on beach town paint chips.

Let’s sink into the sand like driftwood monoliths
and soften our rough edges.

A din erupts from the stucco jungles behind us
But if you don’t look then they’re not really there.

The ocean murmurs like a womb…

I’ll rub salt-water in my eyes
and eat handfuls of sand
and wash it down and let my tongue prune like rubber against my squeeking gums.
I’ll fall asleep and let the sun burn me
And when I wake up I’ll rub sand in my hair.

It’s getting louder.

I’ll jump into the ocean and hold my breath and let the waves tumble me like a dirty LA laundromat.

I’ll walk barefoot on melted ice-cream sidewalks and take deep breaths under the pier with my eyes opened wide.

I’ll wash up on the shore and laze in hot tidal pools and play with sea urchins and dead jellyfish.

I’ll cut my feet on blue coral and let the blood sink in pools

I’ll let anemones sting my shins.

Tires screech like hot-footed elephants

A sea-gull is pecking at my toes.

The car is hot.

Let’s go home.

Seethe or, Breathe’s Antithesis

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Lives that stifle like shudderflys in steam,
Let’s drive back the sea.

If leaves could dream we’d crunch them with our feet,
Destruction’s for the meek.
I need these things.

Thoughts left limp under overhanging cliffs–
Feelings come in waves,
There’s something in the caves.

To each and all I’d crumble and fall
With forgiveness just an arm’s reach away.

I stumble
I bumble,
My followers are humble.

I’ll tumble down mountains for a view of the City.

I’ll paint your face with streaks golden and green.
Our streams are unclean.

The after-birth of dreams
Blue-green jeans
Cookies and cream.
We’ll sell God by the ream
And thoughts made of steam.

And we’ll pump the smell through corridors
To keep them wanting it more and more.

The sun’s slanting rays fall on
Hungry crowds
Like a blood-light
Filter through Crimson clouds.

Lives that rumble like the Queens of machine.
let’s breathe in steam…

Let’s drown with Kings.

Breathe or, Seethe’s Antithesis

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Lives that flutter like butterflies in spring,
Let’s cling to the trees.

If light from the stars could show us a path
Then maybe this place wouldn’t seem so bad,
And maybe the things that were left undone,
Would vibrate in silence like a cold winter’s sun.

And if things left unsaid were mists in our head
Then our souls might unfold like cold winter’s robes.

But things left unsaid,
And things left undone,
Still beat in our hearts
Like an old drummer’s drum.

Lives that shudder like butterflies in dreams…

Let’s sing to the breeze.

Let’s pluck at the strings.

The Fringe

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Out of the Corners…

                                                 I hear cigarettes crackling under moonlight shadows

                                                 Firewood crackling on top of salt deserts

                                                 Sparrows crackling under-foot.

        In the Wake…

                                                  I feel glass splintering

                                                  Deep warmth

                                                  And washing-machine thoughts catatonic.

        On the tip of my Tongue…

                                                   I can taste ugly words

                                                   Desperation

                                                   And stagnant air sticking to the roof of my mouth.

        In the forest…

                                                    I smell wolfish intention

                                                    Blood

                                                    And pine.

        In the Margins…

                                                     I see black and white sighs.

                                                    Glittering after-thoughts

                                                    Geometric auras.

The Fringe. A white desert, illuminated by starlight reflection. Rocks are scattered here and there, soaking up light. There’s music in the background, but it’s hard to tell where it comes from. A man and a woman lie flat on their back staring at the same blue and white constellation.

(Trumpets!)

They face each other, speak, but their words are muffled.

Man:

How did it happen so fast? We can’t go back now, but then where will we go?

Woman:

I can’t hear you–what is it you’re saying? You’re scared? This is what you wanted, but where will we go?

(The trumpets grow in volume)

They look at each other– and, as if they can hear each others thoughts, they lay back down flat until the trumpets fade away with the starlight. Darkness.

Spires

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The moon stammered behind glowing clouds. “There’s no pajamas where were going!” She cackled— and the night cackled back if only for our sakes.

Death-rattles, paranoia, burning stomachs, nausea, a head rush— We stepped into the night and hid under archways, praying for rain.

You stole a glance on the sly, and when I looked at you all I saw was gray-eyed desperation and the simultaneous exhale of one-thousand sighs meant for God.

Alone at night in a sweat. I swam against the cold rushing air and closed the window and contemplated spires for hours until the neutered sun surfaced behind purple mountains.

We’re underwater, “Isn’t it time to come up for air?”— you look at me like you don’t understand and I’ll pull your hair but you won’t move— when I come back down you’ll be limp and I’ll breathe into your broken nose in vain.

We’re ready for bed— our make-up is in the drain. We’ve washed it off our faces. Why don’t you recognize us? It’s because we’ve lost our color wallowing drunk in side-ways glutted streets and fucking in the alleys…

On my knees crying and praying to big silicon gods and bleached blonde hair, there’s nothing here but aftermath and the shaky baby footprints of Genesis. We bow our heads and regard the soiled flowers of the gutters with city-night flickers of sobriety.

 

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40’s and Chocolate Bars

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40’s and chocolate bars and butterfly wings
and whispers so soft you can feel them trickle like marmalade and hot water down your spine
and cold nights
That dripped in big fat spaced out rain drops and tangled our hair while we shouted at strangers out of the window of a moving car.

It hurts to walk in the mornings.

We laughed and fed pizza crusts to pigeons only because we thought they had finally made it home.

But what about the doves?
And about you?
And what about I?
And what about the millions of things we say/said/did and the things we forget?

The feeling comes in waves.

My toes are always wet but I’ll never get in,
I remember dreams that I can’t forget.

You’re always there in rain and in a look…

And what about snow and lilies and white sun-light and sun-burnt angels?
We scrambled over broken planks
And choked on saw dust.

I am pink.
A King of pigeons…

I cough and you cough back.

Je Est Un Autre

The Flood

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Big Sur, California

I

At the greatest meetings of land and water
At the confluence of dreams
In the bosom of cultures
In the seams,
In the cracks of time,
In the dry desert,
In the alcoves of your heart,
In the gray of god,
Suburbia is kicking and screaming and wants to go home,
After one last family picture.

II

Drunken prophets,
Cardboard signs,
Valor-ruined men.
Purple Violence.
Croaks, dirty beards, glassy eyes — I saw them scaring pedestrians with used needles on their way to the movies.

III

The last great walrus who ever lay bloated and sick on the shores of Big Sur,
Where hast thou gone with thy deliriums thou drunken hemorrhage?
You came to me pox-faced in a dream and we listened to waves and camera shutters.
Believe me boys, believe me, leave me. aye. aye. aye.

IV

A hot crimson sun sets behind crystalline geysers.
A snake rubs its ribs against dry branches,
Thunder crumples.
Black leopards cringe in unison.
Storm clouds follow the sun.
I feel the first trickles of the flood
As streams of water glide over my bare feet.

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