Agony Fiend

“And I will never speak again. Under the oath and influence of a strong McGinley epiphany and the sounds of ululating wind in the middle of the canopied trees, I can’t survive stilly. The world is bendy and twisty and sick and murky while I’m restless, I’m reckless, in a state of pensive impersonation. And I will never speak again. Not from the heart, not from the lips, not from the attention. And I will never speak again. Not of the cloudily fluffed beard of the sky, not of the Freudian climate of old minds, not of the rude chef on the high coasts, not of the cases at the high courts. If you can’t think of your next move you’re on the which way lost ad on a deadly roundabout to the roadhouse diner, where food is filled with poison and drinks blessed with the earthy spit of a failed love. Inky, wicked and sparkly cavalcades marching in squares to show their compassion for the other sides, but I have control on my side, on my side of the sunken district of deep-dyed detachment. And I will never speak again. Not to you, or Charles Bukowski or even a heroin chick. Schools of balladry, schools of medicine, and institutions of shiny dirt atop pillars with inscriptions in confusing letters to confuse the heads of kids meant to take lightly the distress that flows from expansion- sanctuaries of blackness falling off themselves into erosion, into illusion. And I will never speak again. Not in the crescent-shaped regions of the Riviera, not in front of the palisades, not in the lifetime of my brave systole, never in a little room. Heady, steady and race to the eternal burn. And I’ll run away. Come on, come on, come on, come on. And I’ll run away”

Psychedelia

Unplugged grunge minute on TV.
Electric seconds grizzling in the static stares. 
Manic hours at the Hawaiian harbors.

“Maybe I should play the bawdy saloons in the black villages. Maybe Algerians are my true calling. Maybe morgues are my native habitat. Maybe I should stroll through Big Sur or an island”

An occult moon, a spaceman tripping on there. Life’s full of desire, death’s full of desire. Swoop, voodoo, hoodoo. Voodoo, hoodoo, swoop.

I wanna die. I do.
I wanna fly. I do.
Love life. I do.
Live life, I won’t.

Possibly it all goes wrong. Possibly I’m blessed. It’s a dim heaven. Possibly, I am born. The chances fade out from the eyes.

I like the ripples of rain outside the salty sills of silicon. I like Mexico, Portugal and I like Cambodia.

Prison dreams.

Take me through caravans, cook me in a trailer park, boil me in microwaves, leave room for my Rumi, buy me a Byron, bake me a Blake. Take me, take me. From forever, always an angel.

Black and white holiday. This is paradise, dim heaven.
In the mystic lands of existence
Man is the only witness to eternity
Interpreting weddings of profuse interactions
And the partings of paramours
A waste of weeps is one who lazes in fleshed being
Becoming the core of our faith
Are the ferociously still of lost time 
In the funerals of all poverty 
Lies the true light of happiness
Understanding the cremations of misbegotten freedom
Occurs within the glow of multiple syllables
Of culture and vital force. 


Fresh out of mistrust and sad, sad, hot, hot weather. Unforgiving winter, royal springs.

Listen

Loudly

Begging, thieving and lying

Amidst an endless life

Funny tries, dangerous trials blinded by the sparking rain.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

I have my life, Light my life
Tomorrow knows how we suffer today
And T.S Eliot may know how we may have suffered yesterday
We've escaped certain times, like distant future and such
Jim Morrison is looking for us in all the wrong phases 
 Of eras, days and purposes. 
Ever since I collaterally collapsed 
I've been hearing Space Oddity.
But I'm not my own this time around,
You may be on your own in a forgotten  world
I'm just gone
leaning for the opacity of a nightly abstraction.  
 

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Thought Row

I think it was an archaic Portuguese map that led me to to the opening sequences of eternity, that’s what I tell myself anyway. I have the triggering capacity to choose what I need to be closer to. The Swiss people dive into azures and dance around me, the ultramarine finish and I’m finally freed, freer than my corrupt feelings. How the yellow lights glimmer warmly around me and I can catch all the graciousness and slide it into a fresh pocket on my faded velvet vest, I was still preparing for climbing the suicidal pulpit rock to attain a rewarding varnish. I feel colorful amid the rocky parades celebrating all the good people; when I’m hit by heavy hitting happiness, when I’m concentrating on all that is pointing towards a still and unimportant infinity that will never kills noble refrains. Shadows of the swan’s shrines and the meadows of cypress trees, with a cloudy clarity kissing the lips of land as it reacts to my introduction, my manifestation of an alive unreality- life’s afterword. And I had watched from my window the squalling flamingos, the bouquets of hydrangeas and a symbolic pizzazz withstanding albums of the horror of a burnt time past-the truths that bring a humane world so much closer. When I was receding the last land of synthetic fallacies, the stairway and the following tunnel ran until I wanted it to; as I cycled my tandem alone with all my souvenirs and felt the arthritic rhythm of the demonically painted ramparts, on a dark night of ripples and the final calls of religious video games. What I’ve had was enough to suffice the label of a happy mess. I do realize now that I was, in fact, a speck whose only movement arose from the tantrum of a screaming child of an evolved creed, and most other times I stood still and the normalcy and insanity were in my flying head. Wild daylight spent feeding vagabonds in the lake. Prints of celluloid making trances chalking heaven and translating it to a happy-happy afterword. A thousand kilos could always help a little in the heat of a staggering sentence and gesture thanks to the pullers who helped me knock on the tolerating temples of the seventh heaven. È una casa celeste che desideravo e amavo, amore vero e prese magiche che fluiscono dal detto vero amore. But its too late. I’ll be hearing fanfares and violins to greet me at a mansion, the home of the firmaments.

Prozac Prose

Footfalls trick, bright treats and false echoes of barefoot freedom on the wheels of a lonesome traveler. Racing with the freak-shows of emotive dependency and beastly storms, all the while taking the earth in an easy embrace. Documenting the torrential thunder, exploding into the hydraulic clouds, letting sleeping canines astray.  An endless show of inexpensive excitement blazes through the body and the spirit, shares the body with the mind through vilely tolling bells, and sets the desolation beyond vanishing. On the roads, in the seas where the population is limited to grazing hands of artist, writers, angels and surreal surrenders, the cruises bloom bluesy, in the chosen boulevards of the hues, and the sudden rules of the fluorescent moon. Running away the life, envisaging away the time honestly, beautifully, coolly and collectively. Navy jeans, loose tee-shirts, boggling noiseless pen and paper to never prevent glee from gleaming. Like stars in liquor stores through well-heeled borders or through the long branches of Californian pride. Truthful office drinkers and blank jazz hummers in a summertime set and rise, racing to the games of mountain dew in crazy denim, the lucky ones without incessant desire.

Kerouac’s Cognac

Ecstatic swoons and our eternal condition
Cheer us, cheer us!
You know how the air whistles “Kathleen”
Later is greater than never
Won’t you turn on the kitchen stove?
And see the blue flaming through the punctured metal.
Ya, ya, yay whoosh
Goes the Neppytune and the earthy baby
Over in space system
And the streets of Paris claim the pasts
Over the dead-end Oh, Oh! Of tge visionary neighbor.
I'll miss it forever. 
I oughta run from the big druggie vengeance
Of the canyon birds,
Of their calcium feathers,
Of man,
Of laughs,
Of paradise.
They're dying like a million mountain races.
No one compares to you, great nosy sea
And not to your whoosh-thud sounds when you squeeze
the shore.
Hear me hear from you!
Little kip-upsurge-Oh, no hush now.
It all looks decent for the broken tokens of my sorrow.
I’ll have to smash the edge of tomorrow.
But you remember what you borrow.
Consequently I won’t have to follow
You thru to the foggy and hollow
Cave that you call home.

THE STATIC IS UNRAVELING,
Now that the water left me. 
I WASN'T ANYTHING,
Give me a quest or a question,
GIVE ME SOMETHING or EVEN EVERYTHING 
Let the blasts in deserted hands be
A CALMATIVE OR THE END

Ecotone

 What we have-what you had.
Dark, dark grains in the crops of betrayal.
A maudlin sensation worth all despise.
The daytime shining, and a nighttime good for us.
Absent as an adage.
Severe, severe. Ever so sinisterly.  
Warnings to all holding time, holding company.
The moments decimated by remains,
The moments punctuated by loss,
Prove severe, sinister. Ever so severely.
Viscera strewn over the light,
Over the skirt of the country,
In the alarming accents.
Accelerate the abducts of trailing dungarees,
Of weathermen, sinner men,
Like the radio reverie we’re living in.
Strangled sobs and dangling sounds,  
 Sonorous to the sheath armies brittle bridge. 
The newness of blooming nurseries set in a sphere
Of abandon.
The aerated abilities of passion trapped in an aviary
Far away.
The noon of good expressions quilting a menagerie
of scandium.  

  Havoc in an awakening. 
In a dream of adventure,
You're there and I'm there,
With the greed and the bliss,
Awake in an abyss. 

I’ll look for you in movie screens, I’ll look for you magazines. I’m taking off the sirens scene .

Revelry Montage

Thwarting the charge of saddening silence is a new sanguinity. Heading towards a vortex to illuminate the veils coolly, heading onward a Hungarian arcade, basking in a wishy-washy western factory, the haberdashery. Whatever causes torsion in the poems of my form persists only in the lost side of my inner self as a shriveled memory. Magically a moment is dim heaven lit singly by a golden bulb, set in discotheque valley. Gerund- cindering the plume of albatross crest as the flock of them voyages ahead the zone of rear twilight. Quartets on ashy Thursdays, two memories of burnt Mondays. The static drift that comes from honeyed others, sweetens the cargo, sweetens the crew, and conquers the passenger to a propelled story in the purgatory tempest. Colloquial is the crux of the affair that’s pretty in the wickedness of the edgy, blankly canvassed words amassing the art of fortunes.