Screwery Brewery

To trap his breath, then give, gave up before birth at the kingdom and the clan, impossible truth, he was inside a day, he was inside but now he’s collecting outward at the edges, the hundredth night of the year is always distant, its the last good night, last day that is okay, he’s hunched on the baton criticizing his own eyes, it was he who wades through the rocky pathway and fails full of apathy, one hand weighs on top of the other while both sleep on the metallic edge of the baton, he shouts to flicker the light, and his breath is trapped. He can give newness now, the lights waving horizontally hollering a chance, a probability, his legs draw a sprawl however, dropping at the knees, same old leather jacket, the stiffened tails stick up behind, day dawns, he has only to open his eyes, lift it, to vow afar a promise, a moment past he tackles to hunt, someone divines him, divines us, that’s what he’s come to, come to in the end, a sight to the mind, there divining us, hands and head a little heap, the hours pass, he is still, he seeks a voice to catch a goodbye.

Ruined land, hot, unforgiving ruined land, that he has beaten black with footsteps through the northern lights of Norway, hiking up the Pulpit rock, the best selling show of Scandinavia, trodden black with grunge. He gave up, hugging the lines between the water and the mountain, praying quietly for a little panic to run him up, a little night music. His elbows digging in the rocks as he nestles his head on the grey scatter, confusion of memory and covet of loved ones and impossible youth, grasping the baton from his backpack, in the middle he stumbles bowed over the edge, a life of his own he tried to put in his pockets and drive away in the multitude of meantime, in vain, never any but his, worth nothing, because of being lost, he said it wasn’t one, it was, still is, the same, moments still inside, the same, he’ll put faces in his head, names, places, churn them all up together, all he needs to end, phantoms to flee, last phantoms to flee and to pursue a new zenith for a happy ending.

Water Catches your Eyes

Quiet is an impossibility. Staying calm remains a perception, and not a perpetual possibility in the middle of a final land.

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Turning slowly, rusting in a white mist. Drowning in the bluesy trail of the panorama. In the arms of barbaric death, the shores speaking to me in spineless decay. Past canyons and canals through the towering pulses. By the hands of impulses and epiphanies, I’m hiding the sound of voyage into a dreamless sleep. You need to come with me.

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

Saccharine

“Help, I have found myself lost again. I am lurking and I am needy of goodness, help and presence. I’m alone above a folded cave, in the redly lit backdrop that I call the sunset. I feel breathless. And I wrap myself in the easy comfort of the trodden dirt of the desert, its coarse fingers. How many times have I gone wrong? Where did I go wrong? Find me and help me breathe, won’t you please be my friend, won’t you help me look for myself. Loosen me from this knot, I’m standing at an angry height, looking down and thinking whether there are enough mountains to save me. I need to be another age, an age where I wasn’t so far ago. Help me be myself. Drain my blood, fill me with the worsened chemicals to keep me-I’m already gone. But don’t repeat me. Make me realize what we had in the chambers of a small, incomplete life- how I knew not enough but felt like it. Rescue me before the piano is plucked, until it runs and catches up with me-marking my close- and I wish it was fire. Watch all my hope trembling over the flaming sky like a viscid droplet about to splatter and adorn the old ground. I hope in the midst of people that loved me, somebody liked me. All I can do is watch from the window. I’m in seclusion, receding to the columns of shadows that will leave me in pain someday other than today. Don’t erase me, feel emphatic for the character you never knew.

I’m on my own now, I’m on my own again, I’m on my own, I’m on my own”.

Lou Reed

“You’re going to reap just what you sow,
   You’re going to reap just what you sow,
You’re going to reap just what you sow,
   You’re going to reap just what you sow…”

TODAY

Homeless and heavy with the bevy of faults, and heady with the pace of electric sessions to cure the homogenous core. To a land that’s far off the marvel of a lonesome gallery, here in the alley degreed in vanity and guffaws. The daunting windblown doors of bars with a flushed female singer, in a black tight skirt and a black tight top with blonde hair shining in dilated eyes.

Upbeat smolders, upbeat smolders. Thru East Hampton, New York, Manhattan. Subterranean and Pacific rows of echoes. Shiny trails of rock music.

Ambient experimentation, ambient experimentation.

Leather black, sighs of weed, songs reflecting in his palms like his only world.

Ashen sweater, ashen man. Gunshots over guitars. Poe raven. Life underground, all cheering, high soaring, freewheeling, critics abhorring.  

The city is full of countless keepers with a custard emotion, daydream, and delusions of the young navy, twisty friends. It isn’t their first time, it’s there to air the last time, the generation of white lines, and he’s a nice singer and the band leader, there to beat forever, to beat forever.

Severin Marina

“Open up to the leisure world of distinctive types. That’s how I feel, the place I’m going seems so full of exciting characters. Scandalous magazines and oceanic nights soothed by the plurality of the meantime, I’m free and I can’t feel nothing but the strange weather. After the bright victory and the bitter surf of futurist ambivalence, I’ve got a handle of the tide. At least for now, but I don’t have to consider anything but ‘now’, for now anyway. Beat-beat-beat-la-la-La. Surfing on the wavering vividness of voodoo space and gypsy time, take me higher to that place in the city lights where the silhouetted fingers of tree adorn the strip of concrete pavement with a starry look. By the means of a venerated banner that crinkles prettily in that special song of sunlight and the performance of Warhol people. Fame-fifteen minutes-trash magic-agony fiend no more. Even when the stage doesn’t work in rarity, it works in the sparkling hope of fantastic silk in the shadow of a radio show’s talk. Through the frenzies of several cold radiances that flash before me, I have finally decided on one, not settled but decided. An abundance of road days could bank me to the Rhine, Rhone or the Rheidol, I’ll stay and shake with pleasure. Churning, burning a definite plop of the blue dahlia. Go-come-leave-stay, you don’t have a sign”

Copenhagen

Here’s a world to which I like to sing along. All the pretty stars, the paradise art, sunny jazz, coca-cola, black beaches, Italian cinema, and capable poetry, stable poetry; Peruvian poetry! The whole world is in a cult, they beat the heart and they sing rivers. With feathers in their hair, they fall on watery streets. But the collection of colors is clear- you can see most everything. Caesium, Lithium, Vienna, and sunshine. You could be smoking in the neon lights at gas stations but can you see the European days perfumed with celestial freedom and ending time at Alcatraz or a Caribbean island.

Forests feathered with ferns, snow salting the ground, pages webbed with words and the brain grassed with dreams. I’m funning away my life, dreaming away my time.

  • Picture by Timothy Price

An Exhibition of Trials

“Warnings take hell and high water. Eyes race to the sick of the stomach. All the losses I’ve started to watch, all the urges I’ve tried make me want to rush while I’m still alive off the blood. Meet me somewhere where the hearses go to heaven, in the twelfth hour of closing verve, in the middle of the effervescing haze as the sun shines whitely and decorates the neck of the sky. I wouldn’t lie, I won’t make a sound. Take the fault from me and I’ll fix myself till eternity. I’ll remember it well, like the rain of my reasons and the pump of my problems, if I have a memory of occurring left to my head it’s getting dim, too dim to look at the brightness, if I keep dreaming then I’ll find a day that stands still, a day that doesn’t subtract the happy times. My heart goes on chanting its beat like an anxious prayer, my mind keeps being nervous. I can’t survive if this is the act of this lounge, it’s too psychotic and wintry. You have to take me right now, aneurysm, be faithful like a euphemism if not then forget it – I’m just going to crack readily, redly. But If I get away from this dark hold, I’ll run to a great Caribbean summer, I’ll run, run, run”