61-66
61
I see your twisted sighs.
Stale lips, forelorn cries, with nothing
that can ever hope to succour relief.
And I am filled with wonder
at your hope-rivetted heart
that can still call to me in such
beauteous melody from beneath
sagging skin and unwashed flesh.
Pretty words, vacant and infinite.
62
Bloody enigma
Slumbering dissmissal engarde,
on guard for the slight infraction
of unspoken protocols or codes of conduct
envoking a spark of outrage seen by the knowing
as slight flicker of heavily tattooed eyelids.
Nothing more stirs in the moment as silence
invades conversations within the proximity
radius, the forth coming flashzone
anticipating a napalming loquidity
to soon clusterfuck the moment.
And the helpless perp stands,
in the final moments of bliss
unaware of the carpet-bombing invectives
momentarily suspended invisibly
on the once slackjawed lips of this
society beast now raising herself
from her recline on a single elbow,
flicking her cigarette, and checking
her sites. Lock and load
63 Weaper
Don't fear the weeper.
Don't fear what you don't understand.
It is just another way.
Take my hand.
Tears must fall before
tomorrow will ever come.
Lost love.
Lost metaphor.
And lost the will to live.
Stoic stone, you lay stretched
out on hard-packed earth.
And the tears begin to fall.
64 Vampire Tattoo
New words to describe an old day,
an old way... of living and dying
and return.uTo mark myself with your soul,
inscribing with love eternal all moments
and memories, real and imagined, encoded
for replay in a child's sing-song voice
and the grandmother's bain sidhe wail
telling the world how we loved and how it died.
And how I have taken you unto me,
tattooed on my soul.
65 Jeepster - T. Rex
"Vampire for your love" indeed. How can it be
otherwise? When I see your smile, I hear
your call, and I fall once again into your arms.
Your sofly veiled eyes. Your smell.
The way you stand just so.
And I am drawn forth on points
each tiny articulated step.
66 Fundamental Love
Without thought or question.
Without sense or reflection.
You love without reason.
A love that loves back, if you fail.
A love that loves back only if you fail.
A love that loves your crawling, simpering
recondite, prostate, apostate return
on bended knee and broken soul
to be born again in his image;
the child of man.
If you do not fail,
your love damns you to hell.
If you should not fail.
And if your love is strong.
And your heart is true.
And if you do not fail.
It is sweet fuck all for you.
Mind Hacks: The hardest cut: Penfield and the fight for his sister
In 1935, world renowned neurosurgeon Wilder Penfield published three remarkable case studies describing the psychological effects of frontal lobe surgery.
They remain a fascinating insight into the link between brain and behaviour, but one case was unlike anything Penfield had tackled before.
It described the fight to save the life of his only sister.
This struck me, because i know I could do something that drastic to help someone I cared about with out batting an eye. And it got me thinking about being told recently that I'm obsessed with death. It was laughably dismissed at the time, but it hurt. Mostly because it showed that this person who I thought knew me and cared about me, either didn't know me at all, didn't care, or just didn't pay attention. Obsessive? Yes! With death? Duh. I'm obsessed with life. Completely. It's coming and going. It's joys and sorrows. Its beginnings and endings. Death is the ending of life. And it is the part of life that we have trouble most with these days. We were much better with it in the past, but we've lost touch with it. And I'm convinced that it is this losing touch with death, loosing touch as we strive for only the 'good' that we destroy any chance of being a complete person, or a stable society.
So. Death. Bring it on. I'll embrace it with open arms. But not as an escape from life, only to make sure I don't miss a single moment of being alive.
I just saw the most amazing video documentary of Roma (Gypsie) persecution during the holocaust in Romania. It is called "Hidden Sorrows: the Persecution of Romanian Gypsies during WWII"Â and is by michelle kelso. Can't find any more information about it. Got it on dvd from a welsh filmmaker friend. Blown away at how people can still be ignored and marginalized after how the Jews and gay community have been able to fight for recognition. I need this badly, because i get complacent in the joy of my singular life.
This documentary chronicles the rarely told narratives of Gypsy survivors of Nazi persecution in Romania as they remember their experiences during WWII in the context of their lives today. During WWII, Gypsies were slated alongside Jews and other populations for extermination. In each country occupied or allied with Nazi Germany, their fate was similar. Nearly 500,000 are supposed to have perished due to systematic extermination, forced marches, starvation, exposure, diseases, and abuses. Romania, The Gypsies' experience critically altered their lives. Survivors share with viewers their shocking deportation from Romania to camps where they fought to survive by any means necessary. Hidden Sorrows reveals the continued struggle of Gypsies for equality in a society that views them as second-class citizens. It examines the present impoverishment of the survivors and their descendants as well as discrimination facing them daily.
I swear other looking at me through other people's eyes just looks wrong. That's not me! It cannot be. I don't look like that, I swear. [a little voice says "get over it!"] So, frankfurt airport and paris... I figured I'd get the 'me' overwith and then upload the cool bits.
61
I see your twisted sighs.
Stale lips, forelorn cries, with nothing
that can ever hope to succour relief.
And I am filled with wonder
at your hope-rivetted heart
that can still call to me in such
beauteous melody from beneath
sagging skin and unwashed flesh.
Pretty words, vacant and infinite.
62
Bloody enigma
Slumbering dissmissal engarde,
on guard for the slight infraction
of unspoken protocols or codes of conduct
envoking a spark of outrage seen by the knowing
as slight flicker of heavily tattooed eyelids.
Nothing more stirs in the moment as silence
invades conversations within the proximity
radius, the forth coming flashzone
anticipating a napalming loquidity
to soon clusterfuck the moment.
And the helpless perp stands,
in the final moments of bliss
unaware of the carpet-bombing invectives
momentarily suspended invisibly
on the once slackjawed lips of this
society beast now raising herself
from her recline on a single elbow,
flicking her cigarette, and checking
her sites. Lock and load
63 Weaper
Don't fear the weeper.
Don't fear what you don't understand.
It is just another way.
Take my hand.
Tears must fall before
tomorrow will ever come.
Lost love.
Lost metaphor.
And lost the will to live.
Stoic stone, you lay stretched
out on hard-packed earth.
And the tears begin to fall.
64 Vampire Tattoo
New words to describe an old day,
an old way... of living and dying
and return.uTo mark myself with your soul,
inscribing with love eternal all moments
and memories, real and imagined, encoded
for replay in a child's sing-song voice
and the grandmother's bain sidhe wail
telling the world how we loved and how it died.
And how I have taken you unto me,
tattooed on my soul.
65 Jeepster - T. Rex
"Vampire for your love" indeed. How can it be
otherwise? When I see your smile, I hear
your call, and I fall once again into your arms.
Your sofly veiled eyes. Your smell.
The way you stand just so.
And I am drawn forth on points
each tiny articulated step.
66 Fundamental Love
Without thought or question.
Without sense or reflection.
You love without reason.
A love that loves back, if you fail.
A love that loves back only if you fail.
A love that loves your crawling, simpering
recondite, prostate, apostate return
on bended knee and broken soul
to be born again in his image;
the child of man.
If you do not fail,
your love damns you to hell.
If you should not fail.
And if your love is strong.
And your heart is true.
And if you do not fail.
It is sweet fuck all for you.
61
I see your twisted sighs.
Stale lips, forelorn cries, with nothing
that can ever hope to succour relief.
And I am filled with wonder
at your hope-rivetted heart
that can still call to me in such
beauteous melody from beneath
sagging skin and unwashed flesh.
Pretty words, vacant and infinite.
62
Bloody enigma
Slumbering dissmissal engarde,
on guard for the slight infraction
of unspoken protocols or codes of conduct
envoking a spark of outrage seen by the knowing
as slight flicker of heavily tattooed eyelids.
Nothing more stirs in the moment as silence
invades conversations within the proximity
radius, the forth coming flashzone
anticipating a napalming loquidity
to soon clusterfuck the moment.
And the helpless perp stands,
in the final moments of bliss
unaware of the carpet-bombing invectives
momentarily suspended invisibly
on the once slackjawed lips of this
society beast now raising herself
from her recline on a single elbow,
flicking her cigarette, and checking
her sites. Lock and load
63 Weaper
Don't fear the weeper.
Don't fear what you don't understand.
It is just another way.
Take my hand.
Tears must fall before
tomorrow will ever come.
Lost love.
Lost metaphor.
And lost the will to live.
Stoic stone, you lay stretched
out on hard-packed earth.
And the tears begin to fall.
64 Vampire Tattoo
New words to describe an old day,
an old way... of living and dying
and return.uTo mark myself with your soul,
inscribing with love eternal all moments
and memories, real and imagined, encoded
for replay in a child's sing-song voice
and the grandmother's bain sidhe wail
telling the world how we loved and how it died.
And how I have taken you unto me,
tattooed on my soul.
65 Jeepster - T. Rex
"Vampire for your love" indeed. How can it be
otherwise? When I see your smile, I hear
your call, and I fall once again into your arms.
Your sofly veiled eyes. Your smell.
The way you stand just so.
And I am drawn forth on points
each tiny articulated step.
66 Fundamental Love
Without thought or question.
Without sense or reflection.
You love without reason.
A love that loves back, if you fail.
A love that loves back only if you fail.
A love that loves your crawling, simpering
recondite, prostate, apostate return
on bended knee and broken soul
to be born again in his image;
the child of man.
If you do not fail,
your love damns you to hell.
If you should not fail.
And if your love is strong.
And your heart is true.
And if you do not fail.
It is sweet fuck all for you.
I've not been near a computer with my notebook for a couple of weeks but I've been writing!
45 "Oh, you wild, beautiful thing!"
Push me. Push me to the edge of all reason and desire.
Make me fall. From my place into the gutter, rich
in the warm mud of spring passion that knows nothing
beyond the oozing sensuality of the moment, careless
of the stares and muttered comments of those
with clean soles and well-washed desires
that can never acquiesce to frolics under the sun.
46 - Painful blue Dawn
Sunshine rises from the earth,
painting the morning purple in the night,
impossibly fading to orange
in a broken spectral surge
for my eyes only.
Glows fade and fall behind
unseen clouds below the horizon
far out to sea
or behind the mountains I can't see
hunting far off noons.
47 Hello Toes!
I love you again! My ten pink cherubs.
Back again from the edge of oblivion
where you had been banished
along with your host soles
in the long purgatory of abuse and neglect.
Pink and squeaky clean as new-borns,
you smile up at me from the bath
as I finally scrub the last
of the feral contagion
down the drain.
48 Love hurts
Smiles hurt the soul in pain
just as they can be a balm
to the recovering
and succor to the lost.
The smile. The warming mark
of attention, burns
into the heart
of one who will never
smile again, except
in an ash-dry remembrance
of what the smile once
meant, long ago
and far from now.
49 Dry Oblivion
"Face in the station at the metro..."
Each a flower. Expectant, blooming
warmly planted in soft earth. Gaudy
cut blossoms trussed up for monetary appeal;
all fragrance that averts the gaze.
Slightly wilting in the heat with
a brave face, hoping for a cooling breeze
to sustain the moment. Petals falling
one by one, into dry oblivion.
My garden of humanity in bloom.
50 Spin on love
So many hearts fall. Only some rise
from the ashes intact. Some rise
ashen, with the marks of the fall
tattooed in living flesh. Others rise
broken, wings smashed; gaped wounds
that never heal. Some never rise,
crawling among the fallen, existing
on the flesh detritus wedged
into ravenous jaws. The rarest bounce,
cartwheeling across the heavens,
in a lurching sidereal spin
smashing others from the sky,
wrecking havoc on love.
51 Hard Landing
I crawl sideways, scuttling for purchase
on the hard shifting stone. Sharp tallons
shifting cracked, calloused soles burned
by the scorched earth. My hair drags
around me; a moving pile of ash crouched low,
hiding the lost vacant stare of blind
hopeless wandering, searching each rock
for my gift of sight torn from my skull
in my headlong fall.
52 Images
Bloodied photographic lense,
splattered with hunger and desire,
haunts waking moment memory
and awakens frozen nightmare dreams.
Cascading assaults on sense-drenched
macabre visions that spring
blunt-forced through reoccurring drama
that plays across waking days; endless
reruns of a moment gone wrong, never
forgotten. Never escaped.
53 Remembered Rage
Never pay attention to the details of the moment
in the fractured specific visions that show
only fragments of the whole. See me,
not my flawed faults exploded and magnified
in sculpted intensity that marginalized
the everything for the sake of a single
blemished scar, a foetid breath,
and a kiss unrequited.
54 Voice
"Break my arms politely..."
Release your hold upon my soul,
as I crawl from beneath your boot,
sell my heart from bondage thrawl,
unchain my bleeding feet,
liberate my broken smile,
so the sun may once more shines in.
Cleanse me of my rancid breath
that I might wash away your sin.
I wriggle on my belly like a worm,
cut in two on a careless blade,
parching in the scornful sun,
miles away from cooling shade.
I crawl on my knee, a broken toy,
so that each step a circle makes,
winding down but unrelenting--
no matter what it takes.
55 On writing I
"And your poetry will be written with blood..."
Soft flowing veins of verse; some languished long,
streams, some muddy and terse. Others explode
in crimson fonts where pierced with the quill
of lust and arrows of desire. Though some flow black;
a cancerous plague of narrative corruption
that poisons the mind and soul.
56 On writing II
"And your poetry will be written with blood..."
That is how it goes. A small puddle of words
at my feet. A few verbs on my lips,
and a recollective declaration on my tongue
still warm, even though the moment's passed.
The metallic taste of adjectives fill my nostrils,
as blood red tears fill my eyes
with stories of lost similies and songs.
57 On writing III
Dry-caked verses, and endless stanzas
encrust my fingers, wedged under cracked nails,
laying splattered across my blouse and skirts.
"And your poetry will be written with blood..."
Dry-etched sorrows mar my brow
and gash across my belly, only hinting
at the baleful wound between my thighs;
hopes, aborted and unloved, still cling
in fragments where life could
once have sung.
58 Pre-dawn Raid
Let's just say "At night." Forget the hour
and the exact angle of the moon
and its reflected refracting influence
on the landscape of the wandering soul.
The fox was out that night.
That's all you need to know.
The target, code-named 'ice-bitch',
is a subtle mark, but tonight
the plan seems good to go.
Somehow separated from her clan,
she walks alone. All she really needs
is a love in her heart, but the good
girls are weeping again. They have lost
the last hands they were delt
by their fathers and mothers.
The winning hand for a man's world.
And the rules have changed. Leaving them--
unprepared and naked for a new day.
Miss Calculating is reduced to a mere
Mary-Anne Faux Pas, in a strangely twisting
cultural conundrum, where your breing
suddenly became nothingness
in the instance you ceased to be
an appendage, and were thrust without
ceremony or a new frock into the harshness
of being yourself.
59 Remorseless Seductions
Finding faltering fragments
in free-fall fascination.
We call across impossible restrictions,
answering in phrases only half-acknowledged,
finding nuanced movements of the heavens
as proof of intentions that could never
be spoken of face to face.
The panic of unexpected meeting
on the platform of the station waiting
for movement in opposite directions;
when any opportunity for intimacy
is lost in ludicrous hopes and polite smiles
once again. I want to fly into your arms,
but they are 'occupied' this time,
just as the reverse was true the last.
Hands touch, along with polite kisses
of greeting and "have you met..." introductions.
"Yes, I think. In Marseilles last fall..."
And I must be off, with covert glances
as we go separately again.
Hope against hope that we might maroon ourselves
and lay for eternity in mutual caresses.
60 Where is your voice?
If you do not write, where is your voice?
How can a voice call to the heavens
from lips to sky in the maelstrom.
Crying out words in the darkness
without form or sense.
I crawl over each and every fragment
of a thought, fractures line and verse
looking endlessly for that one word
that will make a prayer of lost muttered
ramblings that could not stir a soul.
And I watch and listen for another song
to call mine own from all the whirring
voices in my skull. How might another's words
speak for me, of all my cares and dreams to birth.
Mine must speak for me, or I must be silent.
As yours must same for you; crawl naked
from lips to fingers to pen to paper
for any hope of life.
if fear was an aphrodisiac
you would cum
when our eyes meet.
What can you do for me
will be consummated with a kiss.
And is better be good,
or I will kill you.
Do not falter in your attention
or reveal the terror in your soul,
show me the desire in your heart.
The desire to please me,
your lady of pain.
It hurts to love me.
Hurts where it hurts;
deep, below the skin
where it cannot ever
really heal.
A sharp pin prick imprint tattoo
on the psyche-soul. My eyes,
heavy lidded, roughed ochre,
sanguine tears leeching life
a single sorrow at a time.
Pain. Pain is my friend. My love.
She binds you to me each day,
rousing you form sleep to remind you
with an aching midnight sigh;
a lone light burning in a vast
city-scape of dreams.
Suicide of broken dreams
have fallen behind, each free
moment consumed in ablutions
at my font. Waters steaming burning
icy on the skin unquenching.
I welcome your sad smile,
an echo of a pained expression
on your brow. And I smile faintly
at your gifts, nodding at the platinum
band, the diamond edge, and the
rustle of coutured fabric.
My sad heart crawls toward ecstasy,
parched unknown flesh trapped in torso,
thighs, pale arms unkissed
by warming rays of light.
Long tapered fingers grasping air
in hope of contact. Dusk-caked
feet, broken nails, tired soles
one in front of the other,
calling for direction, in trackless
pine forests on limestone plateaus
washed with dry lightening thunder.
Lips cracked salt-stained from tears,
the only water to be felt, coursing down
sunken cheeks lost to spring rain smiles.
Mind and thought memories locked within
the skull-warping past into present futures
where no one thought can escape
from the maelstrom clamor of the collective
grief shielding the soul from the terror
turmoil of the crushing moment
when all was lost.
Failing to succeed: a road trip and 120 years in the gulag.
A little meat on the bones don't grow on the soul so much.
Jump in the car. Watch some porn. Hit the slots.
Jesus wasn't wrong.
It was just the wrong channel.
During the commercial
for the after-life
bar and grill.
Every vice, failure,
blood-soaked rag;
just moments unanticipated--
beautiful sunshine moments.
