The heart beats
Beats
Beats
Stops…
Blackness comes down like snow.
A bitter tasted in the mouth.
The heart beats.
Beats
Stops
Beats…
A wave of cold.
Then understanding.
All fades to white, then disappears.
The heart stops
Beats
Wavers
Humans evolve from monkeys, anger from misunderstanding.
Highways twist through concrete membrane.
Hard worms, asphalt and white lines.
The heart stops
Beats
Beats
Her toes tingle, she giggles, like a feather on a wave.
The heart stops
Beats
Meditates
His voice is low, his eyes occupied.
The heart beats
Stops
Ignites
Two strangers touch on accident, sparks spray as witness.
Tongues collide, minds swim, her lips bleed.
Touching, touching, touching
The heart mesmerizes
Beats
Stops
Begins
Ends
Walls of stone, cracks behind bookshelves.
Words are lost.
The heart beats
Fingersclawat…skin…teeth tear atnipplesandbacksarchand bodies….quiver with each…touch. Lips burntokissan…dsweat slides betweenbodies. The cool
Air
Softens
Dances across shoulder blades and taught thighs
The heart beats
Faster
Faster
A kaleidoscopic explosion.
Breathing quickens
Stops
The heart stammers
Forgets
Stops
She collapses and and he pants
Wipes sweat
The heart beats
Beats
Linger…s.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Electioneering by Radiohead
The marble man
Is exquisite,
Perfectly defined
Features for all
To see,
Yet in his sheer
Resplendence
He is ultimately
Much too fond
Of his pedestal.
I confessed to my friend
That I was scared of being
Burned alive,
She told me that the flames
Would eventually melt
My nervous system away
And kill the pain receptors
In my brain.
I was strangely
Comforted by this.
The glassy man
Is unable
To hide anything
From any of his
Followers,
But like bottle glass
Does not
Conceal things
Merely
Distorts them.
I confessed to my friend
That I was scared of the violence
In our world,
She told me that violence only
Breeds more violence
And that we had been
Breeding violence
For thousands of years.
I knew then to abandon
All hope.
The rubber man
Can stretch
His limbs over
Thousands
Of miles,
But because of this
Flexibility
He ultimately
Stretches himself
Too thin.
I confessed to my friend
That I thought this is where
The world ends,
She told me that we were
Egomaniacal to think that we
Could end the world,
And were merely there
To sweep it clean.
I felt then that I knew
Where the truth lay.
Human destiny
Scrawled inside
The chromium chassis
Of the warhead.
Is exquisite,
Perfectly defined
Features for all
To see,
Yet in his sheer
Resplendence
He is ultimately
Much too fond
Of his pedestal.
I confessed to my friend
That I was scared of being
Burned alive,
She told me that the flames
Would eventually melt
My nervous system away
And kill the pain receptors
In my brain.
I was strangely
Comforted by this.
The glassy man
Is unable
To hide anything
From any of his
Followers,
But like bottle glass
Does not
Conceal things
Merely
Distorts them.
I confessed to my friend
That I was scared of the violence
In our world,
She told me that violence only
Breeds more violence
And that we had been
Breeding violence
For thousands of years.
I knew then to abandon
All hope.
The rubber man
Can stretch
His limbs over
Thousands
Of miles,
But because of this
Flexibility
He ultimately
Stretches himself
Too thin.
I confessed to my friend
That I thought this is where
The world ends,
She told me that we were
Egomaniacal to think that we
Could end the world,
And were merely there
To sweep it clean.
I felt then that I knew
Where the truth lay.
Human destiny
Scrawled inside
The chromium chassis
Of the warhead.
Fitter, Happier, More Productive by Radiohead
Please don’t kill my babies,
Death in a mixing machine of glass and cement.
I will feed them stewed apples and braised beef
From a can, in secured highchairs.
Won’t wake every night thinking of little bodies
Floating face down in a heated pool.
On the way to wholesome family activities,
In luxury German cars, I will strap them into
Ergonomic seats, and stick to the speed limit,
Taking every turn with the upmost care.
Won’t have them crying while they watch their
Father bash another driver’s head into a fire hydrant.
Please don’t take away my livelihood,
Poor homeless alcoholic in piss stained pants.
I filled out the self-evaluation and wrote that
I am...a hard worker, who will...try harder next quarter.
My goal is...to create a better working environment.
If I don’t succeed I will...review my five point plan.
Did not feel the need to mention that I sit at my desk
All day staring at my secretary and dreaming about her cunt.
My stapler, like a pair of metal fangs, sinking into her soft, white thighs.
On my scheduled coffee and meal breaks I masturbate in a toilet stall over her.
Ten minutes. Half an hour. Straighten tie. Back to my desk.
My desperate orgasms do not cost the company money.
Please don’t destroy everything I worked for,
Pathetic single man eating day old Indian food in his bathrobe.
I smiled as we placed the crayfish into the pot and boiled them alive,
Then helped little Evelyn break open the shell and get to the white meat inside.
Was not myself when I followed my secretary home, went through her garbage,
And masturbated with her used pantyhose over my head.
We’ll talk about our relationship in an air-conditioned office,
With a non-judgemental third party who did her dissertation at Oxford.
She can tell me that I’m craving a mother figure and I will agree with her
If we can go back to having lights out, missionary position sex once a week.
I have to masturbate to get through the day, but my secretary will be transferred
To someone who respects her privacy and I’ll stop punching myself in the balls to heighten my orgasms, it’s making me ejaculate blood anyway...
I am...a dedicated husband and father (taking the children to soccer practise, cheering them on, not hurting the other parents, smiling watching the crayfish boil).
Who will...strive to secure my family’s happiness (leaving little notes in her Louis Vitton to let her know I care, striking the children only on the buttocks and never in the stomach or across the head, wiping my semen off the bathroom mirror).
My goal is...to be as fit and happy and productive as I can possibly be (exercising daily with cherished family pet, relegating fast food intake to after soccer on Saturdays, fulfilling all monthly quotas, regularly checking testicles for abnormal lumps or swellings).
If I don’t succeed I will... (no, do not hurt the other parents, do not threaten co-workers, do not take it out on cherished family pet)... Review five point plan and re-evaluate... (leave gun in drawer in case of prowler)...
When in a state of weakness
I remind myself
That there is another place.
Past my gold watch for twenty years service,
Past kid’s college graduation,
Past peaceful twilight retirement village,
A place where I can do what I want
And be with who I want to be with all the time.
There is a place
Other than this.
Isn’t there?
Death in a mixing machine of glass and cement.
I will feed them stewed apples and braised beef
From a can, in secured highchairs.
Won’t wake every night thinking of little bodies
Floating face down in a heated pool.
On the way to wholesome family activities,
In luxury German cars, I will strap them into
Ergonomic seats, and stick to the speed limit,
Taking every turn with the upmost care.
Won’t have them crying while they watch their
Father bash another driver’s head into a fire hydrant.
Please don’t take away my livelihood,
Poor homeless alcoholic in piss stained pants.
I filled out the self-evaluation and wrote that
I am...a hard worker, who will...try harder next quarter.
My goal is...to create a better working environment.
If I don’t succeed I will...review my five point plan.
Did not feel the need to mention that I sit at my desk
All day staring at my secretary and dreaming about her cunt.
My stapler, like a pair of metal fangs, sinking into her soft, white thighs.
On my scheduled coffee and meal breaks I masturbate in a toilet stall over her.
Ten minutes. Half an hour. Straighten tie. Back to my desk.
My desperate orgasms do not cost the company money.
Please don’t destroy everything I worked for,
Pathetic single man eating day old Indian food in his bathrobe.
I smiled as we placed the crayfish into the pot and boiled them alive,
Then helped little Evelyn break open the shell and get to the white meat inside.
Was not myself when I followed my secretary home, went through her garbage,
And masturbated with her used pantyhose over my head.
We’ll talk about our relationship in an air-conditioned office,
With a non-judgemental third party who did her dissertation at Oxford.
She can tell me that I’m craving a mother figure and I will agree with her
If we can go back to having lights out, missionary position sex once a week.
I have to masturbate to get through the day, but my secretary will be transferred
To someone who respects her privacy and I’ll stop punching myself in the balls to heighten my orgasms, it’s making me ejaculate blood anyway...
I am...a dedicated husband and father (taking the children to soccer practise, cheering them on, not hurting the other parents, smiling watching the crayfish boil).
Who will...strive to secure my family’s happiness (leaving little notes in her Louis Vitton to let her know I care, striking the children only on the buttocks and never in the stomach or across the head, wiping my semen off the bathroom mirror).
My goal is...to be as fit and happy and productive as I can possibly be (exercising daily with cherished family pet, relegating fast food intake to after soccer on Saturdays, fulfilling all monthly quotas, regularly checking testicles for abnormal lumps or swellings).
If I don’t succeed I will... (no, do not hurt the other parents, do not threaten co-workers, do not take it out on cherished family pet)... Review five point plan and re-evaluate... (leave gun in drawer in case of prowler)...
When in a state of weakness
I remind myself
That there is another place.
Past my gold watch for twenty years service,
Past kid’s college graduation,
Past peaceful twilight retirement village,
A place where I can do what I want
And be with who I want to be with all the time.
There is a place
Other than this.
Isn’t there?
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Karma Police by Radiohead
Electronics speak through the walls, calling and fighting. A calamity of fuzz and static emotion bleeding into the wall paper.
I can’t take anymore.
My teeth grind through sleep, dust down my throat and shadows behind eyes.
She lies next to me, making a cat’s cradle on the ceiling, her jeans ripped, hair hiding her lips.
The lamp rattles and we hunt for cigarettes amongst the rest of the rubbish on the floor. We’ve lived happier lives, but that was then, and now there is just nothing better to do.
She turns on the backburner to light the last cigarette and says we have some party to go to.
More music, more dancing.
I can handle it, I tell her, scratching at my sleeves. It’s all good.
I feel like a ghost walking through the night streets. My back aches from emptiness, she’s light as a bird on the asphalt.
The party happens. I vomit on the floor not five minutes after our arrival.
I thought I was better.
The music thumped, heavy and hard and wet. The heat was full blast. She kissed me, my fingers ran through her hair, then I fell.
I didn’t think I could get this sick.
She carried me home, dragging me down the black path home. No more vomit, empty stomach. I could feel angel wings of shame sprout and carry my body on the slight pride I had left.
I stayed at the door, sitting on the outside steps, watching the lights blink on and off
On and off
Up and down the road. My fingers ache, my hands shake and I can’t get rid of this ill feeling. I wait for the dawn to cleanse me, here on my roost, burn away the night and leave me pure:
Leave me to give all I have for yet another day.
I can’t take anymore.
My teeth grind through sleep, dust down my throat and shadows behind eyes.
She lies next to me, making a cat’s cradle on the ceiling, her jeans ripped, hair hiding her lips.
The lamp rattles and we hunt for cigarettes amongst the rest of the rubbish on the floor. We’ve lived happier lives, but that was then, and now there is just nothing better to do.
She turns on the backburner to light the last cigarette and says we have some party to go to.
More music, more dancing.
I can handle it, I tell her, scratching at my sleeves. It’s all good.
I feel like a ghost walking through the night streets. My back aches from emptiness, she’s light as a bird on the asphalt.
The party happens. I vomit on the floor not five minutes after our arrival.
I thought I was better.
The music thumped, heavy and hard and wet. The heat was full blast. She kissed me, my fingers ran through her hair, then I fell.
I didn’t think I could get this sick.
She carried me home, dragging me down the black path home. No more vomit, empty stomach. I could feel angel wings of shame sprout and carry my body on the slight pride I had left.
I stayed at the door, sitting on the outside steps, watching the lights blink on and off
On and off
Up and down the road. My fingers ache, my hands shake and I can’t get rid of this ill feeling. I wait for the dawn to cleanse me, here on my roost, burn away the night and leave me pure:
Leave me to give all I have for yet another day.
Let Down by Radiohead
I am curled up in damp sheets,
Listening to the city's heartbeat.
When my throat cries out for water
I get up and suck from the faucet's nozzle.
Mucus binds my eyes.
I go to my computer
And sign in.
My heart flutters
With anticipation.
No new messages.
I close up the machine
And float over to the window,
Telling myself to wait at least an hour
Before checking it again.
I wash the slime of incubation from my skin,
Then dry myself with a towel that feels like a tongue.
Standing in front of the mirror
I reach around and touch my back.
The trench between my shoulders reminds me
That my spine is gone.
I am now a creature in three parts.
Always, there is three.
The father, son, and Holy Spirit.
Head, thorax, and abdomen.
I sit and stare out the window,
Hazed by the mucus from the lips of my cocoon.
The glass is silvered by a supernova on the streets below
And I glimpse myself and the inside of my womb.
Ants swarm over a hill of sugar,
So dense I imagine lifting them off like a shell.
I know that I must go out and buy the latest cleaning
products.
But I'd have to fly to beat the morning traffic.
In my dreams I soar over the city labyrinth.
But when I check my wings in the mirror
I see that they are still unformed.
Rags of skin, coated in protective mucus,
Strung along a gelatinous bone.
I lie in the shower,
Drinking the water as it streams down my face,
Wrapped in my inchoate wings.
I go to my computer
And sign in.
My heart flutters
With anticipation.
A message from you.
As white hot and precise
As the entomologist's blade.
My translucent skin and internal organs
Pour from me like melted wax.
In my womb
Wrapped in mucus
I will never develop
My world skin.
But in this maze
Of eternal traffic
How far is a pair of ragged wings
Expected to take me?
Post. Script.
The first recorded movie is of a woman in a butterfly costume being impaled by a pin. Start as you mean to finish.
Listening to the city's heartbeat.
When my throat cries out for water
I get up and suck from the faucet's nozzle.
Mucus binds my eyes.
I go to my computer
And sign in.
My heart flutters
With anticipation.
No new messages.
I close up the machine
And float over to the window,
Telling myself to wait at least an hour
Before checking it again.
I wash the slime of incubation from my skin,
Then dry myself with a towel that feels like a tongue.
Standing in front of the mirror
I reach around and touch my back.
The trench between my shoulders reminds me
That my spine is gone.
I am now a creature in three parts.
Always, there is three.
The father, son, and Holy Spirit.
Head, thorax, and abdomen.
I sit and stare out the window,
Hazed by the mucus from the lips of my cocoon.
The glass is silvered by a supernova on the streets below
And I glimpse myself and the inside of my womb.
Ants swarm over a hill of sugar,
So dense I imagine lifting them off like a shell.
I know that I must go out and buy the latest cleaning
products.
But I'd have to fly to beat the morning traffic.
In my dreams I soar over the city labyrinth.
But when I check my wings in the mirror
I see that they are still unformed.
Rags of skin, coated in protective mucus,
Strung along a gelatinous bone.
I lie in the shower,
Drinking the water as it streams down my face,
Wrapped in my inchoate wings.
I go to my computer
And sign in.
My heart flutters
With anticipation.
A message from you.
As white hot and precise
As the entomologist's blade.
My translucent skin and internal organs
Pour from me like melted wax.
In my womb
Wrapped in mucus
I will never develop
My world skin.
But in this maze
Of eternal traffic
How far is a pair of ragged wings
Expected to take me?
Post. Script.
The first recorded movie is of a woman in a butterfly costume being impaled by a pin. Start as you mean to finish.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Exit Music (For a Film) by Radiohead
The Silver Screen, like velvet, pulls away
and begins to envelope me.
It forces my mouth open and I taste...
I taste the choking of the overdosed blonde bombshells.
I taste the burning rubber and smashed steel of rebels.
I taste...
I taste the real life, as it should be lived, seen
on the Silver Screen.
The credits roll and my heart breaks.
The simulacra becomes dreams becomes reality.
Leaving reality a shoddy backdrop from before technicolor.
The Silver Screen is the mother of us all.
Our nature and nurture.
It taught us all the emotions that make us human.
Love.
Anger.
Happiness.
Hate.
The Silver Screen raises us then leaves.
Leaves our child bodies for the wolves to choke on.
and begins to envelope me.
It forces my mouth open and I taste...
I taste the choking of the overdosed blonde bombshells.
I taste the burning rubber and smashed steel of rebels.
I taste...
I taste the real life, as it should be lived, seen
on the Silver Screen.
The credits roll and my heart breaks.
The simulacra becomes dreams becomes reality.
Leaving reality a shoddy backdrop from before technicolor.
The Silver Screen is the mother of us all.
Our nature and nurture.
It taught us all the emotions that make us human.
Love.
Anger.
Happiness.
Hate.
The Silver Screen raises us then leaves.
Leaves our child bodies for the wolves to choke on.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Subterranean Homesick Alien by Radiohead
It's not so much being alone...
...it's being adrift.
Dancing with stars and creating galaxies out of supernova mindsets.
Breezes, warm, flow through hair, and feet meet the sidwalk with a sullen step.
I've cut out my spine with safety scissors and hung it next to the shower curtain.
Now I'm afraid of shadows.
But the sun comes out, warms my wounds, and I continue on my way. Looking up.
I hear the soundtrack...
...drifting aimlessly
through my mind, narrating my emotions.
My friends buzz in the silence of alarm clocks.
It's not being alone...
...it's akin to flying.
I draw energy into my stomach and greedily keep it to myself.
I don't need to share.
I don't care if I'm uptight.
Out-of-sight.
The light is for me.
At night, I sit on the toilet and read old Superman comics.
No darkness.
My spine, drying, tingling.
My nerves twitch behind my eyes, I think they are laughing.
My tongue sits on a dinner plate.
I know it's happier there.
I shave off all my hair.
My feet- I tossed them out the window.
I can't feel my legs anymore, but that makes me smile.
I cut one arm off, throw it to the neighbours dog. It squeaks between his teeth.
Birds wake up and sing to me the dawn.
I scoop out my eyes and put them safely in a glass by the sink.
I mime a dance of love for the universe, my friends, my family, strangers and kings.
I chew off my other arm- it falls onto the tile.
I imagine it makes a beautiful pattern- white on red- like a mint from a restaurant.
The world is dark.
I'm afloat in a bathtub that is slowly staining red...
I imagine.
It's not so much being alone...
...it's being free.
It's flying.
It's floating.
...it's being adrift.
Dancing with stars and creating galaxies out of supernova mindsets.
Breezes, warm, flow through hair, and feet meet the sidwalk with a sullen step.
I've cut out my spine with safety scissors and hung it next to the shower curtain.
Now I'm afraid of shadows.
But the sun comes out, warms my wounds, and I continue on my way. Looking up.
I hear the soundtrack...
...drifting aimlessly
through my mind, narrating my emotions.
My friends buzz in the silence of alarm clocks.
It's not being alone...
...it's akin to flying.
I draw energy into my stomach and greedily keep it to myself.
I don't need to share.
I don't care if I'm uptight.
Out-of-sight.
The light is for me.
At night, I sit on the toilet and read old Superman comics.
No darkness.
My spine, drying, tingling.
My nerves twitch behind my eyes, I think they are laughing.
My tongue sits on a dinner plate.
I know it's happier there.
I shave off all my hair.
My feet- I tossed them out the window.
I can't feel my legs anymore, but that makes me smile.
I cut one arm off, throw it to the neighbours dog. It squeaks between his teeth.
Birds wake up and sing to me the dawn.
I scoop out my eyes and put them safely in a glass by the sink.
I mime a dance of love for the universe, my friends, my family, strangers and kings.
I chew off my other arm- it falls onto the tile.
I imagine it makes a beautiful pattern- white on red- like a mint from a restaurant.
The world is dark.
I'm afloat in a bathtub that is slowly staining red...
I imagine.
It's not so much being alone...
...it's being free.
It's flying.
It's floating.
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