Monday, May 28, 2012

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Thursday, May 10, 2012

[Copies of the longer hours of life, which is located in the center]


[Dont have]


Labeled Compost::

Normal, chicken bites, museum of cartilage, the 6
Port authority, summertime, a sneeze like the birds
Once I saw a show about a Nazi
Gourd heads, feet howling, heart spotted
Hunger, Femur
Snail shell, coffee mug, telephoto cork weevil
Anything cracks on or Crystal door knob
Green tape, X, cool sunglasses, box boxed, your head
Medicine ball, apple, dead keys
Shoe polish, buzzing, wind hum
Trash compactor, Mocha, turntables
Parts of reflections that keep blinking until something yells stop and a gross streak cancels the infernal umbilicus rising; got a great hole the zone barely bordered and width, length, with out and circumspect
Radio nozzle, goat smear, Japan in a clogged clock or creaking bed
We got to go, go around, down here the water smells like cunt
Jump, dig, scrape
Ameliorate


Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Monday, April 30, 2012

scroll down to the loser's section...

http://untwelve.org/2011_competition.html

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Second Person

You are a mad scientist circus performer, ringing a small bell, and staring out of a window near the top of the wizard tower. Every other third Monday, excluding certain numinous terrains, you occasionally teach poetry appreciation to delightful elephants and sassafras tea (but only the tea truly understands the value of metered rhyme).

The crops have withered this year, affecting the moon. You have calculated the lunar orbit to be 3, else it must be from out of state this year; your jellied in-laws have deceived you once again on this date, this day to remember when the lost yarns of old have succeeded in liberating the crusty bathwater, scalded in their mothy tomes.

Duskily cawing, you broom your way up the last few steps of the tower. The incantation is already set: seven and a half candles are lit, plus a few more for show; one for each corner of the tesseract they boat. Or, have been drawn hastily by goats. You enjoy the company of these goats, “Freddy's Bar and Grill and Munitions” (up three percent in the stocks this year alone!). Copyright symbol. Limited liability. If swallowed, do not induce vomiting. Or, maybe you should just go for it.

You feel the incantation went well, though it could perhaps have been slimier. Or more yellow-orange hued; only time will tell. What you do know is this: that such is that what has been magically accomplished is nevermore heretoafterfurthermore a bungalow; not just any bungalow, but one with a decadent scent (all the trolls agree). Such a summoning as this, marvelous in spices, for even the new toaster has three more devices.

For breakfast this evening, a saltwater stew; three hundred marbles, and a blackberry shoe. Serving the stew in your favorite trumpet, you realize upon first taste that the tuning is off. A quick slide of the valve, and Pythagoras weeps, for the natural intonations have been tempered in favor of something slightly saltier. Your pet notebook is cranky, time for a nap.

You tree, you fig, you green the poor kale. You house, you future, you desk the town mayor (you quickly realize this is meant to be read to music in ¾ meter) [[you play your favorite waltz upon your least favorite alien artifact, sparingly but lovingly, or, lovingly but sparingly]] You fork, you spoon, you jaw to the largest caveat. You will can, you will agoraphobic, you will laughter in the spotted decoy (the music should have modulated to the most distant key by now, but it didn't, so you shout in great anger and molasses at your least favorite alien artifact) [[somehow, it is able to comprehend your emotionally-charged orders coupled with verbose molasses, and promptly modulates to the sharp subdominant]]. You have frog, you have painful, you have grease pineapple (your least favorite alien artifact has submitted its two-weeks notice of impending letter of resignation, signed in triplicate with two letters of recommendation from the institute of higher laundry, and other apparel) [[yearly microscope gorillas, levitating]]

Quirking your way back down the steps, you cease ringing the bell, for a storm is coming. You have always wanted to compose in perfect asymmetry. Now is your chance.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Nothing

Nothing

Speckled egg floor
Foot stains
Cigarette butts
Shined carbon-blue poles
Alternating orange yellows
Green grinch hand
Zebra boots

I'm never inclined to ever

*

Snow

Watch lights flicker

*

The apocryphal signs of solitude, doorknobs split
Open as crosshairs between legs, idea of purging
Furious daydreams and constant bewilderment

Shown to the slovenly lakes of time, often cauterized
By subatomic mechanisms of longing, eyes
Peeled back 

*

Enough time certainly, certainly
To write a short poem.
What about time makes me feel
Like butter melting--fat splash
The inconsistencies, 
The necessity. 



Quiet the recursive mind
Wednesday is indigo blue
Now you use it: Empathy
Essential pleasures, the number sense
Meditating selflessly,  a first-rate madness
Dignity god soul mind brain
Pristine inner experience
the art of choosing
myths about suicide
What doesn't kill us
Street lights and shadows
Duels and duets
Losing it
Friction
Scared sick

*

Ambiguity of my life
Quintessential repetition and stalling
Some clean cuts, whispers
I never know what hit me

*

Common sense, nonsense, sensations
An array of senses
Realize: senseless candescence 
Realize: disparate shams
Realize: dissection/affection infected
Was the second third time

Dying

Where we go from here, is up to you. 
Flowers have more feathers than
Birth has more blood than
Hungry has more reason than
All that is was and
Nothing clusters upon downside
Slither

*

Being the noise. Livid, simplest. Bruit about...
What is? Haven't I heard this? Not listening, glisten.
Nowhere else haven't triumphed, trumpeted, trigger 
Mortis, gang bungalow. 

*

My mind bruises easily
Like the wadded bananas
Frozen together
In the defunct refrigerator
That resides in my kitchen

I have an issue with boredom
It doesn't suit me
A cat could be more suited to it
Than I ever could

Here are the apostles
In my mind they are gone
What happened to their feet
And hands
Its easy, like self-hypnosis
They're glued together

Knowing myself
I find it strange when my mirror
Collapses in the folds
And blankets my eyes
Caked with dust

Gunked up in the sink
Some vomit or just tails of dreams
Slyly crawled to the water
Instead of asking
I should just drink

*

Drinking has its way
Of making me want
Everything I don't have
Not so much that I do anything
But enough that I do what I can
What does it take to live
Where living is expensive
There is little break
No caution
Step forward into a world of money
Let it be known
That I cannot feel
For any other place. 

*

Turmoil, I'm a gonner

Here I sit
Vile and putrid
Succumbing to
Usuality 

I ignoble
Gracing my own
Precipice
Dither

*

Delineate these senses
Obstruction is not warranted
My apple holds true
In the land of knots

Moonlight sunbeam crusts & fur
Washing down the hatch
Close to home
Door switch
Light knob

*

Wearing glossy cameras
Gargle umbilicus
Print it out, get it out
Decisions
Eroded
Trash heap and cluster
Horde hitting face nibble

Chunks

Licking hurts anger brilliant
Metamorphosis, considerable
Desiccant incantations
Fringe ghosts and gathered
Crystal specters
Gossamer wraiths

Muck and grime collateral
Shrink

*

forever it's been lost
It should never work that way
Let's look into our pot of tea
And determine where we are

Friday, February 10, 2012

Into Silence.

Everything in a single moment, once nothingness has manifested itself in empty splendor. A tape-loop thought; a feeling; a distant sound of repeating laughter. The sounds of breathing. This time, do not give in to astonishment! Lifeless body released into boundless is-ness. In the grip of terror, yet meditating serenely. These thoughts have been thought before. Deja vu.

This is not quite what I mean to say.

The music of breathing. A symphony! A symphony of nothing: breathing. Of the past and of the future, of life and death, of silence and sound, of everything and nothing woven together in an intricate tapestry. Touching the fabric of reality.


(composed immediately after a DMT experience)

Monday, January 16, 2012

The Owner of a Loving God


A god is a luxurious thing to own. If it loves you. The feel of the fur alone is enough to seduce you. Downy hair, smooth. A wealth of hair, better than the hair on your own head, covering the warm, palpitating body. A body so unobtrusive and bendable and adaptable. The god fits in crannies and withstands being held against the chest for hours. The belly of large gods is covered with a light fuzz which grows to full length with time, but the belly hair of a small, wiggly god stays short and silky, much like the hair of an infant, sensitive to your touch. All have urgent eyes. A loving god loves with its tongue. The tongue is alive. Warm and smooth, the textural difference in the sea of fur, like patent leather on cashmere. The tilt of the face and quadrupedal squat set the tongue as an extremity. The tongue meets the world. The tongue meets other gods in the rear extremity. The exchange is natural and honest. But if it is your god, you might not chance that type of encounter. Once it is accustomed to interacting with your nose and cheeks, your god, especially a lady god, will shun all other encounters. The god will be the object of your touch and affection. The god is aesthetic, ergonomic and is composed with irresistible symmetry. The god and its owner engage in a shared sensualism. The hand longs to stroke the god. The god longs to be stroked by the hand. Petting can go on for long lulls, only interrupted by the god’s pink tongue on your hand, face, and neck. Licking that lasts longer than little fits of gratitude is a god’s selfish pleasure. The owner also enjoys the furious lather until it remembers its personhood.