Love and Other Rifles

To the freaks in Asheville, NC;

You never accepted my olive branch.

--A

Demonology

Cassette Tape 4;:  Forces and people that and who are counterintuitive and against Life.

Rewound Backwards Tapes::  Sounds like music

Fastforward;:  Books that look like Julian Strange.  Has that stink of warm wood mixed with cinnamon that was stolen from that Purgatory.  See "Notes on Purgatory, Second Side AA."

Cassette Tape 4, 1:24:;  Noted as The Heartless, cannot have a relationship towards Art but in its refusal and/or Pantomime.  Diagrams listed as "Ye Ol' Skool," made up of babbling language.  Did he save the Czech?  Means no paydirt.

Cassette Tap 4, 1:25:; Lights are Foreign, for the Prosecution to test the Case.  Heavy, insidious, not even worth Bread on the Black Foreign Market.  Books smelled of Steel Ships.  Before the Harriers.

Cassette Tape 3, Wiretapped Scars::  They placed your Head in a Fishbowl.

there is no divisible
between red kempt hair
and fuchsia blossomings
wrapped around a rakes odd curl of flanges
rasping dead old dirt that settled
through the vines of hatred
so attached
so attached
so attacked
so attacked
by weirder permutations
than that mathematical possibility
which in arrogance once laid claim
to this universe's scythe, flipping with cold heat
against the backdoor backdrop
of a hideous shower curtain.

you
YOU
you make no sense
in the realm of those chemicals.

could be some kind of dive bar
required to be artificial
for the sake of selling numbers
by the amount of folly
witness
WITNESS
witless like they
witches like me
old and tired
but with soup instead of a tool handle,
you dumb ass motherfuckers.

goodnight moon

Fragmentation Grenades

Two figures clad in black, approaching White France.  All the loops of former wires trailing from speckled
shell of dark coats, a pale vitality expelled from their snow frosted breath, faces masked by scarves.

Worn nuisances with a side saddle filled with worms, a dark pouch covered with lightning's red sheen
upon the pillow that rested only cowards who wanted to murder.

Haven upon a green porch light.

Black black tormented across the moon

Furthermore, it is a standard injunction to phrase the language in the most beautiful possibility of worlds.

One must.  One mast.  Scarred and flea bitten by hen pecked.

We no longer dance, you see.

A probability curve is heretical across even a graph page made ludicrous by rulers that measure inches instead
of centimeters.

One must chirp.  Two masts and a sandpiper writer.

Sampler at Denny's costs an arm, har. har. har.

You could have given me examples of rusted blood, woven into those serial killer novels planned and tuned according
to carberator noise.  A gaff, strung up with metallic fishing line and preserved.

PT Barnum was a private in a war.

A yes...A yes (he slithered).

ELIZABETH, what a vulgarity lopped into a zoetroppe and paged from nastersiums kept in crystal funnel.

Hell has no freeway.  Ironic, or fitting?  Both.

Ensign lies about ownership, can no longer buy or sell, har. har. har.

"I'm wondering where he is.  Based on the time, he is in one location or in several at once."

Delirium tremens, shaky substrate of plant rot decanted into the lily-livered apportioning of those
who are scared of happiness.  "Happiness is a bit faggy, yeah?"

stew

Recently inspired to do short pieces on the possibilities of genetic modifications, how they could potentially affect the body.  As a springboard, I feel ultimately that such a process would bring a person or animal down to the level of thing; possessed of nothing but the blocks that build life, with ramifications for evolution.

I don't know, this writing craze has left me abundantly and entirely, I gave it up for about a year.  I found my life to be richer and fuller, spending time away from paper.

I recall flights and delving into poetics a year ago, but I don't rightly recall how to do so again.  Reading my old work, I wonder about the patterns, if some of the stuff was just downright nonsense, or if there was anything to it.  I wonder if they can even be said to be reflective of a life at this point.  Really I guess I wanted to be a writer in school.  Out here, the compulsion is lacking and so is the time strangely.  More to the point, I gather that computers and the internet make plagerism a constant threat, which is not a chance I want to take anymore.  People have ripped me off in the past, my work, things that I said and recorded that seemed to come out of my own blood.  It's not a good feeling.  Thinking about it, I'm not sure that I even want to use this as a means of communication.

Hmm, the other things I want to talk about seem hidden.  I should probably just shut up here and save the world the trouble of ferreting out joy, emotion, or thought from what I have put down.

Call it a shame, but I took down a bunch of good posts on this blog.  People were stealing them.  Fuck that. Assholes.  It's a shame, and I don't really understand the compulsion to want to rip off someone else's creative work.

in half bed wisdom
of wide open crater,
the blast ripped asunder
chains and anchors
long kept moored
to the pulp of old newspapers
left out in the rain

i wondered casually
where all the cigarettes
and those nasty girls had gone

while the factories kept at employing
the fucked up waste
and those moments before
were drawn across ancient latitudes
in benzene haze with a circle of chalk