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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in the Artful Dodger's LiveJournal:

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    Thursday, November 26th, 2009
    1:40 am
    sifting through the strewn
    It took the stones out of my mouth, and replaced them with
    pennies over their eyes...
    a ship sent sailing to the edge,
    excavated heart caverns,
    hands folded over in what i could only imagine
    was the symbol for peace..
    [backwards wings and onslaught of bones]
    Every so often, the fragments resurface
    i'm sure you've seen it, eyes alight
    with rabid memories, strewn across the carpet
    hands clamped tight and buttercups
    in photographs, in electronic devices
    [a choice made twice]
    roaming and ,smudging
    like ghosts, like shadows, like conflicting
    psyche..making more of it
    than it was..

    a story i could roll out like entrails,
    a tale as tall as the stars,
    on their stilt legs,overstepping statues.
    a memory as jagged as shark teeth,
    and jutting flames
    as we were burning in hell, as we counted
    backwards to 7..
    hand in hand, heads touching as we sprawled
    out on the landing,
    on the platforms of wood in parks
    like there was only then,and never ever,
    when the world would stoop holding its breath,
    where you gave that last cheshire cat grin
    and made your lies into truths,
    made violence into purpose,
    made bad dreams into nightmares..
    just like snapping fingers, and the two halves are there
    spreading my ribcage wide open
    to encompass this entire avalanche
    like working class echos, black and white intensity
    gleaming jarred against the contrast
    that viscous viscous contrast
    that your impression left,a longing stretch
    long after you up and walked..
    long after these shadows crept, from beneith my eyes
    into the storm clouds gathered
    like leaning visitors
    at my doorstep, at my bedside,
    as i sit awake and gaze at the downfall,
    blurred and ugly and enraged
    at all that had happened, at all that does happen
    when we forget to pay close attention..
    when we get tangled up in detail..
    forget the brittle exoskeleton,
    and dance too close with madness,
    learn too much on the human methods,
    and all the selfish filth we have become
    picking each other apart,
    like rabid hyenas at a lions kill.

    [a curve in the neck of the swan
    the swaying of the weeping willow
    dancer in the midafternoon high wind]

    rolling forefinger over thumb, rain hammering
    and aeroplanes sound overhead..
    a trashed image emerges, sounding hammers onto skulls
    and black eyes to the overheard.
    its exhausting to watch you at work
    its testing to watch the harm we test
    like we care, knowing we can escape
    that no one looks too closely, no one sees the subtle..
    [thats what went wrong, we all forgot to be there..]
    and then,
    and then,
    and then,
    .
    .
    its empty streets of cobbles, winding downward
    towards the canal
    echos of clarinet and standup bass,
    bleak fog and the timetravel..
    days after blurrs to unknown, staggering walks
    through black paths
    of industrial buildings with blown out windows,
    looming structures of decay
    rusted gaping eyes, wisping trails of
    old old magick, and moonlight dreaming
    bringback memories of starvation and insomnia
    [the best pieces i ever wrote]
    [the best parts i ever played]
    trailing wool and playing cards through
    the freezing year...
    when
    waking through your eyes, and
    letting the back curve just the right amount
    straighten the sinks, rattle the coins
    strike jarring vocals into the snow..
    we all died and were reborn, we all shed skin
    like stolen overcoats from the lushworkers
    broke windows in each others souls
    and struck matches in the heartchambers
    burning rings of scartissue
    that maybe might never heal
    maybe might stay smouldering
    draining or giving strength, purpose or defeat
    sitting entwined in back alleys
    back to back, arms locked
    worse than junk, they s a i d
    talking through rotting teeth, and cigar
    trailing hands through hair and
    midnight majick, locked the protection,skipped the record
    and set fire to the strings
    the walls of concentration,
    the structures of foundation,
    came tumbling down those nights..
    the blackness had spread through his eyes,
    [thats what took him]
    [let the calm break through me
    artificially injected through a series
    of precise routines]
    broke every voice we knew,
    lost every illusion we held close
    like ragdolls, like desperate beleifs,
    that we all make it out of this alive,
    that every one made their wings to fly..
    up..up..
    instead of,
    towards the gaping jaws
    ,and then
    it was just quiet, and the eyes cleared
    and the smoke died down
    like a curtain..
    like a spinal column settling.
    a loud series of snaps, and a gutting
    like the very soul was scooped out
    and then replaced altered..
    no discretion, no conscious definition,
    of 'for better or worse'
    [just different,quietly]
    flittering memories, of such a beautiful face
    and why she lost her cool.
    memory, of
    endlessness, of blue skies across meadows
    and a march of monsters
    across the circumference of the moon..
    of the feel of batting eyelash, and whiskers
    and whispers of sweetness
    instead of tragedies that have been buried
    deep behind my eyes, ringing in my ears
    like swingset songs...
    sometimes up into the light,
    other times,downwards towards the night..

    X
    .
    ~J.H.T
    Tuesday, September 29th, 2009
    2:03 pm
    the sunshine strikes again, steer clear of the frozen fingers
    as smoke cascades sideways from crude brick chimneys
    down to meet with the joker sun
    expressions of the morning,wearing wellington boots
    and sipping white coffee in the snowmade back porch
    box churches and sunken headstones
    [beneith it all lies a creek,wavering out like the
    near forgotten basilisks]
    even the dogs grave wasn't spared,
    snout chipped slightly,.

    smoothing out verses, over woodpanel benches
    a perch made all yer own, curled up deep in the booths
    of cheap diners, with those flickering florescent lights
    trying not to crash,trying not to laugh
    and mangle that pretty bright psyche car,candycolored
    in the persistent traffic of M.Emory
    of clammy paws and shaking head to the beat
    lying all alone,on the dirt and glitterencrusted glamour
    of that one reaccuring floor
    spreading out arms,to immitate heart
    to immitate a falling star,never caught in time
    wishes dripping through that soft green grass
    of feilds and valleys, schoolyard in reality
    catching breath like a bee in a jar,
    freezing it and tieing a little bow,so it can never fly too far
    away fromthe source,the hope,the understated truth
    of feeling,of seeing,of nothing,nevermind
    laughing through the storms
    dancing with the lightning,holding hands with willow
    as he bends his majestic boughs down at the park
    and just letting it all spin
    spin till the circles turn their effect on the world
    and we all ring around the rosey
    [nothing to do with the plague,this time,i promise..]
    .
    a wander into the streets of yesterday
    seems function has never been fully determined
    the machines of emotion falter too often,and moves
    are rarely made when they should..
    softly spoken eyelashes, snailshell smiling
    hide the face behind the curtains,the show is done
    playing to the public has always been so awkward
    boardgames seem more appropriate
    chucking our voices about the room like coins
    down down the well, no girl shall crawl out of this one
    monsters are too close to home
    the black eyes of the consumed, the sharp jagged moves
    [i never said i was beauty, i alway prefered the beast.
    but my what a misunderstood beast it was.]
    the story is wound around my wrist
    and i can't help but sing,when no one can see
    from sideways doorways,
    keys to the hidden ways,unlock the little overlooked
    but just don't flee..
    .
    a shooting star is a story,its tail holds cosmic fragments
    if nothing to do with the happy ending
    its not pessimism, i have never been that fatalistic
    even after a few deaths clung to the corners of sleeplesseyes
    and needles scattered over the floors
    the junk was corrosive.
    took turns ,rolled the dice, and caught the bus
    with the realization of simplicity
    the hardest ego may crumble
    and watching forests slip past a 4 day window
    ]bleeding moon playing the clouds into formation
    visualization of breaking back to basics
    lone flowing hair womyn
    crossing oceans to turn her head forward
    turned back around,cuaght by the ghosts
    and spoken to by no real consolation
    building bones stronger,frame from dissintergration
    stepping out of one cage and into another
    [there is no door]
    its so hard to remember,when you stand at edge
    after edge after edge
    keep the streets close,and your fears closer
    how else do you win the game,they advise,
    that has been played for centuries across the spine
    matching torn paper to handwriting
    of the departed[i will remember always,don't think i too will forget
    all those wasted nights stored beneith the skin]
    its time for celebration,even if i can't stop crying
    even if the fever has grown into a fine frenzy
    benieth vaulting ceilings
    the cracks may cause it all to collapse
    but there is wreckage to build from
    and anything can be made into glue to bind
    the faltering heart beat to drum the bassline
    .
    a chipped shoulder
    making clay into paper,as the sunrises
    on track
    working complication into typeformat
    empty out the trash
    records flung like frizbee,
    bookcover to the human impression
    scripted out and bound with pictures
    raising laughter over the screaming
    sidestepping,take this dance to the floor
    don't wake me up before i am done this dream
    keep the locket at the gates
    snapped shut to press the flowers
    puddles of cobbles and snuffles of runny noses
    receding steps backwards
    down all the runways of mind fashion
    the frame was shaken,but the core remains
    intact and stubborn as a leech
    it will take more than salt to tear it away
    entranced,but in secrecy
    or as secret as the most obvious reaction can be
    once upon a time
    i stood in the centre,but far off to the corner
    in a room not too far from here,over tea
    and compact living,stringing catscradle automation
    makeshift improvosisation at the call of company
    gaze crashing to the collecting dust
    the spiderweb decorativ incorporation
    light those past rooms cluttered by books
    and african brothers dagger et mace
    masks expressing only frozen personality,when you look over
    with the army decor of the french,world war 2
    roman influence seeping from maps
    and cat nose ,as he used to dance ballet
    paws held to a clean point.
    .
    whisper stardust into my eyes
    pupils burned out by the sun lighter clicking
    teeth stained by tea all these years
    tapping out the melodies on tabletops
    tearing the matches from my skull
    chewing fingers, exorsice this nervernous from my tummy
    the impending instance
    the fluttering of a thousand monarch butterflies
    make room for the moths
    move over isolation.make room on the stilts
    for the piano of simple contentment
    cutting like a butterknife though the oceanside sands
    still moist from the visiting tide
    swayed like a lover by the moon to return
    return past the chipped shells,place the pebble beneith the tounge
    and treck onwards
    torn sweater of rough twine and mended chain
    little grey string tied in doubleknot
    collecting feathers,
    perhaps one day wings will be made
    crude and wax clotted and childlike
    but that can't mean they won';t hold//
    footnote to the orchestra of solar bazarr
    smokin' cigarette like a philospher
    bring back the 'los' concept,even cross all that distance
    and all those beers chugged by candlelight
    while the beetles scuttled,and centipedes tapped their shoes
    tie the laces,so you won't trip this time
    this time the music speaks down within the ribcage
    i can still joke through the tears
    laugh through the doubled up pain,if i want to
    can't help it,migranes get a kick out of it
    the voice is getting haggard
    but the emotion conveyed is worth the momentary rasp
    the evident flaws
    mapped out in craniological terms
    over wiskey and coffee,in the Griffen's layer
    one young day with God and the Alien
    [come see it again..]
    the faults are what makes us who we are//
    and i am in love with yours.[save it for later]
    the peace and quiet of monday morning in the sunshine
    in the snowstorm
    muffled beyond thought.procession in the
    paradegroundss
    slipping pennies on the railroad track
    right after climbing bears by the seaside
    in the wake of misguided evidence.
    .

    a sunken night of baked goods.
    she said i need love
    said i need to be taken in and for someone to treat me
    like he didn't,at the tail end of shell building in iron
    when it all cut the circulation off and freezing happened.
    in need of intervention,in dire need of calming
    or was that just words of consolation
    i do not search the starsigns.i refuse to put my neck out
    to the guillotine.
    there are no first moves within my vocabulary
    shy bright thing smoldering
    ashes caught under fingernails, and butter melting
    methodical in unconditional silence
    roadsigns mean nothing to the immobolized./
    get behind the wheel and drive
    chances taken on so many occassions
    all chanced out, fuel is low, refill is too costly
    best to keep it quiet, i am not the most daring
    just the biggest fool.
    X
    ~Dodger
    Tuesday, September 15th, 2009
    1:10 pm
    the fool and the falling star
    we,.took the stars within our arms
    and emptied our eyes of your visions;
    your dirty fingerprints and double exposures,
    blackened tongue of missing heart..
    opened our palms to the sun, and
    unsheathed our backs to the moon
    a face turned up to the night fall,
    [the mauve hour,and its sweetsweet weight]
    uncovered and unshackled
    returning to real faces, our blatant cores
    flashed like dirty secrets, like ill kept yearnings
    a parade of magnificent mistakes
    [birds in midflight]
    and then somehow, they are clean and true..
    no mistake to think of..
    scraped away the masks and fiction,
    worshiping our flaws, unfastening our ties and binds
    acknowledge the imperfections that make us
    whole
    and
    we are taking, and we are taken
    and we are given, giving
    strength
    crossing our hands above heart beats..
    feather and flames reignited
    and the memory that we are blessed,
    that we, are re..creation
    letting time fall in granules of sand
    from the concepts, the ideals
    the perfection glimpsed in the illusions
    ;that control exists, that we have identical limbs
    that life will stop and wait at the red light
    a stall for the sake of singular
    a gesture tailored
    and
    \may i go, and i don't know why..
    may i walk forward and be content, upon this concrete,
    drawn in and buckled down, upon the ground
    in passion
    in madness
    in intensity
    in acceptance
    in love and unconditional continuation
    down there with the dirt of the earth, and the roots of life
    until i lose my sense of confinement
    between these lines drawn, stepping over the wires
    over the joined arms of blocked vision
    the gangs of 'right' and 'wrong'
    until we stand , dancing barefoot
    mind expanding outward, contemplating
    unrefined thoughts like this, here, now
    [the only moment there is..]
    the intense sense of.., a breath
    drawn deep from within the belly
    ear layed down to hear the shudder..
    a shard of silence shared like a slice of ice
    between two minds, between a thousand eyes
    clasped together..
    sending pebbles off of rooftops;
    safe and sound, drawn out like the eagle
    curled into and out
    caught up in midair, the great mysteries
    stories mentioned in passing by Raven
    the great simplicities...of falling

    and a sensation, a fingertip to spine
    backwards as opiates, sideways as the lines
    installed, in the crosses and x's
    symbols intilling errors and fear
    with all their repentance
    clung to the arms of humanity, begging
    for bites..
    here i be walking through the walls,
    sideways gazing, arms held open
    trying to find that .between station;
    a concentration of meaning
    joined between finality of impermanence,
    drawn in the vacuum of moment, [a room like no other]
    andcaught, by the cusp of reason,
    a soft embrace beneith night skies
    petals drifting from the open blossoms.
    and there is a searing pain
    dislocated worse than bone fragments, in this structure..
    we was born to houses with doors
    and the every attempt to open
    the pathways between us
    kisses on both cheeks
    listening to the impossibility
    like the meteor shower skimming
    the branches of weeping willow.
    a magnetic circle, drawn around and round
    this, eyes closed to the thunder.
    palms stretched up to the electric
    and a silent speech,
    shaken from the folds of fabric,like a granite river,
    like stardust from the skies sweet oblivion
    cradling life with affection,
    instead of desperation..soft skin and
    batting eyelashes
    carried across the threshold of secrets untold
    ,a rainstorm of exsistence
    and i ain't got no coat on,but i am still dancing
    remembering
    those cloudy days,and midmorning suppers
    drank down like hot chocolat
    with all the makebelieve,tucked away in a pocket
    with string and hearts made of paper
    we will reenter the world
    hand in hand ,like guests and hosts,and
    complete fools.
    X
    ~J
    Monday, August 10th, 2009
    10:50 pm
    When we stand at the gates,
    fists curled up to meet the doors,
    hands drawn up to scour the contures of our faces
    reflected in dusty mirrors in semidarkness
    The pressing connections between
    one thought to the evolutionary step of action,
    these realizations drawn from a game of dominos
    the childrens play of marbles,
    one hits off, spinning out a dozen more..
    and the stone throwers stop in a row,
    heads inclined and eyes widened
    gaze leveling downwards
    as the gravity of the occasions of past..
    step up the stairs in grave mood
    tying the strings of fear and its instigations into bows,
    one hand clasped to another
    hair caught on the sharp edge of curled lips
    as the winds raise their voices
    [and i swore, i could hear the world breeaathe,
    that shuddering cavernous creek
    a thousand sinking shipsss]
    \


    Stepping lightly, everythings started spinning
    feathers disheveled across gardens,
    imagery and flittering emotional electricity
    around and before the eyes like twisting film..
    those features are hard to forget
    the cold flint within the eye of the hurricane
    burning candles at dusk,just stepped out
    of the fires..
    and the ways in which we wear out
    aren't even equivalent to the exhaustion
    we breed by trying endlessly to fight ourselves
    trying to dig the holes to bury
    whatever traits we decided you decided weren't worthy
    weren't the preferable, specified, the right way
    to wear our hats, our smiles, our ties
    incorrect records
    to laugh, to dream, to move
    as we wish, did you wish that?
    the intensity in a snailshell,
    sitting alone upon the window sill
    as the darkened clouds begin to coterize..
    i hear the deafening weight
    carried across the earth by exsistence..
    And within my head, i dream of the lifting
    of all the cages
    i dream of endless open skies, und der Freiraum
    ,that can almost be glimpsed in a piano concerato,
    the deep emotional voice of cello, swaying
    lost within birch and peeling paint..
    and i dream
    of days of thunder stripping the shingles
    off of our petty judgements,
    and the searing pains of isolations
    imposed as though every person is a god;
    yet doesn't point inwards for better, but projects outward
    in an attempt to heighten their status..
    i dream
    of days when blood will stop seeping
    through the walls of society, like overcast wraiths
    and all those rainswept streets will echo the poetry
    of unconditioned thought ,sans premeditated layouts
    sans the boxes and molds we have been asked
    to force our varied forms into..
    what has progressed in a world,
    that after thousands of histrionic recollections,
    can offer up nothing more than the same foolish patterns
    drawn from scrawl to ink to shiny technological 1s and 0s,
    i ask you, as an insignificant entity ,with all the burning
    of a thousand decades of injustice,
    what should i have done with my talents to solve?
    what didnt i do that i could easily have been able to learn?
    they say one alone is nothing,
    but one living for their life with others in love,
    instead of for only others and resentment
    is more powerful withstanding...
    and every silence has a story to tell
    the lost echo of the moments ensnared
    within the struggles,
    a sky moving sideways across peaceful sight
    as they face the cliffsides,
    even as the experience states
    just a moment left, just a dozen decades
    ravished with wartime splendor,
    with the contradictions layed out like wounded soildiers
    and we can no longer distinguish,
    our minds have been overpowered
    drowned by the entranced visions
    [she's afraid of a light in this dark...]
    this bird may fly, but the cage shall be left
    and i wont lay down this hammer,
    till its good and
    dismantled and scattered
    across the sands of the red desert
    and this skinl sheds the poisons
    spit out all the sharp words, inclining heads
    for all those years of searing and straining
    against the bonds, and the memories of others
    the second hand guilt, the untouched anger
    at the state the world created,
    the world we manufactured by the laws
    with all our love, all our hate, all our ...
    neverending arguments, drawn out like infinity
    just as the snake chases its own tail..

    i dream
    of vast meadows reflected across the surface
    of your eyes,
    metaphorically, a break in the ice,
    and a silence to these fears,
    these fears i see wandering the streets,
    and flickering through the bodies of the people..
    i dream of calm,
    after all the years consumed
    like the half starved dogs ,consuming the moon,
    like the haunting image of your face
    like the dark streets of east hastings
    like the black eyes of blindness...

    {how many fates took to their heels,
    how many masks chipped from our faces?
    i've stood spinning here,making myself sick
    in my attempt to run from the sun...
    i'd taken every poison they fed me,
    and yet i still failed to keep you alive..
    so i painted our faces, and i caught the next ride
    chasing the shadows of past,
    dragging myself along the sea's bottom
    for the mistakes i made, the venom i spat
    when it all came down crashing on our heads
    breaking all those perfect card houses
    a handful of 'roaches and the cats pulled from windows
    and i was frozen, to that moment
    the years that stretched as far as my pupils
    after 6 days insomniac, and white kaffee
    draining around bared teeth
    churning smoke...]

    i wake,and
    there are vast skies, and i don't resist
    letting them capture me
    for those few moments of peace,
    and the reminder
    that i balance my own scales now
    after years of tipping
    back and forth/

    X
    ~JHT
    Friday, March 27th, 2009
    12:26 pm
    making stick fires, they sat about a random tower
    trailing sleeves in the dirt, and magick spells cast offkilter
    sewing stitches into the hems of dreams
    the dreams of broken wishes, and eyes closed tighter
    than should have been required
    had the days sunken their sound
    had the rats kept to themselves
    had the blankets housed less holes
    and the wind been let in,to dispel the sense of gloom
    from the accumulation of misguided magick
    of sinking
    ..
    there was one, where every sleep
    would fall endlessly down a well
    every time, stand about the edge,
    see the inevitable end
    and yet..and yet, simply gravitate regardless
    as though that was an eternal wish
    keeping the end in sight, was safer than not knowing
    that well, began to instill the saftey
    only repetition blinds us into beleiving
    is right.
    ..
    there was one, a child of mere age
    that would daydream after nightmare
    always end up surrounded by the sphinx
    with their gleaming eyes shining from london streets
    trecking forwards,claws clicking on cobbles
    in trailing little circles, like question marks
    and ask her, over and over and over
    'if there were a thousand skies
    and yet ,only behind her eyes,
    where did they belong?'
    Monday, August 25th, 2008
    10:28 pm
    through the curtains of rain
    [photografie:Aleš WAKSMUNDSKÝ]

    .
    in sotspoken fragments,the woven excerpts
    a timeline unraveled like ribbon through inconsistent finger movements
    over the sunken keys of the grand piano
    stationed in rest,or perhaps..moreso disuse,
    at the far corner of that wartorn dancefloor
    all splintered and coarse as the language of a vagrant
    emptied at The time, the Time of censor
    when the jazz was torn out of our hands and hats
    freedom crushed beneith one selfproclaimed lord after another
    shoelace ties clipped from necks, dollface with the sad eyes, pale as an orchid
    keeping watch by the windows
    as
    the chase rang out through halls and alleys
    bass saxophone, bitter backalley doorway scribblings
    on the most passionate of notes, between rage and rebellion, resistance and preservation..
    ,weaving stories
    truth donning masks in third person to express
    silence, and the after thought.. of breaking it..

    and those words lived onward and onward,
    these words echo as those echoed
    the thoughtlost notebooks, the chained in smuggled and troubled
    penned in the hidden walkways of frozenplaited past
    glasseyed and lacklustre, pallid and wrought
    of ivory and iron..
    through petals of rain, the imagery stands embossed.
    Time, [that man with a flowing face]
    he..never stood still for anyone.
    when we all died,when we were all reborn..when we
    fell backwards and forwards..through shattered carnival window..
    photographs carry imagery, but these words
    will carry perspective and emotion with open doors..
    see as you see fit,dear..

    [in midfall,the rains returned..]

    across uneven cobbled footing, and turning ,winding
    scatter of marbles, mismatching pins and needles
    faces sealed behind masks, and scissors used to amputate needs
    the darkroam alleys of filthridden shop windows
    lightning struck individuals..
    a face in the pit of ashes, smeared out significance
    [but wired into, her, heartt..]
    wandering the grounds of unrealistic experience
    through 1939, back out into the ruins
    shrapnel and discontinued conversations
    lost in the afternoize of fallen bombs..
    the dove feather rose above the debris
    little hands and claws made of dilated pupils
    course as the falling snow
    over peaked rooftops, icebitten windows making patterns
    hiding sunken faces in their dreams..

    an echo often sounds. a touch of faltering flesh..

    when we count back to ten,
    indicating to our left, the hepcat with the stolen property
    and the magistrate with a collection of wills and pigion skulls,,
    the tobacconist without eyes, and his wife with the sword collection..
    the slaughterhouse manager, and his morphine addicted daughter...
    things may flicker and switch, may spin like a wheel
    of destiny, or dis.ease
    through the ages of damage
    partnered in this dance of life..
    with the ages of beauty...

    you may find me here, picking the shirtsleeves
    and the petals off the ground,. wondering
    wondering
    in the empty halls
    in those hollow walls
    which houses that Great disaster
    yet, can simply be
    the most beautiful thing ever seen...
    benith the frostbitten language,and the sunburnt wreckage
    the veneer has been lifted, and through tragedy
    do we see the comparisons...
    X
    ~J

    Current Music: devil doll, yann tiersen
    Friday, July 18th, 2008
    4:17 pm
    back to bc
    so i am back in vancouver. its a headtrip to say the least. nothing is in french. old magick. not enough bricks. less ghosts. a hell of alot of memories.
    but,it would be nice to see people. but i can only chase so much. so,for those who want to get in touch with me,since i have no numbers to anyone now...send me your numbers. yarr.
    beer will be had!
    X
    ~J
    Thursday, June 19th, 2008
    12:58 am
    its in the way,you turned and looked over,the pages emptied and stammered.
    there is something,within the sta[i]r/e/s
    opening up into hollow eyes,and then
    the skies cast over in little ways,just so little ways
    that make it real. real they said
    over sips of blackened soot coffe,e..and
    vaguely put offerings a- [here they drew a pause,out of their hats,in india ink]
    t
    the reckless end of the story. such a pity
    was the word scrawled over his hand
    in pockets that fell down
    those accursed sta[i]r/e/s
    will they ever lead upwards,will they
    ever turn their eyes farther??
    X
    Wednesday, June 18th, 2008
    9:39 am
    Carnival callings to d,ear Prudence
    there was a ragtag band following behind us
    all dressed in chalk smeared black and red diamonds,
    blues smudged as the night pastel over sharpened cobbles
    in silence and in musick,
    tophats tilted and patchwork coattails,.veils clung down like cobweb curtains
    beneith
    the bleeding beautyspot horizon
    cradled within delicate fading mountains sleeping
    as the selfpronounced heavens,[shimmering feather boa constrictors]
    rained rose petals and scarab beetles,.
    like storms kissing the ocean.a porcelean hand to the splintered heart chambers
    and the lines on the sands matched
    to trailing tails of skampering feet,snailshell patterns
    the caravans born of darkened pine breeding
    all of noah's arks worth in woodworms and termites
    flying silk flags and dancing feathers
    turning words into dancesteps
    through the pockets of Time,unusual collections of weather
    wild ways of turning winds through hair and eyelashes
    the insturments played in brass and rust
    keeping tuned with the shadowed windows on either side
    of thoughts creepin'
    a mixmatched laugh,ringing out brazen and biting
    smooth as seasoaked velvet
    in the rain of wednsday morning,or was it friday?
    keeping the keys next to the bass,chipped mug next to the snakeeyes
    rhythm bordering on abandon ,a tumbleweed affair
    as the bottles roll cross the tipping ship surface
    in the clouds,on the way to touch the Moon
    carried upwards through horsedrawn and seagull carried structures
    resembling,but not quite pinpointing
    this waywardly carnival,maskclad but hiding nothing
    nothing in a jar with everything
    and just the smallest remnants of blueberry jam
    keeping the hardtoreach corners warm...
    .
    'the sun is up,the sky is blue
    its beautiful,.and so are you...'
    X
    9:38 am
    Walkabout
    She walked before the storm, along longdeserted paths. Hands loose at the sides but outstretched to the night when little fingers seeked. This girl with her drawn down mannequin face wore peeling paint dresses and unwinding sweaters of soot. They came to cling to her icesculpted hands like missing children of the milkcarton sort, swinging and grinning through the delicate mist and smoldering petals. Here shadows peeled and lamplights flickered where she passed. Little monsters crept out from hiding to follow her lead,like rendition Pied Piper of the ethiereal, they moved in black water backstreets in the wake, eyes encrusted with charcoal like ornaments and curling limbs of dotted ink spills. Creepers of the Twilight, locked through fractured bass riffs at the entrance of Night upon tilting horizon veiws [where the ships are spun upwards to meet for tea with the starsss]. Like trailing smoke, the musick unraveled at her heels. Little faces appeared at the edge of gutter and sunken stone structures leaning inward as aged greiving. The realm of untarnished rusting magick ,of the veils thinnest moments, the Time of no clocks comprehension. Hair trailing through winds fingers like muffled beauty. Through the smooth clicking atmosphere, she walked tall despite the freezing breath of twisted metal remains and years upon years of distance. Lone tuning of assorted instrumentals slipping from the windows passed, they began to form like portals, gaping jaws from where they crept to join the cloud of beings in tow like trailing ribbons, linking to her in common and in difference, these sinking frames of Twilight made in motions. All mixmatched brothers and sisters, some thin birch bark wrapped and excavated fossil pressed close to slinking smiles that curled upwards in plaster,others held up bandaged claws with neverending songs fashioned of wayward wordless lullaby in the tangled ears of cryptick knotted flesh made of uncertain recollection. Others still wore hats topped with matted fur and whiskers turned upward towards beadwork eyes brightened like wildfire. Feather clung to wax backs and snickers tangled paws as they spun round and round and round,like backmasked sound..
    The streets curled before her and behind her like serpents, cobbles akinned to roughworn scales in deepringing color. She led the misfits and rambles through those darkened ways like Korczac had led his orphans,loyal figurehead to the longsunken ship eyes,ringed with stars even if they were meant to fall like comets...
    X
    9:37 am
    FOrgotten Tails
    the way they were leaning inward
    them walls looked lost in reflection
    through dreary weather and smileflecked children passing
    stooped against the onslaught of winter
    fingers freezing lillies of the linguistics
    translations for what words couldn't quite touch
    from far above the starry faces
    hair caught at the edge of lips and snailshell
    the matted visages entered the scene like great wings
    past daylight hours,out of reach of harm
    these Forgottens moved like fluid choreographed euphoria
    one step here and one tap there
    long fingers wrapped in elegance,angular skeletal frames
    profiles caught the breath of any regardless
    so frightening,the people would whisper behind closed drapes
    like a horror story,even if they never knew its source
    never thought to seek the truth.
    from word of mouth into ears of misbehaving child
    though
    perhaps it was for the better,that the Forgottens remained
    untouched by prying questions ,stinging looks
    from prejuidiced eyes stormy with fear and revolt
    just because they wore the skulls of cows and bears
    [such little things taint like dye drops on coffee filter..]
    they preffered perhaps,that humanity remained non the wiser
    as they prowled those frostbit streets
    swarms and on the lonesome,shrouded clouds of hanging fabric
    little nails touching delicate like microscopic instruments
    so much care behind the motorized bones, like softspoken love
    in the velvetine embrace of candlelit rooms.
    they tilted they gazes grazing the closed doors and chipped stairs
    moving from one place to another,dining on dreams
    spinning gossamer seams to stitch together beyond the realm
    so fashioned as 'reality',those hopes and deepwell penny wishes
    to construct the lives of subconscious dreaming
    into elaborate stories fit for those who walk on
    and nightmarish sigils into the rabid realms of those who burn..
    each a lesson to learn,a fear to face,empowerment to receive
    by their wistful musings made aide
    to the humanity that scorned them,unawares though
    when sleeping,to these gliding sails
    to shipwrecked frames hung crude against the winds
    [in love and lighte,the dark too do sometimes walk]
    X
    9:36 am
    Snapcracklemurmle
    a torn silver lining,slipped beneith the ey e
    \of the hurricane
    alphabetically organized according to name
    according to the movement beneith the soil and flowerbeds
    covers drawn up to the chin
    and patted down,like in search of weaponry
    at the brink of fear,[theysaytheysay]
    you can lose your way,in the sudden hit to the wall
    the burst of a lightbulb or electrocuted needle
    if the restless lost catch up with the flirting darkdark
    stepping around the beetles
    single finger tapping out the tunes that go round and round and round
    like the carnival lights
    behind steeple tents and mannequin remains
    'cross jarred yards of barking dogs and dustbunny glitter
    left behind,or left in mind
    of your arrival
    upon the scene like a scheme fashioned lightyears before
    by a snickering magus with the clearest eyes of glass
    an apple core embrace
    and a ferret with a wooden ear named Saturn Carr Pete/
    [the first to see,the tornados storming the city
    partnered with 3 black holes and a tsunami...]
    just in case.
    just incase the musick box went on strike[better pay or less hours!]
    and the veils dropped like vases
    leaving you standing in the center of the ring[leader]
    counting out the stars and feathers drifting like nomadic insects
    made thinlike silver and vibrant candycoated conversations
    rattling and mismatching socks like knocked off vowels
    in epic streets of crocodiles,except with scarab beetles
    all pinned up but still snickering,as they wiggle their wings
    defy the rules of logick
    what else can be done when the strings are cut
    when the wings are let go,and the birds decide to fly?
    circling streets of Old places,at 2am on a broken bycicle
    fingers cracked like Death valleys expansive floors
    [where be the milk and huney beneith the surface?]
    quiet,dear.
    keep the breathing in the curling fashion
    wrapped in waywardly messes and fixes.
    in this chamber of M.Emory's palace, the plaster is always crumbling
    the rust creeps up and down like pinstripe
    windows rattle,doors mismatch with their handles
    carpets curl to swallow cherries and chocolate,spiders weave out tapestries
    and ladybugs waddle over waterlogged fingers..
    here there be monsters,dancing twostep with the angels
    making faces and intwining claws with humanish hands
    in demolished spleandor of years and years lost and found and lost again
    those meekish murmurs slipping into the cracks of walls
    nestling like silkworms in their cocoons
    as the wind howls like the beast it can be,even when its laughing
    outside trying to get in,but only halfheartedly
    candles burn and wax spills and draws out patterns over the uneven paths
    that some may take and some may skip,
    attempting to keep the restraints of the english language at bay
    but still conveying what is wanted to display
    like word painting,the little nonsenses
    renegade visuals instilled in dewdrops on the back of the eyelids
    see the magick?
    love
    over
    fear/
    X
    1:31 am
    Room of Mis.guided Instruments..
    tiptap
    tiptapscratch
    with slithering scraping
    there stole forward rusting metal
    arms and legs in the shapes of blades
    wires running,running
    from cranium to poorly welded tails
    throughout bolted torso,in sample moods
    upon swings of violins,and lonesome oboe
    crooning softly to the darkened windows,
    but the shutters were only half open,to let
    the snow in
    smirking lamplights of jaundice yellow
    flittering through fractured square shapes
    overlooking
    as one drawer pushes forward from the wall
    then another,with minute effort
    alittle grunt,and then clatter
    glass eyes emerge,glimmering fires behind single lens
    ricocheting across the grimey room
    to get swallowed by the deep purple beetles shell
    as it lumbers 'cross uprooted floorboards
    and behind a tattered curtain
    [its getting to be that hour]
    a forboding flicker of the singlemother candle
    and her offspring rolling to the edge
    more curtains,gossamer silver matted hair
    slit open as a long needleleg emerges,followed by another
    like an exotic dancer misguided slumber,
    the stilted creatures,wrought of protractors and rulers
    spinning facial features
    pendulum swinging from unhinged jaws
    watered down with leaking snow
    and saltriddled tears,.a thunder apears
    wrapped over sorrowful bass creeping on four pins
    over stained maps and documents
    drawing circles with the penend and just a touch of oil
    drifting feather up to parched lips of cold steel,contemplating,
    offering nothing other than clockwork
    suddenly startled by uproar of chisels,carving and knocking
    fleeing into tunnels made alternatly by burning
    and drillthings rolling like panzer units upon plaster and wood
    coils and springs gathering to create mathematical equations
    on the infinity symbol,
    with the metal malformations from stray scissors
    nodding off before the winters breath
    causing corrosive build up like dripping terpentine
    in this sunken room where this hour switches
    all the sands of the hourglasses
    replacing instead with knuts and bolts and loosened plans
    for just an hour,keeping the colors grey and green and blue
    diseased with filtered outside trafficks
    this time when the motionless motion ,motorized scrapmetal
    little beasties of purposeless remnants,miswelded instruments
    stirring and snooping and slinking
    upon errands of undetermined bussiness
    just in this hour,forever if ever..
    X
    1:31 am
    Dear moonlight sonata...
    when the sky clouds over,you bow your head
    the onslaught of rain and grains of sand
    scraps of initiative to step up
    or step back
    curling and uncurling within your snailshell
    waving out the lines of notes onto tattered paper
    1st movement to the second walk through the ruins
    misstep or counterclockwise reflections
    swimming into the eyes of roadside puddles
    mud slinking up the pantlegs,into shoes
    full of rips and tears
    bound together again,.with bits of string
    fallen short,or stopped to injest
    the brightlight of the morning face,grey oval eyes
    soft pastel cheeks rouged before chipped mirrors
    expansive windows returning the visage without critique
    as the steps fall behind,clattering trams passing
    moving hidden behind hat brim and upturned collar
    walking taller,in time with Smuga cienia,
    ensnared, and then replaced by M.Emory
    in more elegance than the language could compel
    with nothing but words to spell
    the waves and urges and emotions spilling
    from the coffee mug of orchestration
    made in part by the touch of violin and clarinet,jedna dve tri
    pianista stooped ,thin arms layed out upon the diner counter
    smoke curling upwards towards rotating ceiling fans
    back arched,cufflinks scuffed
    fingers working the small rectangular tiles
    humming softly under his breath,the music of the tiles were they keys
    wilst reading
    the posters pinned crudely cluttered with large black letters
    smeared fresh from the printers
    applied with nervous accuracy
    perpendicular and out of balance,like scattered ice
    upon the roads and throughout alleys
    clutched up by the streetcreatures,wartorn wreckage
    where a strange inspiration can be found at times
    walking alone,face drawn down against the cold
    turning round and round to watch footprints in the snow
    leading away into the dark Night`s unknown ,littered with chunks of stone
    behind and in the process of gone
    catching the smeared creepers ,from the corner of an eye
    just as quick as a flash,there and away
    whispy little strangers
    keeping up appearances in the heart of noir
    back to the past,haunted and alive
    alice of the damaged wonderland,
    keeping the dimmed days embraced with the bright
    rose faltered with outstretched thorns
    beauty and the beast,.dance dance
    dance with me.
    1:28 am
    Matters of Silent Business
    caught and shaken.
    backing through windows stories above
    stories are told
    world mythology and medical termanology
    i can\t cut through these walls
    when my fingers blister
    and i end up spitting blood into the askew sink
    amidst turpentine
    oil paints speared with gold pigment
    over dismantled furniture
    protractor spinning circles
    and sidestepping nausea/
    [the little needle prick,up a bit and to the left]
    my breath never did stand cleancut
    haggard eyes sliding through scenes like rusting braces
    putting masking tape over the rips
    stitch it up,nice and tight
    even if all the kings horses and all the kings men
    couldn't ever put it back together again/.
    [the dark core is like an apple seed amidst white flesh]
    shaking the stars out of my hair
    i can\t gift all i wish i could
    couldn't stand up long enough when the lightning hit
    when the ground shook and they took you away
    all the faces of yesterday
    months have passed,days and nights
    some sleepless others scattered like pebbles
    i see you sometimes in my dreams,my dears
    void of the illness,void of the shaking limbs
    eyes gazing with renewed life,. even from behind the stars..
    and the distant smears of filth and glamour
    rockinghorse sundials snatching premonitions
    with scratchy voices over speakers
    past previous encounters with daybreak
    and under the moonlit brilliance of lunacy
    staggering over hills and valleys,monacle to one eye
    and burntlow candle dangling from chains
    round the grace of swans neck
    making out spirals and infinity,through brick and cobble
    dust collected by Ages
    historie of the incomplete,dictated and recorded
    in invisible ink,and a scratching feather
    weaving carpets of flighty transportation
    the soul standing at the gates to Anubis's apartment
    reclining expectation ,the days at hand
    head tilted ever so slightly to the left
    managing collagework language held up to the ears
    all curly and attentive,no detail shall be misplaced
    as the ways of the wasted
    ,instead make this your example
    a mathematical equation written out in charred branches
    four corners to the fifth element
    quintessential being,the pinpoint of the dream
    the eye of the hurricane..
    we still speak like we stand in that feild
    still catch the words before they hit the cement
    with practiced incompetence,social wrecking ball
    magnetic power that failed
    even with the cautious uproar in the bell tower,
    slight stitches are still visible.
    what was i thinking?
    tracing out vancouver on newsprint
    over the wanted ads and carnivorous proclamations
    stirring sugar into this homesickness
    keeping the hounded out of the haunts
    and the missles to the extinct war records.
    in the fate of humanity,there will be laughter
    even if monkeys in little vests end up throwing grenades out of dates
    and little hats be worn askew
    there is vague certainty proclaiming that
    no one thing will ever last,but many things
    will go on forever and ever
    like strings of plastic beads,multicolored
    and rambling,like this right here.
    X
    1:12 am
    Revisiting corner joints with black coffee
    insufficient funds,.in the backlogged sidestreets
    skippin' stones down those long winding alleys
    onward the legs walk,pants scuffing at the chipped backheels
    pinstripe and cigarette burn ,a miniature martini shaker
    attached to chain and skeleton key
    angular movements,hat held swinging twixt two fingers
    doublejointed and expressing
    black and white overlapping film,fresh outta the
    dark room and smokey siluettes
    tapping sharply out across yellowing floorboards
    and over to one corner,as the bells on the door announce
    entrance,and glance over sideways,
    ordering with one hand,for that strong coffee,
    over checkered counter,
    the works of the place,around the corner
    from the tobacconist and drugstore.

    cheap salt and pepper shaker eyes
    held bleak above the daily news,and the steam
    from the spillring out on the table cloth
    skips beats with the pennies tossed
    over dirty fingernail,and stubble
    of ol' Ralph
    ruffled down shirtcuffs with missing buttons
    sewn in wrongside up,with skill
    making faces up at the rain,dripping off the outdoors
    like great waves of math problems
    skimming the curb and past the butts,smoked down to the filter
    down the gutter mouth,through the long metal teeeth..
    and over yonder, that wiseguy in the corner,
    the one with inconsistent names,always on the run
    but yet always sitting right there
    eyes turned up to the ceiling,and the single black fly
    keeping his teeth sharpened
    with the tension of it all,and those wings
    cleaning them to put him off,but he's aware the moment he turns
    the vermin will make away with his sugar
    [he be watchin' that one,and every so often,the door.]\
    he knows too much about the anatomy of
    a broken down sailboat with an etherfed woman
    but no one knows fer sure..all just speculation
    at this point,in this diner
    turning backways
    at the far end,where the ceiling begins to dip
    and dive,.like a leaping goldfish
    in orange pinhole galaxy
    down towards the lukewarm soup before her
    face turned elegantly downward
    yet hands never making the full journey to eat it
    eyes always lost to the dimonds
    and the immitation lemur,slung carelessly
    about her shoulder
    yet here she sits,drawn by some magnetic lunactic
    to meet over and over,at 1 dollar soup
    and red leather seats in a booth
    true love escaped her and headed west
    but this love,forced and imagenitive,will last as long as she wants
    till the mind clears again..

    behind Lucy, sits the thin wire frame of Roger
    nicotine stained teeth and fingers
    a halfsmile straightened by sugar cube,tapping
    ashes into the coinslot of the jukebox
    lonesome smear of a long forgotten presence
    he dines every day, on a bagel and some butter
    refill coffee and cigarettes,that seems the theme
    of greased back hair and interlocking knuckles
    bright chip of pupils well fed on the commotion
    as the waitresses move like pawns
    over the chessboard, serving water and refilling empty cups
    of quickwashed stonework
    aprons tied with quick movements, in the backseats
    on their drive to work in beat voltswagon or pickup
    balancing plates like bears in the circus
    always alert to avoid the pawings of the hungover

    the mob smirks in the back there, all suits and tie
    Italian or Russian or whatever that accent means
    even Johnny over there, with his stringy brown hair
    clinging to his cheekbones, two fingers tracing patterns in spilt pepper
    tapping one worn leather shoe in time with the tunes
    minding his business, but keeping ears open like radar.
    Bill coughin’ up a storm at his own booth
    thin sallow profile, sharp nose like a wellworn cooking knife
    scrawling out symbols, for his newest documentation
    of how the streets turned darker,and exactly how he helped them enter hell
    on notepaper from a secondhand briefcase
    leaking fountainpen and small errors here and there
    making it more believable than his own flesh and blood
    hunched over and consumed, by that compulsive mood
    that thirst for expression, lost to so many
    even with his drug induced stupor
    oblivious to the children playing outside, in the canals
    chasing each other past the bug splattered windows of the door
    misted by the warmth, cheap lettering in faded yellow
    scratched away in some places, by inconsiderate hands
    that couldn’t stop moving, scratching like nervous wrecks
    in the mid morning over grease engulfed fries..

    the old gentlemen station themselves near the centre windows
    every day at precisely 12 noon, like a cloud
    walking in to the sound of bells and haggard exchanges
    taking off their shabby coats, checking pocketwatches that only barely work
    releasing cigs from insidepocket crushed boxes
    lighting and puffing and talking, with that near extinct way
    passing around the news and waving veined hands for refills
    toast and jam and eggs, tossed carelessly on plain white plates
    single serving cream, and stale tomato ketsup
    ringing up nostalgia, as they remininsce
    wishing they had enough for a better cigar
    and watching young Douglas with mild distress
    the son of the oldest of the group
    as he sits, thin knees up and crossed legs
    the bones showing through his grey trousers
    sipping his one cup,no food,but sketching the scenes
    with a knifesharpened school pencil, tounge held
    in the centre,between his little white teeth
    [he decided on art college, when his daddy wanted law]
    he was a sharpened mind, but his fancies took up most his time
    and he was drawn to the down and out
    like a vulture to a starving child
    with talent that stretched farther than any court hearing
    he knew it, but his father, Old Paccio, had been etched with distress
    his thin mouth held it permenant in its lines
    as he tried and failed at smiling, whenever he saw the lost hope
    completely oblivious to his sons work, and for many years still
    oblivious to the exchanges between Hazel the waitress
    when she brought Douglas his coffee, free of charge
    the look in their eyes when they constructed their own world
    after work and after school, in the private recesses of the rooftops
    dodging George, who didn’t study anything at all
    just slunk around the diner, hands in pockets, cigs clamped between thin lips
    shadowed eyes glancing longing, in their direction
    evident envy, a brittle infatuation, always hoping to be served
    by the girl he would never have
    and luckily he wasn’t cruel, or aggressive and blind
    just a cap pulled over his wistful eyes, and a battle to tear away
    detach from the pain and realize he was only 23,
    and that a whole world stood before him, if he kept his vision open
    without barricading the doors.

    the rain stops,the midafternoon sun creeps out of hiding
    sending bright light cascading
    reflecting in the puddles, spread like butter across the streets
    around this corner,through the windows
    enlightening the dishes and faces
    the insomniacs and walkabouts
    beatpoets and old worn copper voices
    animated in discussion or inactive in deep thought
    or complete silent musings
    the diner of Broadway and Main, in small neibourhood
    full of regulars with irregular personalities
    clotting the atmosphere with their eccentricities
    the flavour is one of a kind, you would love to see it for yourself
    the down and outs,the scruff of the culture
    just sitting back in your booth, put a quarter in the box
    and let 'Virginia Avenue' drift up with the smoke
    absorbing the atmosphere like a spaceman on his first trip
    behind the stars,above the marble earth
    floating amonst the conversations,
    the facial expressions observed out of the corner
    of the caffeinated eyes, scribbling on the back of a placemat
    writing out the stories of the people
    the community of the small section of town
    a taste like no other, for 50 cent refill, and tearing 4 packets
    at one go, to add that sweet serenity
    to the most nervous spinal injury
    a nice stability, in the rollorcoaster of life.
    X
    1:11 am
    the house of M.Emory
    sometimes,sometimes
    i play to pass the time.observing ,
    amusing myself with the feeel
    of all the different windows,
    where there is the perrfect moment,as the light hits
    the glass and skims past the face
    and i wonder if the occupants notice it,recognize it
    as i do when i take their place
    for that breif moment..]
    .
    .
    it snags a hold, and so much more
    shapely hands and the glint of a very certain madness
    [we're all mad here,the cheshire cat said..but really]
    flicking magnets through the looking glass
    sweeping doorsteps of hair and toothfaerie glitter
    sneaking peeks at the whisper,the doors have reopened
    those doors deep within, where i kept away from
    kept my distance of those barred rooms and quiet places
    for alittle while, distracted by the candy of reality
    so breifly,just long enough to grow distraught
    reassess my keys,count my teeth,.and straighten my suit
    fix that crooked tie
    gather up my rasp of dissuse and freckles from the sun
    there is little wishful thinking, just too large a helping of fatalistic belief
    i really tried to shed,like the python..
    shy encounters rewired into awkward stances
    after snow poured down my arteries
    [he said"i'll be tender,to make up for your freezing.."]
    now enough wasting away, there is work to be done
    click of sharp little teeth, and escape mode
    survival in the darkened emptiness
    with itsfrozen trees and icy statues, so cool i can
    ask them to releive my pain with their touch
    wandering between worlds
    a smoothed out paper recommendation for the starsss
    copperplate hands held out with infinite patience
    soft musique of paradiso,mapped out in purgatory
    administered in the inferno,.
    should i eat that burning heart out of his hands?
    standing still in a valley of inverted clocks
    watching the moments pass, with my tounge tip
    held up to the center
    pinpoint the in.between of everything
    and beneith my askew breastplates
    a vision still flickers, like ghost weedled candles
    making something worthwhile,making it all unstoppable
    and keeping the calm content of it
    [its too much to explain, but if you want to hear
    perhaps i'll whisper it,across a sinking table
    with the bowed orchid sleeping on the mantel]

    some say i have grown weary, i beleive i said it first
    when the tiles on the ceiling reached 333
    and the walks clipped the streets
    its all just how the moods swing..
    a tap of the heel, and a length of good tape
    could heal the most torn of leather,.
    watching the pigeons keeps some mind over matter
    the rooftops, and the symetry[misspelt] of the wiring
    laying out the different passages to take/
    there are no garentees of happiness, no masked prizes
    standing upon cheap tables at the end.
    but you never do know,it goes both ways,hm?
    there are the passing moments, and the gathering
    in my head, i lay out a garden
    the rooms, i am opening to air, and letting the occupants
    [well,most of them...]
    wander where they will, converse in pleasant hums
    even if their voices grate, and the seether seethes
    i have the one place to gather myself
    take all the little folds, and like a blanket
    bring up the four cornes
    like the universe,.the elements
    reconnecting with the past is the one thing,
    that despite all those studies and experiences i've held
    shows me most clearly who i am,
    and who i am not./
    [throw up the flag,throw up the hands
    and shrug. what can i say?]
    X
    1:06 am
    A sliver of Calm
    electroshock treatment is off the menu
    though when the rains fall, in a hum of inhuman nature
    the electricity flows through the blood
    sharp arrow pointed at the crisp precision
    artful tattered heart of the cemetary mink
    amidst the fallen leaves of cultured silence
    [with that suit of sharp dark,
    red mouth against powder snow,.and flint matted pupils
    glancing inward,whilst drawing out insight
    like sweetened honey thread from the ear of elegance..]
    he stands still, the world weaving like doves
    over singular essence
    will the birds drink the tears amidst the diamonds?
    a question begs an answer,.though
    perhaps before formation the answer was stolen
    crept away from the draping arms, climbing spines
    across the magnificent marble chambers of sleep
    where the doors are numbered thousands
    the palace of memory, and the possiblitiy of all kinds of reality
    birthed amongst the wounds of inspiration
    the softly fed ambition ,.from the jaws of the lion
    with milk and starlight
    ,this is where we visit,.voices muffled
    by the cavernous windows and spinal arches
    where statues stand in the dim halflight of twilight
    creeping in with the scent of orange and lillies
    ,walking like all the time has fallen from these folded hands
    and there may be no end to the moment
    as long as we want it, keeping instep with the train
    of thought, long discussions on the brink of the bridges
    crossing our hands in the symbol of devotion
    but without the strings sewn in to dictate what exactly
    devotion to who? love may be just as well
    whatever is meant needs not be spoken,
    when the table scrapes metal off the rooftop
    the bars lift off the cells,.some enter the light
    some stay where they want,.siluette against the metaphorical moonlight
    casting a soothing air, devoid of any particulars
    [i'm keeping this one secret...]
    psychologically in persuit, realistically in cognito.
    there are storybooks to be written, and many tales to be woven
    stringing up the hanging man
    mirrors stood up in front of the morphing gazes
    before there is any sense of surrender, even when standing back to back
    lifting the severed head of Mercury in flight
    beneith the caponni's arched paintings, packed full of animated saints
    and historical colorings in the shapes of people
    faces twisting into M.Emory, with their plights vibrant in presentation
    but distant from the earth, somehow colder than the crimson
    painted especially in the cheeks
    but more real in the tip of his tounge,pointed upward
    crossing evidently only once
    the pinpoint center and then gone,like lizard expressions
    and eyes glowing,embers in the dimmed lighting leaving ghostly impressions
    in the passing traces of dream,realism Now..
    caught on the sleeve of psuedological,from the insipid eyes of a dreamer
    walking the rainstrewn steets of older cities,
    leisury stalling in the carniverous presence of holy structures
    presenting no lightning striking the sleek sinful
    the bashful intellectual of bloodletting
    mind wandering farther, different floors in a giant building
    corrosive as Time, and consumed by the momentary
    recreating life with the story ,the work in progress
    forever and a day, before the sun, squinting critique
    the stairs are winding forward to admit it
    reconcile with the thunder, observation peering keen as a blade
    initiating the inscition cut
    across the space in.between this..
    a locket of incounters, shapely in their perfect fit
    no need to scorn the imagination, for its gift of content
    and the lessons taught over cosmic tones
    wind ravaged stairwells and tantalized curtains
    layed down to rest, amidst the magnified ribbons of musick
    seeping over the waking in touchtone reminiscense
    and the sharp outline,of the perfect cheekbones
    impressed forever,even if unmatched by any face since..
    X
    1:01 am
    Warzawa
    raking up the trailing sleeves,
    with a cough to the side,missin' work for a runny nose
    and locking the door with the key still inside..
    picking through the photographs,
    the debris wearing matching socks
    a voice called horse,and two pennies and a dime.
    snufflin` through bookshelf alleys, sharpened corners
    ribcage contracting,lungs burning burning
    keepin`gleam in the jaundice eyes,and hailing
    to tuberculosis from the pages of historie.
    will this smooth sleep never end?
    filling glasses with tears and bandaids,let them steep
    like lavender oil partnered with bramble.
    [i feel the tug.yes indeed i do.
    it might be a shake,in a year or two.]
    still the softeyes of the sky always compell me
    the pitterpatter of rain on a sunday morning..
    fleeting whiskers darting past peeling windows..
    laying arms around and comfort,.
    nostalgia washed sightseeing,.
    there are slumbering beasts layed asleep there
    ,with little zzzs
    within the ribcage of my heart
    and though they are painted black, they wash out wight
    in the edge of darkness,where the thoughts hang like a clock
    imitating the orloj of praha
    before the german artilary dined on its artistic face.
    caught the force of the impact
    let the darts of repetition catch and hold
    because really,its true,and that,no matter what flags are waved
    or bright side you stand on,will do nothing to change
    a truth is true because it stands there over time
    and proves itself over and over,sometimes in exsasperation
    sometimes a bitter taste left behind
    [i can see it,sometimes,feeel it sinking]
    and that wilderness
    and the climbing vines of regression
    like atavism..
    lessons watched being taught,but then
    disregarded.over and over and over
    humanity seems talented in the art of destruction
    despite all the gleaming wings in the herd
    all the protective hands over scarred eyes
    that were witness to the loss,.of everything real.
    there never seems enough peace heard by the deaf ears
    no flowers thrown will faze the tanks
    the building of armies..
    there are foolish descisions being made,as usual..
    that seems a constant in the ways of the influential
    but,
    will i end up standing at the edge,
    when the toll is taken for ignorence and inhumanity?
    will i
    cover my children`s eyes, grab them and run
    from burning building to burning building,like in those pictures
    as the bomb sirens ring f e a r in our ears?
    war has always fascinated ,a subject to eat up and heed
    and it leaves the deepest footsteps
    yet,after this neverending bloodstained trail,all these haunted days
    the shadows under eyes and the reflections
    breaking silence in the thunder..
    no.one with sway seems to feeel.
    the prescription for a third war has already been written
    as it goes on and on, like some immortal disease
    moving from one land to the next,eating up the lives
    [what right have they got? nothing but a meatmarket]
    the facts have been flaked off and a new coat administered
    cover and hide,baby
    cover and fucking hide.
    within all those curling shells,the cure
    making soft voices louder
    tracing out backbones with a single finger
    and letting the exit wounds jut
    like the skeleton of a dismantled sea scarab
    fires burn,behind eyes,behind skin,behind words
    and it just comes to show,how unevolved we`ve remained
    though arrogance and technology claim different
    the smears over history are more evident
    if you ain`t too squimish
    if you think before in order to think ahead
    and though the silenced speaks only wavers
    i know my path now
    and i know how i don`t want to end it..
    caught in a presence of mind,.an unexpected visiter
    that may as well take me ,let me
    care
    take all the whispers in the wind,and the nature of things
    and sleep beneith the grayscale
    X
    12:59 am
    wildflower
    sleeping b'neith the evergreen seas surface
    loosing matches and counting stars
    eyes turned backwards ,and porcelean minding
    crossing hearts and impaled emotion in stasis
    drawn down beneith the cadaver
    laying low with the wistful violins, the marching damned
    keeping visions of the angel, hair curled about the face
    and darkened eyes to contradict heaven.
    waking the moon in the arms of storms
    incoming like tsunami
    breaking bones with ice words
    and that bitter memory, drawn in pins and sharp
    when the curtain fell, and the case broke
    it can do little, and it can do too much.

    one day, in this House, will be calm
    overlooking feilds of marble slumbers and wind flower
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