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the memoires of M. Emory.
 
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in the Artful Dodger's LiveJournal:

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    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
    12:57 am
    Dodging artfully with chocolat on the corner,there..
    crisp white cuts on ash sunday blues
    matting hair and fingers through button hole tears
    clicking of teeth,sharp canine features
    wrecking ball instigations
    down empty well slumbers
    i caught a glimpse in the metro, caught
    the fleeting hands of a shadow
    snippin' noses with stainless steel scissors
    and running through blackened windows
    as
    it swirled the dream at the bottom of my cup
    forming dregs into symbols of the future
    mystic of the starstudded ceilings
    and raging wars with the uneven flooring
    i will empty out the clocktower
    draw dotted lines in crimson
    through featureless mess,
    and spinal column realignment
    hands hidden in long black coat
    head bowed against the snow
    shady make.i be a rabbit
    [one tough customer,to be sure]
    and with all the dislocated strings
    entwined with remaining bone fragments
    of glittering jewel flesh
    i'll be comin' home..
    X
    12:55 am
    Mrrk
    fading matters into distant corners
    raw foods and cloudy sunshine
    grazing on the pastures of lonesome
    tomorrow never makes it,its always today
    by the time i step over the threshold
    into the singular abstraction
    ringing me up over milk thistle
    and draining the songs
    through a sytrofoam funnels
    cradling the thunderstorm, doodling restless
    inconsistent incognito
    shading that creepin' smile
    in the collar upturned like a flower
    and sneakin' just fer fun.
    wake up to the empty heart of morning
    filled with silent muffled song and whispy puppets
    a sea of black lagoon type sustance
    clean as it could be
    with the grass growing through the trees
    over curling paths and uphill climbs
    to the tiptop of the veiw
    i wonder what you'd think
    in the sunlit expanses of rock and shells
    sliding down to meet the ocean swells
    how the expressions would change
    keeping back to the forest
    los lobos and a few misguided elements
    drinking dew from a clover leaf
    sinking paper boats with paper planes
    nudging at the makebeleif
    like some hidden religion,.the anti direction
    heads or tails or paws or whiskers
    the coin remains unflipped and unsuitable
    with the raging winds making star signs
    across darkening falls
    loosening to the moment
    sleeves trailing like black thread
    over chipped cobble or haggard earth
    stepping lightly over and under
    forget the eggshells! i want lightning!
    x
    12:53 am
    Mixing Visions like Drinks
    winking through the snow, a silver spoon
    clattering upon melting cobbles, mind wrapped in velvetine
    keeping fingers crossed like the bow across the spine of violin
    smoothing the edges, crossing legs over leather
    smile caught on the hinges,
    tearing ladders down the stockings
    rather despite the stitches above the heart
    just to the left of M.Emory
    across the river to sunshine walking forests
    towers of stars and pebbles
    hands held over lightbulbs,
    prayer spelt out over ribbon,curling beneith the table
    chasing whiskers through darkened pupils
    and she said
    just below audible
    "empty out the clocktower!"
    just bring in the storm,the red thread,the witch hazel
    send in the snapshot remorse and coal innards of peach pit necklaces
    let the feathers brush past your cheek
    indigo marvel and bleeding heart flowers
    stationed beyond the sunset, lying on wooden rafts
    on docks made of aged wood and dogs hair
    staring up into the cosmos,
    tugging sleeves over fingers,and hair behind ears
    the questions just keep piling up
    throwing up soot and smoldering petals
    to be ensnared by tangled wind and lost to atmosphere
    a letter of unspoken, a confession of question
    a simple understanding to tresspass on reality.
    each to their own,thats the saying
    and no mind bends and engulfs the same way
    despite the simularities that draw for embrace, collision or speckled kiss
    beneith dewed eyelids and motheaters, matted sweaters and dirty footprints
    trailing like children from otherworld to thisworld
    drinking in the comfort of silent woods
    flutter of wings and scraping of thoughts, softspoken as tender
    observation of the majestic presence
    in every thing seen and unseen
    even when verbalizing love and lighte
    within a hospital room in the neurology wing
    even when tapping finger to teeth in despair
    ,especially when humanity leeks through the seams
    of the greatest deniel
    past all the masks and scars
    unconditional care and love, sending dandelion wishes
    keep happiness real, keep saftey simple
    keep life living on in the hearts of all the beautiful people
    let there be strength and realization of just what worth they hold
    in love and light, in dream and reality.
    in Life.
    X
    12:51 am
    At the Edge of SHore
    stood before the sunrise,
    'cross galaxie and human thought
    a vision of the empty and the full
    meaning smears of bright blue pigment
    semipermenant marker
    drawn like thread from the ears of Dream
    so real they can wake up reality
    with a cold finger down the spine,.an inclination of promise
    made so soft like peacock feather down the back of passion
    free the word,.free the world!
    a sound muttered from the ground
    swaying rhythm to the stars,
    cross the nation of desolation,like raw sugar
    in the inner gums of fate
    a man with a flowing face,held up to the spotlight
    tapping fingers cross keys to my house
    the nonsense house of imagination,or so the laughter entailed
    that crumbling wood structure
    at the seas edge,at the worlds end,at the beginning
    trapping and releasing smiles
    singing of losing control,finding the earth below dance steps
    hot nights and freezing breathe on chipped knuckles
    smoking eyes burnt embers of sunsparks
    like overripe strawberries,in the heart of a kiss
    the I in the monster,blinking through the salsa
    steering through route 66what,.vampirecountry again
    creeping into a room like gorgeous
    chasing shadows,glinting mirrors,waving wings
    grace ensnaring smooth cheeks
    like swan necks krisskrossing pastry
    a checkered floorboard as prelude to chess
    dance like no other, dance like you mean it
    around and around with alice and the doormouse
    .
    i is a small letter used to illustrate a whole human entity
    a misconception in its alphabetical importance
    an encasement of soul and spirit and ego,cramped
    into a few lines,.better discarded,shed to be,simply
    as the attic is shaken',masks peeling off like orange skins
    ibn makes out the shapes,subconsciousness makes the stamps
    as the center within lays down
    sleep eyes reflecting tree of life,.shores of mind
    heart shaped cookies with sprinkles
    fingers through sand snaking in spirals of eternity
    the nature of nature,.spinnin' like snailshell
    and in the sun of oceanside,with the waves repetative calming
    little light burns brighter and images turn over
    licorice root to add flavour
    sweeetie,.keep the day entertained,let the wings never be clipped
    as walks wind down to the curling of paws
    tip.top..why hide behind curved collars?
    ever little inch taken back,will reveal,return
    treasure,.
    X
    12:50 am
    the Ten Minute Building
    waving velvetine of fadin' violet
    violent in its misunderstanding, shaking shaking
    with the wind of past days
    echoing in reverberating voices, a singular occassion
    drawn dark with a deduction of silence
    upon the winding alleys, a violin swaying
    from rhythm to topnoted action
    invitations have been sent, out past buildings
    of 10 minute intervals
    buildt from brick crumbling in puppet hands
    and floss gloss across cranial smiles
    thin and sallow, you speak
    in tounges, in pictures, in amulets
    draining down the claw foot bathtub
    words in black lettering, upon the Times
    yellowed with age and sprinkled with gears
    here you see, the reclining figures of dreams
    sipping white coffee as the chase is on
    ballet and two step and interpratations through
    black screens and bonfires
    consumed eyes made of buttons
    petite hands wrapped together with wires
    jaws clenched, the mere traces of spinal detachment
    in whiteplaster rooms with decaying dressers
    emptying the picture frames, spinning circular diagrams
    in the dust and filth, sharpened protractor legs
    and spilled indian ink
    a flickering eyelid, seen through the panopticum
    a pinpoint in the engine, a swaying sound like volcano
    yet,still,back to the cello..
    retreating down the streets of praha
    thought to be the home of the golem
    a discarded fear, a lonesome smear
    and evidently out of focus
    when the glasses lay shattered by the bedside
    and the spoon clatters, the cat scatters
    with the haunting visage
    burned upon nighthawk eyes..
    X
    ~J
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