apartment to let

vibrant radiator harmony,
getting to his ears
before the daylight
ripped open his eyes,
and alphabet soup thoughts
swilled from side to side
in the bowl that is his skull,
twnty seven permutations
of how the day
would end up being,
rolling a cigarette,
strips of paper cut from
an old shelley poetry book
as if inhaling the words
would give creedence to his own,
that languished on pages
scattered like a womans dirty
underwear across the floor,
that masterpiece so often
rewritten not compiled,
new words scraped away the old
confidence from caffeine
lifted him to another level,
sun filled evey corner
a morning bronze age
renaissance to the heart,
sat up scratching legs
it would be complete

Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien

Shuji Terayama – Labyrinth Tale

Shuji Terayama – Labyrinth Tale from Doom4s on Vimeo.

Ben Howling & Yolanda Ramke- Cargo (2013)

Sleep Bugs

mad dreams and medicine

i don’t know if either help,

body more a carcass

cast off bedding

allowing chill to bite

soon when a season twists

it will be warm

but till that occurs

sleep evasive

those small bugs of slumber

crawling everywhere

but in my eyes,

quick to become husks

on the breath that creates them

seething mass

leaving me untouched

alcohol can disperse them

fear of naked flame,

if only what i know

seen from the back of my eyes

whats true

those synaptic snapshots

of what was , is, will be

eradicating normal transient thought

more bugs with darker intention

those that bring displeasure

turn night into serrated pain

i want for them

knowing i will be covered

and absorbed

Bending Buick’s

morning translation,
light has a language
that breathes
it stretches shadows
burns across carpets
bends buicks in shop windows
and lights faye wrays face,
my own portion
a partition of day
comes as townes van sings,
i smoke what i rolled
drink what i poured
fragments glitter skitterish
off the glass,
diamonds to the day
abstract punctuation to my thoughts
i think of voices
carried on this light
marching along on lung feet
into my mind
and everyone sounds like scott,
even james garner in his multicolored
mac concealing all of my yesterdays
and his genuine concern,
i need a buick to drive
to see if i can find
him my morning connector
that friend of early light
who now is silent
yet converses in my mind

 

Remembering Scott Wannberg a brilliant and talented writer who was a part of my world briefly but made an impression today would of his birthday and i remember

From Wasted Sleep

the space between each hour

is almost a decay,

clock conspires in awful silence

mirror reflected hands

reverse that moment

when that realm of waking

is at it’s edge,

straw taste upon the tongue,

as on curved eye

darkness and it’s folds descend

tattered fingers reach upwards

to a point where ceiling once was,

a wicked frost is felt,

gravity in a raw form

will not resist

a man with scattered thought,

chilled he must

throw back cotton anchor

wrapped taut about body,

it would be a while before

the yellow spikes of light

would transform as morning,

bone chimes fine resonance

in the soul,

darkness a swell pushed aside

dreams skirted and lost,

nature would not find any tears

if he fell soundless to the floor,

beyond the door a reprieve

and a new vast openness

spread as a cold

desire

 

Scatterflex

wundt wanted

as i watched the eye

methodic tick,

moved from  side to side,

pavlov stimuli

deeper expressive i feel

no chemical replication

given to how i feel,

as i want to touch the eye,

conditioned and reduced

to basic function,

i was in a hole,

that my mind had opened

a non neutral stimulus

as now i saw her eye

non evasive swaying

encountering me with a look

that withered my root,

amplify the kisses

to a ravenous clamor

of wet hole slurping

my digestion of love

is diminishing,

before any digression

her eye, that eye

consumes retina to cortex

and i become lost

more marijuana

more bourbon,

will i take her back,

can the conditions of isolation

be repealed ,

settling further back

i want aural infusion of music

so that i can decide,

tick click tick click

fractious nerves tingle

i slide to unconscious

knowing after it would

reveal

Intervention of the Image

in the museum of cognition,

phantom in copper bronze powder

adheres to canvas

framed on wood,

brush stroke palette knife,

density of a mind made hollow,

dry tongued

he whispered at the image,

walls listened and echoed

each separate word,

as an electronic synthetic being

experience and texture

of emotion differed,

a book the manual

coherent in fifteen languages,

how to distribute light and dark,

surface articulation

leaping thrust of sable,

birds uncommon sang outside

window

although they never disturbed,

once done,

this dimensional representation

would bring a new context

to rocky outcrops and defined

buildings of a new grown city

Vicarious Hats

indulge me

if you will

before pissing off

to somewhere else,

i tread lightly

so that you see me

yet not feel me,

flickering as a bulb

on bare socket

over a desk

littered in curled

yellowed pages,

some written upon in

inks that dispel moods,

tranquil lakes between

stacks of leatherbound journals

accented by the trails my

life has taken,

do i require

that you linger

like a rumor soured,

yes i do

for i have

placed upon these pages words

of varying strategy,

drawing you into the cavernous

mind that engulfs

all who enter,

my world is so unlike yours

my monsters do not lurk

beneath slatted wooden bed

but morph into that bed

and enfold me and mattress

in wooden embrace of illusion,

but if you enter and still leave

take away a portion

scoop into words, sentence and

phrase with that shovel like

perception,

smile, urge or rant

at my discourse,

you are not required to like

or linger yet i will get you,

under my hats

worn over many faces

you will see me many times

and i will be different