Thursday, June 30, 2011

freak light
Life was great but at a regular hour each day everything she had ever done was wrong. 
She felt cities were a place for soft music but in her case...
There seemed to be moments you could only get when things relaxed to see how they wound up,
and there seems to be the ecstasy of rounding a time bend and siphoning the horror outta change.

but in her case, still, the planet kept on with its annoying pitching and spinning out of range.
colors previously thought to be unrhymable until today: orange, burnt-orange, sienna;
now it made more sense when you sat that deep into a morning past sign-off stage.
There was a freak light in the meadow made it shake like a curly bulb went split side-ways.

By Reptily

freak light.mp3

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Noon End

Boatman to the underworld, we can value yor perspective.
Remember tho you will never speak for the main stream.
You are tubed between over and outer realms, respectively,
So how could you aspire to be seal of the land, our bubble?

Galleon after galleon of crude, unleaded wall walkers,
Middlebrow conformists to venalism, hiders: they're
Your clan, down in the crossing lanes, border surfaces.
They say when universes they touch, it only means bangs.

Your breath, then, is everything even death cannot digest,
Something that will never be compressed and born again.
Yr word is precious in the finer markets they call perverse.
It takes a special kinda stud with a steady punty and blow

To take on what you've got already and just fuckin' row
With no attempt to show us how to buzz about our targets
Or weigh a lamb, a daughter, in some zero-fault vacuum;
Time for souls to find you at the noon end of a pendulum.

Monday, June 27, 2011

to shake and pray

Hyperbole soothes my emotion sickness;
I have behaved as jane fonda in the morning after,
Meryl streep in she devil, alternately
Wracked with laughter and sudden bitter sobs,
Hugging herself, her own elbow bones, against
the illuminated wall hanging of a drink tumbling
down mountain boulders in chiffon-slick streams,
light wheels working a mill house under blue plastic.
What I share with womanhood around the world,
Even in its masculine expressions, is the fortitude
to shake and pray and rock and sing to my babies.

by Donna

Monday, June 20, 2011

this hell, this shithole

We share an elbow and more, sister but for me it's sharp.
Don't know which part of the brain you have and I lack,
But sometimes it seems like you don't get the painfulness.

Yor crap all mixed with my stuff, having to accept a twist.
When you turn your back so, you know it makes me pee.
And because we're different species, I'll have to enter rut

Without your compassion for the tactile static, more guests.
And I have to live in this hell, this shithole, with pets who no
longer trust me to lead them always t'wats safer than whut they could have got alone.

Suddenly conjoined from birth at multiple sites to Peg, Reptily-as-banshee

Sunday, June 19, 2011

False Cladistics

While they may wave unwashed radiant flesh in rustic gauzes near yor face,

seem complicit in a nascent taxonomy of intimate-hot proximity,

they only wish to know enough to shake you down.

Even if you own the very sticks that make the chaise lounge or milking stool that supports these assos,

in that epistemic medium, you are an outsider passing through. 

They come from a large line of squatters, only upright and anxious long enough to check out opponents, run a scent, lash out at lunch.

They have blood pride in what's spilt on soil, a mechanism that speaks loin to power, so fertile as to sprout meat once tread upon.

by Wayne
"Call me suspicious."

Sunday, June 12, 2011


a sensitive man can feel the dimming of life giving jam.
as the headlights on the road out get stronger, he plans.
"this means release from an obsession-- maybe I can..."

We used to know a mexican bodybuilder named Vic.
Being in the stick trade he'd show up with a recliner
just because he's horny for me or me and my chicken.

some bitches you come home an they've rearranged the furniture.
Victor may have flipped the dinette set or every last dish for china.
he wanted to demonstrate how anything can change cep his dick.

"Thinking about how men of color have rocked my kitchen."

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

pyrus calleryana 'Chanticleer'

It started out as a good dream because even though he was homeless he was sleeping heavily in the loose saffron folds of a muslin sarong on a mattress of moss and hearty dichondra under a bud-laden pyrus calleryana 'Chanticleer,' the ornamental tree that smells like semen, in a lush mediterranean cancer survivors' park. Green bottle flies the size of hummingbirds droned their white noise of optimistic dirges and lullabies, as if to lay paving stones for oblivion to rock along down on its squarish wheels. A grease that acted as courage-in-a-vessel for Nature glugged sloshing through art-ceramic channels to every life in a nirvanic system which bid a deserved nod of its fertile date palm fronds to the stylized irrigation ditches at Al-Qal‘at al-Ḥamrā’.

But next thing you knew he'd found a length of masking tape blown from one of the costume trailers in the sanitation district's haunted village. With a chunk of abandoned picnic charcoal briquette, he wrote in caps with the sticky side imobilized in grass: I WAS A COLLEGE PROFESSOR.

We found him sitting in his own shit, autobiography unbecoming as a headband, speckled with the organic spray of chaff and seed and grit that invisibly sandblasts the open night and all those who may be closed up in it.

by Mike
"having encountered Ilyn in the midst of an expression rarely sensed by humans. Just by luck. On the way home from a medieval-themed piano bar near the run-down shops along the sea wall."

Monday, June 6, 2011

career v. trajectory

when you left a heath bar and some toilet paper next to me unobtrusively, i froze into a sacred position and felt the whole world around me, in its dark cacophony.  now in daylight, i see whut i've wrought, these irons.


Union "Chapel"