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."

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.

Mahlabeya

Union "Chapel" 

wailing

gut flora

While renting a uhaul, the
in the process of hiring a truck,
some of the vendor's stomach flora
released and attached to my face.

you could almost see the blooms
of coli as they splashed on your
eyes' moist surfaces and flocked the
uvula. Even five hours later, my

his gut mosses linger in my sinus
chambers and continue to stimulate
synapses reserved for archetypes,
arranged marriages, harsh caprices.



by Tom
"How life can be separated between tomorrow and today, where I've forsaken society by knowing almost no one but the famous. How I've changed home into a structure that had spent a year splayed in three separate but potentially interlocking components, in a meadow, with sticky bee hives seeping throughout it that would start a walkathon movement among any normal gathering of concerned citizens... How in 40 thought-out moves not a one was aimed at something like whatever this is, but something measurably better... But how the plain truth is that, with a fat bitch laying by my side, I can spring forward into the same strange land that you are all trying to navigate, how I can live in horror and sanity somehow, all integrally, where a plan is a map and a map is a planet... Sylvia... come back to me..."

Cuernavaca

Cuernavaca, under key and lock, a
passenger in his own custody for
so many gin-rocks that his massage chair
could have flown to Mexico, but they
wunt be enough air in the city for he
and his ex, who would talk about him.

They'd met at an enchilada party, shared
an edible guac basket. They breathed the
smoky ambient grease in and out and
bobbed in their pelvises to a dvd-rom.
Mouth-rolled cigarette filters littered
themselves freely on small lamp tables.

Who does it make you, a pino with no
woods, Cuernavaca? If spring birds
never seen you then what's yr name?
Are yor lungs still clenched with the
wisp of char that yr breath took away?
Cuernavaca, la enchilada ya no te quiere.

weltschmerz v. theodicy

Where to go when yr hungry and it's too late.
Hikikomori's, where dress is not an issue,
or a table corner at Anomie if yr also wanting

a mantle, something willing to absorb a man's
debris field, show a measurable blossom of
participation vs. enthusiasm, intent to self-

regale. Some claim a life form emits an iodine
that can aid in digestion when it isn't yours
and isn't pale. So relax, your urge is benign.


Tom
"My boss is Wayne."

Theodicy [the Mp3]

Greatest good

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPu59h8OrL4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ta-F4NAVURs

Hoolie, 16, bursts out in tears while visiting his best friend's family at the Waymore D'Nuttn Homes, Southchank. It's a 19-floor aviary of blacks, with views of 16 more. They rode the potty elevator with a tough 9-yr-old Mom in Pink Tube Top. Everything strong, everything dented: steel door, bricks, dense turf. What if bees banged their tin cups on comb wire. What if no one can't leave anyone alone because he appears to share some blood. Because there are no shops tho, what you have is more valued by neighbors.

"Where I laughed and played is a hole in yor eyes."
"No, there must be love around I'm sure."

Then the boys ducked into the mother's perfumey wardrobe hollow behind a changing table and fellated each other. It was a taste of the greatest good ever, or else they'd never have gotten together.

Less like mayhem

There were survivors, but they experience mood swings (happy, sad; or happy, sad, then quickly happy, then sad for a while; or sad, sadder, somewhat happy, then saddest of all, only to end the day on a light note...).

Too bad their accounts come across so bland, due to meds, as to be unstable. Good thing someone can sweep in and take up where stark reality quits, keep the tracking smooth, even in a temp-est of shite.

My reporter's emotional waveline makes a narrative of these lives just as your finger might follow an aircraft outta jive, spinning a bed spring of smoke behind, which looks a lot less like mayhem when you feel what's in it.


Phyllis
"Freelancing isn't free."

Semenuncle Journey

flipping bacon naked

Meat turn three taiymes

d'mo likely da burnya bb.
mai verge day cn be prr-
deen tinse, th'out no hep
frm th'nvirenmnt. yo be-
ss ment wurds? only mk
me frgitcha waleye focus
own cookin brefuss chall.

She Gotta Bigole Heyud 

Wachit grrls! She gotta bigole heyud.
an she gonna licki. She piss her own
daughter' beyud. Grrowl, piss, licki,
spread, she a bitchona water beyud,
were whichit could git sticky, freyun.

dull leather bell 

yung wombmate, yu must forgive me
for i contact you only once on a manic
mission, once eighty fortnights. when
i come up for air, i scream back thru t
-he ages, and there you are, the same
flowered grrl. sometimes i have not e-
ven grown a year since i saw you ther
-e. only layers of shame and emprison
-ment blanket me from your hair and
flowing skirts and love, which i also h-
ave memories of in nearly half a cent-
ury slogging toward a dull leather bell.

mod child 

mod child, you blame yorself
mod child, yor daisy frowns
mod child, yor invested in color
mod child, what a large belt buckle
mod child, you wear a Sears medallion
mod child, even domestic violence is mod
everything you do mod child
could be on a color tv or in space
you could be reduced to black and white dots
why can't others feel the love that you want
[and freeze]

distruck-shone 

To the mother vol-
cano, there is no hu-
nting; the food kill
itself and jump in
your mouth. Are
you in? Now that we
have centuries of da-
ta we find we're rare-
ly wrong. We want no-
t only to record but al-
so guide the
metamorphosis of yor
distruck-shone.

Vine and Dope 

Hoolie lungs hang on he shoulders deep as a crucifixion, cep he atta bar.
He keep watch there for anything that could go down in the drunk wurl.
Hoolie hold down those years of yore year after year for love, also fear.

What had survival become. Vine and dope, touch surfaces, shake hair,
fabrics like bandages, rocking and staring, truly caring? Him'n Donna, m
-irror balls on sheet of lights with others watching? Tam ended when the

dead stopped living, a long tam ago. Now they had to hold it there for all
of the butt-plug troopers who could no longer, no longer be, and no long-
-er aware. If you could only strap corpses into something stimulatory...

Ima Get It

http://www.wolfgangsvault.com/concerts/player.html?type=concert&ConcertID=20052379|3231

I didn't get the not giving love bit:
the not giving real love an showing it,
not gripping and clenching the other
with ery young tissue you cd muster,
going through with the slow parts,
feeling gd about someone lower getting
a fun you let them deserve in yr heart.

Connie
"Ima sociological artifact."

DeeDee showed up in a gold pants suit and kicked one of these guys' asses.

surprise vs. inevitability

REPTILY: It's great how you keep going and coming back to life, but it's not the same as reincarnation because it's all in one breath; I know because I am still your blood mistress, and you've only been gone a week, a month. You were just here. Hey, the pink carnation, literally, in your lapel has not finished drying. It's the original carne, horseman.

ILLYN: But uglier, a taking to task of symmetry. Once I tried to retrieve some dry cleaning I'd dropped off in a previous expression. Lou looked up at me and said he was sorry, not that I died but that I had to insult the community and its grief that way, over and over again. These arncho raiments, he said: Might as well stick with the wormeaten pinstripe on yr back. ...It stung.

REPTILY: N' I know how they say that a Craw dive is the only noble way to treat yrself out, that the Mthyuh is hungry and the patriotic gesture is to beg her to eat you first, but how much of a sacrifice, bro...? How much, when you know that it's just a matter of planets moving through space without you, while an uncomfortable recital, dreaded meet-and-greet might be avoided, before you are back in action with yr credit rating through the sea floor and one ear a little lower than the other?

ILLYN: Like a warrior must fight, a dyer must dye, a narcissist must write, I sacrifice my will to live a full single life. As my flesh is torn and burned away by soft-molten and sharp-cool gravel, I accept each day as either vital repair or road to terrble destiny in randomly uneven ration.

REPTILY: Like the fall-and-recover dance aesthetic of early-80's Highchank.

ILLYN: No, not really like that. Unless your critical fulcrum is core theory. Right. Wherein the human body is reduced to a rag doll on a whip handle.

REPTILY: Hot.

ILLYN: Yes.

Pecking worm cloud

click image

click image to view struggling hostage

click to follow grupe

Swords for Olives

it's a perfick place for us:
where today is gone and tomorrow yet to become;
cheque the other mammals pacing.

locked in a dark ball, some teens'd
scream, grope, roll. All heroes see
night as best, either for rest or manufacture.

then when they grow old, hanging on
and that alone might seem the likely approach,
but no, it's a planetarium, a gyroscope.

Wayne
"I reelie, reelie just don't give a shit, Jan."

Death of Bill Naughdon

You can fast when you are mourning because
grief feels like hunger, so it's all the same,
but you can't eat to bring someone back,
and reanimation of life does not fill one
stomach.

stink of morning

stink of morning, clanging buoy, chum and fly
white blind, biceps are visors as you rope, hoist
meat on fire, skin turning, stink of morning

crack of day, foul effusion, stink of morning
every shape throws black in your face
stink of morning, poison rays fan derision

stink of morning, bad july, salty tan
comes a time you can't outrun the line
rabid edge, hot aggression, stink of morning

Illyn

Trick Room

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CnvoSl7nxU

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KZz2ind5sk&NR=1&feature=fvwp

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyUor4ottfQ&NR=1

dodi al fayed

mega grip

Carrot on a prong

They left me naked on a stainless slab for like two hours. I was so cold I couldn't move or shout. It was a paradox that up until then I'd been experiencing a sucking gravity that wanted my life with it in the center of our planet. Was it so wrong that on an autopsy table, instead, you feel that the main stage is right there; if you are still alive on a surface of those properties, associations you are doubly present before a strong frizz of imminence that can beckon like a carrot on a prong.

Because I'd slipped into the trance of a dormuñeca, Ted reelie freaked. Because my axial staves had curled stubbornly around the mattress springs, he additionally found it hard to lift me in his arms but as always, championed. I'd trusted him because he was married to Peg. Maybe past domestic horror on the man side could be right cosmetic for the new girl. Also he knew to the last sprig of hay how it felt to minister rooster like to a bird wife, la monarca d'ensalago. At least I could show him tenderer buds of an ugly to come. 

But now he would let me be dead and move on to a new life. Maybe to him it's all the same when She Wakes up Alarmingly Knowing, Enlightened as the Sun. That means it's someone else, next head to pop up in a window. Telejournalism had forged him some terrible paradigms. Off camera presented a writhe pit of humanish complexities. Or he just wasn't thinking right, or the decay fomented by the acid rain of the industry had allowed to protrude a sickly primeval crimp, toad, appendix, fail, trip. The ages bade me forgive him it.

Connie

"I've helped Phyllis become more accepting of her body's changes."

"A scorpion knows that a human is never more fully on the go than when she is simultaneously screaming and slamming with her shoe a creature who seems to want her harm." 

A Cock is a Whole World

When once with the morning you are off
There's a whole day blossoms free on ya
Bran new sensations, slurpy kisses, funny
Wrinkle-puss puppies swelled with candy.
Fresh being gives the environment a gloss
Who can help reaching out to this fat hope.
Now everything matters more than before.

Sistah Grupe Project
Connie
Donna
Mike

Maybe You'd be Happier with the T-4

1) Here's my fashionable address, and
2) here's my extreme mint antiseptic mouth rinse.

MIKE: Being sent spanking back to poverty, we expected scenes like this. One feels that the windy neighborhoods are more exposed to the way the planet spins. We may have used this cutting edge pool robot for two seasons. It needs a little tightening of screws. Come and see us in our new location: Mountain Hill Wheeled Estate Homes for Those who Can't Get a Loan. You know the route.

RESPONDER [well-off immigrant/ other race]: Well I see that the Morbo T2 cannot crawl on your slatted floor. Fish out of water so to speak. I think I'll leave my wife in the car, as we are outside the range of tweet. And you live here? All week?

MIKE: Yes, out of sorts. It's where we are put, we. And I hope that you'll be happier with the T-4.

RESPONDER [couldn't be more than first gen dog eater]: You know, I didn't figure out until like the 10th lawyer that they want to be the judge and you have to make an argument there, on the cold call. You must be a performer, a courtroom savant and courtesan. Nothing bureaucratic can save you now. Nothing bureaucratic can save you ever until it's already too late. In the real jungle, there is only jungle, jungle acoustics. Prolly not, but one day a kid in career apparel with an electronic pen might attempt to trace a pattern in the trees on his tablet screen that looks something like a thing you said as one would lazily outline a Sears in a grainy black and grey satellite square. If you respond automatically as the powerless, suspicious consumer taking supervisors' names, you will get played, and it won't be fair. The Better Business Bureau is only a fun house mirror lane for we sillies with kid thoughts. In the same way, you won't sell heck with your take it or leave it to beaver snide attack. We live in a world of ideas, missy.

MIKE: Of course you're aware it includes a remote control, and the gentleman selling it in the back of NYRB still has access to filtered water. N' prolly dry ice. Must be nice. Need to be chemically burned to feel fresh? Walk out that door. Frame. Or fork over less than thirty percent of the original purchase price with none of the hassle and call it your. Morbo T-2.