Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Illustration and art
≈ Comments Off on how she fell
how she fell
03 Tuesday Sep 2013
matter
03 Tuesday Sep 2013
Tags
dark lady in a dark labyrinth, dead sun, poem, Poetry, sonnet, tryst transformed, what matter, what matters
Killer mine. Transformed—rendered into this
confining body, this bodiless brain,
abusive hole I smell the flood pain, bliss
of the carnal after a hurricane
the waves the pull the wailing to cover
letters written poems full. Sentinel
come to me loosen these brief moments blur
into this blood. Plain, like tryst, like carnal,
like sun. You believe in three gods and one.
You say chromosomes matter. What matter
comes from dark labyrinth? Matter: now please
come. A night bright, a black star, a dead sun.
Matter. What is this? Killer transformed. We’re
brainless, bodiless, a whole new species.
you’re blue
03 Tuesday Sep 2013
Tags
blue, cutting cute, gin, poem, Poetry, school fool, sonnet, ugly drivel, vodka
Make it quaint like crack pipes, blow for cheap grace,
—resin residue, —dew in the eyes, —pink
eye, —this pleasure dripping over your face
in gobs. I drink and I drink glob I drink.
This high will do. Vodka then gin, thus we
begin. Do not make it ugly. Drivel
does not impress. Make it blade, a belly
cutting cute. Make it the only odd skull.
The last thing they’ll ever find of. You’re blue
by thy nature. Blue by thy blow. I can’t
care where you went to school, fool. What awards
you got and sold. Which old hippie you blew.
Scare me new. Blow my lid. Make me recant
poetry. I want not chaff knives but swords.
my favorite stories are always ghost stories
02 Monday Sep 2013
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Illustration and art
≈ Comments Off on my favorite stories are always ghost stories
joy
02 Monday Sep 2013
Thief. Grief. I’m a servant of the dog star,
the red vixen, the copper bitch. I’ve come
to bleed you dry. With an ax, a crowbar,
fingers, nails, I will reach inside. Your dumb
heart will slow, quiet now, a sulking bag
gone limp in my hand. Then I will replace
it with winter’s starved moon, that silver jag
in the sky that can never be full. Space
is full of holes. You have just one. Why grieve
over joy? Why grieve while singing this song?
The skylark knows this joy — so does the thrush
— that this world is best, we know, we believe,
without you in it. That agreed fact; long
joy of your absence. That smiled-upon hush.
skull crack
01 Sunday Sep 2013
Tags
diamond god, hellcat, pax now, poem, Poetry, skull crack, sonnet, you fuck
hidden vice—infidelity is dull
only cancer does not change even that
changes the need to feel guilty that skull
crack that let all these passions in. Hellcat.
Diamond dog. Nightmare. I have ridden you
all. So you fuck? you fuck that’s not divine
the more abrasive faith the more see-through
soul made-up by the mind, that is not mine,
nothing is mine. I leave empty. I leave
with a belly wound, dripping tripe. Grave dust
my guts, throne of faith. This play on release
madam will not do. The ghosts leave to grieve.
Grieving will not do. Just this. Just this. Just
this. You small thing. Pax now, O fool, soul, peace.
dirty snow
01 Sunday Sep 2013
Then I would bear it clench myself and die
steeled with my pilgrimage’s pain the still eyes
in the dead face demon’s daughter beauty
born of love love indeed these carcass flies
and ash and funereal oak. Green bud, white
leaf, red snow. Tumble-down-dumble. The blade
lets slip my guts, cries havoc, as her night-
stained hands find a hold in my blood betrayed
O but why a big bush of elders. Dies
my why my why my why penetrating
deeper, dies my demons and false cherubs.
Dies this new faith, a three-person’d passion.
In the dirty snow you will find nothing
but meal worms fed on my blood and fat grubs.
her foal obscene
31 Saturday Aug 2013
Tags
fear, ghost lover, please just live, poem, Poetry, rip us apart, sister poem, sonnet
And know there is more that you can’t see, can’t
hear, can’t know — except in movements. Inside
you it wants to get out. Like song. Like chant.
Shaman knows. Steadily it grows. Denied
as birth it will rip you apart. This thing.
This word. This language. Wretched wind that swept
space clean. Breathe in. We die in blood. Bleeding
inside. I wept because you were. I wept
riding the nightmare and her foal, obscene,
there is always more. Sister, I know why
I stayed. That movement. Fear. Can you forgive
me? I cannot. I scream. I scream. I scream
because we are all born in blood, and die
in blood, but for you, sister, please just live.
i love flat surfaces that give the illusion of depth
31 Saturday Aug 2013
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Illustration and art
wither bone
31 Saturday Aug 2013
Tags
bite hard, erotic Lent, gamahuching, Lolita, mandrake, poem, Poetry, three penny upright, wither bone, wonder in hell
Dumb glutton after reading Lolita
she looked once at her daughter and then fled.
Inamatus, bangtail, poor mute, daughters
of Lot pregnant with their leering father’s
observe this erotic Lent—and I thought
she had liked this gamahuching better
than she did. Than I do. Is there no more
exquisite a conjugation in our crude
anatomy than this where poetry
dovetails with the inevitable mandrake,
the Nebuchadnezzar, the three-penny
upright? To me, to me, to me the most
endearing is its unsuitableness
of such in books, magazines and Best Of
anthologies; and, conversely, the chief
wonder in hell (wither bone, I’m sometimes
transported) are these three sticky fingers
that I bring with me everywhere. Bite hard.
