i remember all, have the wisdom of a stone- welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone;
poemz? 7 of them! The Language of Touching, Sailing Through the Sea of Your Breathing, Ocean Tides, The Camera, The Vultures, The Face of Courage, and Toward the Shoreline.
☆the Language of Touching
If I touch the warm bread of your skin rising, clear with sun's thoughts and sweat, the muscle ripples back and begins a dialogue shadowed behind secrecies and secrecies, a lunar way to conceal an urge that goes back years and tears- of other people's histories but also the history of my mind before my mind, before light, and maybe that's what the death in sex is: the side of mortality that only ghosts see- Villon sez it is to succor a poor man without crushing as a comfort before the fatal dive because Man it's heavy. Something sweeter, too, the dewdrops off the vocabulary and the cadence of your muscle speaking back to me through the clever- real pretty, real smart- veil that's your skin touched. The muscle speaks back because it's in cahoots with the death before your mind and it's been planning this from the beginning, this connection to another, or the falsity of presupposed destinies touching; and the muscle speaks back child-frightened reflections of what it has heard the heart say and what it only dares dream to understand. The heart is a master of languages; a cheap trick; Rosetta Stone. It backs the perilous effort of the muscle speaking though with an inflection or rose, pumped sugarthick from the core of the matter. The heart of the matter?
But Man I would not even dare to ask what my heart's said to my muscle, nor do I care to know what muscle stammers through skin in vague tonguewaves because any death I've got- secretly, openly- is much too heavy, and in situations like these where one needs not be guarded it's better to just speak without eyes or ears to see oneself with: seeing me through you is not the deal. I'd rather just have touching.
☆sailing through the sea of your breathing
Sailing through the sea of your breathing
As you're drawn drowned into heavy sleep
dreams of honey, speaks of fire;
Or as you breathe in on a cigarette
And the cool mind of your jaw line thinks upon
One whole new damn day.
Sailing through the sea of your breathing,
Cast eyes up toward heavy plains- plush, crush velvet,
Soothed acid melts over the skyline
So that it all becomes a heart;
Heart attack, so that my bones all grind to a finer tune
(wandering whiplash static; seagull feeling) (and-)
Sailing on the sea of your breathing
My skin and bones burned together gold;
Feeling solid, brain in a good zone, nerves
` cello coasting
My eyes licked the little gray sparks of sea spray-
And came back to your breathing;
And the freedom of the sea, touched light by
` wired all-night sun,
Promised to succor a poor man, without crushing.
☆OCEAN TIDES
Woman: interpreter, chameleon
Man: creator, supplanter
A woman is negative and a man is positive.
Female- darkness, the moon
Male- open-palmed bright
Female changes, unseen and rippling like
` caged thunderstorms:
in a woman as in the veil of night
Changes in the womb, in vagrant clawing moods
Clear, incomprehensible; water and lightning
Male snaps sugar sweet, swagger nice
Touches what he wants and makes what he wants
Gray smoke curling like highways of though, and
Man moves clean; the head of the family,
the protector, the palm of love-
In any case not so fucking difficult as a woman.
King of Rain, you smile and then you frown;
Man the way I like it,
Woman for the bad nights.
☆the CAMERA
I dodged the Nazi bullshit,
People told me to care- I didn't, it didn't
` matter none.
The violence of that is beyond my everyday.
And anyway there is not standard gauge by which
a person should be enraged; that's like
clutching daises and callin em roses.
Days turned to mauve & the anchored steps
Of a dictionary definition
tailed me like a mad ghost.
"Poetry," "love," life,"
a million thematic disguises, a million sheaths for tears
other things that one could pretend to care about
as a shield from all the senseless abandoned
` static - wa ves
You could say that you're into the environment
but you inherited the eyes of a whore,
and you'd say that for anybody.
☆the VULTURES
The vultures fed on poetry and they kidded themselves for days
and they humped the giant tongue- that's abstract art!
trashcan filled them with loneliness and existential longing*
` and it was a party
in which everybody took themselves seriously;
it was a kind of orgy for the good guys.
The vultures decried the white land-owning male;
they looked at similar vultures from the far-off past
who had also defined things in terms of
a struggle, a political party, oh but the vultures didn't know
(man they never know)
that history just repeats itself,
and that time is nobody's canvas
and that fashion is just a joke, and by that we don't mean Prada.
To the portraits they just smiled, "Ah!"
The Vultures capitalized the first letter of their most estimable name
and they wore cardigans and they dug a conservative fire
but they drank some liberal water
and they didn't see that
a poem for an exclusive audience, a clique,
is a poem bound to fall.
` (indeed, it aint a poem at all)
In other news, most Americans
` ` didn't give two shits.
☆the face of courage
When sound arcs up past a blackfluid prison,
Its contours are indistinguishable from one another;
it becomes unbearable.
But at least it's free, as free as your clothes can be.
Coconut lavender coffee, all that advertisement stuff
(all the lying that has to do with dying that has to do with
a life lived insipid even though the camera's
` gone, or was never there)- anyway, it all dipped like
a rainbow
into the bare fluid- everything was hot as jewel light,
smoke and the American South.
It's either stupidity or eyeless wisdom that leads you
alone, along, this path, and it's only with either
that you can bear to look these scenes in the eyes; a stonelike
resolution that comes from crying
` in the womb,
and a rain of blades I can see furious pounding
past the lying skull and slam into the brain,
the heat & sadness; it's true that you may come to
regret a bunch of heroes, but
it's a real song, at least,
it'll be real if you sing that way.
You can twist your nerves and
you can let your blood begin, and you'll be a-
` okay,
Elvis wont follow you here; so go.
☆toward the shoreline
But who could forget that lonely passion
Like sitting, arms folded, at the mouth where
the train, the water, the broke down strings of music
meet?
People sometimes arnt much more than
hearts, tongues, memories colliding
People give each other meaning and, on rare occasion,
think for themselves.
Not many are men of history, people're either
on time or they're later; they're either here or not,
clouded under the streetlights
going over families by the clocklike midnight-
clockfaced- "We're gonna need this much to-"
These people all belong to the ocean,
it's in the clothes of wool, it's in their sad breathing,
in the beaten lines deep as torn earth, skin like leather-
Smoked black obsidian eyes the only prize
of a lifetime on the respirator.
notes;;
"to succor a poor man without crushing" is a line from a francois villon poem and if you can tell i like it a lot 8D
thanks for reading! :D
☆the Language of Touching
If I touch the warm bread of your skin rising, clear with sun's thoughts and sweat, the muscle ripples back and begins a dialogue shadowed behind secrecies and secrecies, a lunar way to conceal an urge that goes back years and tears- of other people's histories but also the history of my mind before my mind, before light, and maybe that's what the death in sex is: the side of mortality that only ghosts see- Villon sez it is to succor a poor man without crushing as a comfort before the fatal dive because Man it's heavy. Something sweeter, too, the dewdrops off the vocabulary and the cadence of your muscle speaking back to me through the clever- real pretty, real smart- veil that's your skin touched. The muscle speaks back because it's in cahoots with the death before your mind and it's been planning this from the beginning, this connection to another, or the falsity of presupposed destinies touching; and the muscle speaks back child-frightened reflections of what it has heard the heart say and what it only dares dream to understand. The heart is a master of languages; a cheap trick; Rosetta Stone. It backs the perilous effort of the muscle speaking though with an inflection or rose, pumped sugarthick from the core of the matter. The heart of the matter?
But Man I would not even dare to ask what my heart's said to my muscle, nor do I care to know what muscle stammers through skin in vague tonguewaves because any death I've got- secretly, openly- is much too heavy, and in situations like these where one needs not be guarded it's better to just speak without eyes or ears to see oneself with: seeing me through you is not the deal. I'd rather just have touching.
☆sailing through the sea of your breathing
Sailing through the sea of your breathing
As you're drawn drowned into heavy sleep
dreams of honey, speaks of fire;
Or as you breathe in on a cigarette
And the cool mind of your jaw line thinks upon
One whole new damn day.
Sailing through the sea of your breathing,
Cast eyes up toward heavy plains- plush, crush velvet,
Soothed acid melts over the skyline
So that it all becomes a heart;
Heart attack, so that my bones all grind to a finer tune
(wandering whiplash static; seagull feeling) (and-)
Sailing on the sea of your breathing
My skin and bones burned together gold;
Feeling solid, brain in a good zone, nerves
` cello coasting
My eyes licked the little gray sparks of sea spray-
And came back to your breathing;
And the freedom of the sea, touched light by
` wired all-night sun,
Promised to succor a poor man, without crushing.
☆OCEAN TIDES
Woman: interpreter, chameleon
Man: creator, supplanter
A woman is negative and a man is positive.
Female- darkness, the moon
Male- open-palmed bright
Female changes, unseen and rippling like
` caged thunderstorms:
in a woman as in the veil of night
Changes in the womb, in vagrant clawing moods
Clear, incomprehensible; water and lightning
Male snaps sugar sweet, swagger nice
Touches what he wants and makes what he wants
Gray smoke curling like highways of though, and
Man moves clean; the head of the family,
the protector, the palm of love-
In any case not so fucking difficult as a woman.
King of Rain, you smile and then you frown;
Man the way I like it,
Woman for the bad nights.
☆the CAMERA
I dodged the Nazi bullshit,
People told me to care- I didn't, it didn't
` matter none.
The violence of that is beyond my everyday.
And anyway there is not standard gauge by which
a person should be enraged; that's like
clutching daises and callin em roses.
Days turned to mauve & the anchored steps
Of a dictionary definition
tailed me like a mad ghost.
"Poetry," "love," life,"
a million thematic disguises, a million sheaths for tears
other things that one could pretend to care about
as a shield from all the senseless abandoned
` static - wa ves
You could say that you're into the environment
but you inherited the eyes of a whore,
and you'd say that for anybody.
☆the VULTURES
The vultures fed on poetry and they kidded themselves for days
and they humped the giant tongue- that's abstract art!
trashcan filled them with loneliness and existential longing*
` and it was a party
in which everybody took themselves seriously;
it was a kind of orgy for the good guys.
The vultures decried the white land-owning male;
they looked at similar vultures from the far-off past
who had also defined things in terms of
a struggle, a political party, oh but the vultures didn't know
(man they never know)
that history just repeats itself,
and that time is nobody's canvas
and that fashion is just a joke, and by that we don't mean Prada.
To the portraits they just smiled, "Ah!"
The Vultures capitalized the first letter of their most estimable name
and they wore cardigans and they dug a conservative fire
but they drank some liberal water
and they didn't see that
a poem for an exclusive audience, a clique,
is a poem bound to fall.
` (indeed, it aint a poem at all)
In other news, most Americans
` ` didn't give two shits.
☆the face of courage
When sound arcs up past a blackfluid prison,
Its contours are indistinguishable from one another;
it becomes unbearable.
But at least it's free, as free as your clothes can be.
Coconut lavender coffee, all that advertisement stuff
(all the lying that has to do with dying that has to do with
a life lived insipid even though the camera's
` gone, or was never there)- anyway, it all dipped like
a rainbow
into the bare fluid- everything was hot as jewel light,
smoke and the American South.
It's either stupidity or eyeless wisdom that leads you
alone, along, this path, and it's only with either
that you can bear to look these scenes in the eyes; a stonelike
resolution that comes from crying
` in the womb,
and a rain of blades I can see furious pounding
past the lying skull and slam into the brain,
the heat & sadness; it's true that you may come to
regret a bunch of heroes, but
it's a real song, at least,
it'll be real if you sing that way.
You can twist your nerves and
you can let your blood begin, and you'll be a-
` okay,
Elvis wont follow you here; so go.
☆toward the shoreline
But who could forget that lonely passion
Like sitting, arms folded, at the mouth where
the train, the water, the broke down strings of music
meet?
People sometimes arnt much more than
hearts, tongues, memories colliding
People give each other meaning and, on rare occasion,
think for themselves.
Not many are men of history, people're either
on time or they're later; they're either here or not,
clouded under the streetlights
going over families by the clocklike midnight-
clockfaced- "We're gonna need this much to-"
These people all belong to the ocean,
it's in the clothes of wool, it's in their sad breathing,
in the beaten lines deep as torn earth, skin like leather-
Smoked black obsidian eyes the only prize
of a lifetime on the respirator.
notes;;
"to succor a poor man without crushing" is a line from a francois villon poem and if you can tell i like it a lot 8D
thanks for reading! :D