Strange god-like sensations
Feeling frigate frigid friend
Weird googly sounds strike
Finding the lord jinx stink
A guitar holding the plain
The pale silent threnody
Pail of strange ghostly you
Biting holy windows of me
Thinking thoroughly of her
He me she we be three to be
Be to three we shall be as she
Thinking the groans and gish
Wanting to see, wanting to want
meek meeking
Streamed thumb
Hinged pad
The finest in the field
SHRAP!
SHRAP
Gonna into a fish tent
Gonna see what’s in there
Gonna see the fish in the fish tent
Gonna smell what they smell like
Fish in the fish tent
Feeling warm, hot, sticky and ripe
Remembering those hot days turned cool
Cool days turning hot
The slow, hot crawl of the sun across the stinking sky
A festering reminder of every day that we’re alive, the struggle, the rot and plunder
We feel out throats and hearts leaping, throwing themselves out of our skins
We see beauty, we feel it sometimes, we know it is close
But how often are we truly beautiful?
fish tent
Knowing noble, the purple people
Glancing growling, cheeks aglow
The beautiful people, and those that want to be, or think that they are
Glowing with youth, the morphic dream, halls of mystery,
Pulsing with fake life, the domains of squalid dreams
Finding a hell of your own to complete the mystery
The people moving the faces, the pictures of age and dream
The dream of hate loving hate,
Love hating love,
But it is another world of witless wire,
A wire writing the witless world,
Finding fate with the friendless friends,
Cutting hair dry, cutting to the bone of a bone-dead rag man
Running ragged, a revolution of rage and friendly putridity
Pleasing the friendly parson, pastor of pleasure
Haunting the fields of friendless fantasy,
The hollow hell of a victimless victory
Finding solutions in the early decades of ecstasy
Grinding the solution of the soul-depth, finding that day of carnal fantasy
A hollow curse of jaded anti-metabolism, shrinking with each passing day
The wonderful little jade pleasure gore, gore gore gore
The pleasure that we are to ourselves
We please and we are pleasing, we walk and we look
We are good at looking, and we look good; we eat, and we know we eat
The days fill with food and looking. And we look.
We look.
Shadow reflection 2
Old ghosts stare like craven superzealots
Finding friends, the friendly fascists gore
Blindly pacing the tearless threnody
Gore, Gore, Bliley, Sarbanes, Gore
Blindly eating a saltless tragedy
Singing the praise of gutless guitars
The tears flowing salty streaks
Singing old tuneless chants
Blindly into the hollow night
Lit, faintly, at one end
Where the halls of people moan
Where the halls of people moan
Shadow reflections 1
The lumpy bones and skin, bag of ten
Those hands have eaten, carved, killed
Gentle hands for soothing faces and hair
Patting a bun, or massaging a knee
Reviving hearts, practicing primordial
rituals
Holding strange old implements
darning
The bony bag of lumpy skin, ten bags
Two sacks, laced with red and white
Ancient beyond words
Ancient beyond words
The harmful hopeful plastic days
Lovely three, four, five together on a sunny day
We think those boring days of solipsism are eternal
No one exists but we on this desert planet
Finding friends friending friend loving
Beautiful dreamers, unpleasant screamers
Searching for darts, skulling for hearts
The ugly old days are forever new
The world is great and wide
And all sea lanes lead to the Mediterranean
And the skulls rotting in the waters below
All sea lanes
Finding the dying knight sleeping
Eating his fairy cakes and thromboidic arterial Kronos tablet
Eating the old loud noise louts, the days in the sacred coal chambers
Eating the burn fruit, the capable fantastic ogre poor oats
Being guided aimlessly endlessly along fantastic future holes
Guiding goading finally floating,
The days pulling punishment into the dark deep void shaft of an endless heaven
The beautiful opposites know who we are, they understand and they love and know
It is all there is, this fairy life, and the beautiful doors beyond
New worlds, different neighbourhoods pulling, swelling, knowing, holding
Sparkle shine
Remember that song a couple of years ago about the Nick Cave dolls? It was by Bongwater. Bongwater… bong… bong… Bongwater… that’s a bong… that’s what I said, Bongwater. Anyway, it was just bound to happen that someone would start selling them on eBay. And I was one of the stupid people who was destined to buy one.
It took weeks, but I finally got my Nick Cave doll. I ripped open the package, and there he was – Nick Cave in miniature. But something was wrong about it. He didn’t look like Nick Cave. He didn’t look like Nick Drake. He didn’t even look like Dennis Miller, or the John Stewart stormtrooper doll. Shit – he looked like one of those creatures from that Star Trek series, the Ferengi or something… He looked like that guy who made me the teochew dumpling noodles I had for dinner tonight, those pork dumplings that are sitting like a lump of rotting carcass in my stomach, the ones that are growing and heaving.
All of a sudden I don’t feel so good. I don’t even want my Nick Cave doll near me any more. I just want to… puke! HYACK-HYACK-HYACK-HYACK!!!!
GreatGrandGreen
Shame on me
Or just unlucky
A vast space
Joined at the waist
Eating pain
Love in vain
Finding Jesus
Holding cactus
Just in time
Dangling vine
Justin Time, Dangling Vine