Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Tool building, tolls and teeth will yellow

Can we talk about      tool building
         The anchors the same the verbs
    the difference   
Its      a bridges brine
                   toll it's'              own bounty
   For those that do it     and the 
                        All of us
        They Can not help it,
Veil meds        a porters blue
cleaning best   and lost in work
              And with regard to understanding sounds      as best one can
              or fuel Meands
from the ground up   the ear pours into noise
   as noise into them
              Noises bled into pitch
but it's not as black as it feels to be.
            ( The problem adventure)
      And  needs to be,
         Is  We      need too much
                     o followers of silk
                Or black stone    a currency from the past was found easily enough
 The only justice
                             Tooth tools'
        Need you not      
                         No need   in  grinding
But the mending...
             If you can.
The grind being in private   losing tooth with every cycle
  The   pivot    at least           being
           Lax of these
                      And post  inn
Or influential
      it's most pious           pointedge  
     Edged     and
                               the past long lost
   In dusted sediment
        Prelude layering precludes
Prelude layering
Waxing lipstick  wind sand
          Mounting older    lipstick wind sands
That mounted importantly
                      like a hyena mounts a wounded  gazelle
                       Our proofs       Ill measured in wind sand
            Only with humans it's       time
that sound        sounds               
                                     it's wound
                Why does it search and do
     Do not get lost in verbs      or
Not the  how  but  why
        Is lost       vision too warded towards the why.
                             And how is strength
How wounded     in
        Conflict the how         let it know
  then bring the why in so it is comforting
More importantly comfortable
    Remember geometry
            Remember edge and creases boundaries in and out.
                  Now is        a foul in
and out a foul out
and in
                      The breath of this
                  Remember wanting the now
     Most of all
More      The  then and now
Mow this sanctuary 
Wanting more     then anything else ever.    Or
An urgent rush    
Urgent self relish pumped
          Whitney plastic handle down
onto        a fog headed hat dog wearing casing               
                    Tasting of strong cock measured sting coat
                   Pale and crispy   
Singe it's magic cure
                        and oral fix actions
                using all...       ?
casted as no     but best    
and bread to think it' s on to something.
                 someone under tersk redemption mouth sour and hungry though they were on to something
      The breather thought another way
Again a gain
And lacking death in religion to prove it
     Lax it's'  
Ligand-gated ion channel     to the real
                             Or Moloch
O temple
                      Allow this Lilith you love me as you love your self.
who here does not sow
             Or wear a bridge March one best
To dance ones best
Casts of poetry casting poetry
                          Posts of peasantry to post
One peasantry
                   Color is the Fist
                                   first box to open

Saturday, December 5, 2015

a passive project

a passive project 
    sit still you maker of mute 
                        And remember the other

blind the aura  in mess 
                unsent pride   fern leaf
          stretching as high as it needed to
the orwell passives'  join the valley flank 
     crony clown  
                   agressions in forgetfullness 
 or just the loudest moment at the time

your mute does not herd  picket fence around your shoes
              limits the ankle       your ankle alone
  does not 
        feed           as you think it does.
                 a passives' knee print  when kneeling 

                      not a wake    directly 
 for the sake of wake

         Passives for the sake of pleasure send vowels that can please in spring courses if calm can carve the calf maons
         calves bland and blinded by Sounds 
                                louder then wolves
Post other wiser  
when fate is blind and has only ears to find its way
thats not to say scream      and scream first
       but breath first and care not of its poise
                 whose flesh is this anyway?
  the i a singularity in spite of we         becoming ought 
                    an eye orphaned      its other   
 closed in blink perhaps
                the opened one  
      a uniformed segregate 

          a paraphrase          a disco    
famed    with one eye closed. 
                  defined by most as whole
or at least thats all we get 
                whose flesh is this anyway?
the passives' meat its mince 
         the closed other forgotten
                         and the moves go to the loud

Thursday, December 3, 2015

a weekend of james

it seems flannel is the neo-armer of choice these days sitting comfortably between the shoulders of the noble, or anyone affording not only jest but pragmatisms previously cultured wedgedly among kings. noble soldiers defending leisure. its leisure defending polite yet accosted social quids pruned crowns and labeled what ever is necessary in the moment to pass as normal.

this is where you find james. the there could be described as the space between an elephants ass and the ground. it could also be described as the middle of nowhere. or Georgia. the this, of course, did not dawn on james right away.  in fact it wouldn't until a few days from now when the, 'practice makes perfect,' euphemistic pleasure cord to pull soul sail, enabling a vale of naiveté to be widened to the point of broke, was pulled, the bit of spilled coffee on a saucer sitting to the right of james dried and the girl long gone.

but today is a good day. james fills his time. he takes no real pleasure in media. in all honesty time really fills itself. he wakes up, the phone directs him to weather,  laptop tells him to laugh, his girl tells him to move and the clock tells him to work. in fact he doesn't really think at all, filling time would be the only cause to think and, that being taken, there could be no thoughts to give.

the next day was the same as the last except for a brief almost exegetical moment, a spark, of christ conscious condensation pooled onto the small of the back sending a fraction of a thought up the spine of james which left him unable to blink three seconds longer then normal. the cause could be described as that moment when one has gotten into bed chilled but the warmth from the cover mixed with body heat has made it too hot and one is forced to take a layer off. it also could be described as the absence of color on jupiter. or the soft and eerie realization that everything has in fact been done-and there is nothing left to do.

this moment of course did not dawn on james. some say we don't see what isn't needed until it is needed. lessons learned a few blinks behind. a life being, velvet scrapes of clothe laid between corduroy ones, flannel crossed leather or silk sown into mosaic printed felt either gently waxed or tumbled softly with creek stone. james was the latter but if he thought about it, which he didn't, he would probable describe himself as witty with a quick blink ahead of the rest.

and the next day, james whore flannel.