11 December 2012

What's your stream?



the moist roads lead through dark valleys to high hills that breath in and out a haze that forms a maze in the ether as we roll in the hays of the lands where nothing never dries up. nowadays we break and bend in a whole new way. we sizzle ourselves dizzy like we were as intangible hues before condensing to bodies feeling the blues. 

rate your synchs, someone said in the dim corner of a room lit by the globe. I had my eyes closed and just kept on dancing with my hands, beating the ethereal rhythm through air. scents lingered around me and I had no idea whether they were there or where I was, standing one foot in the grave. you know, bordering the real.

we were born and raised as wholesome kids but still grew askew. diamond bones shine in solitude under warm flesh. we mix ourselves into each others like beats, experiencing life as if we were all one and the same. that sense of communion is odd only as it is perceived by the eyes of the matrix. trix are for kids - and sometimes for tricky rabbits. doing the work of those who can dance with more than two hands, leading the way down to the maze forming from the intangible haze. we know the drill. 

if only I could read what's written in my mind, I said when I opened my eyes to the dim room where we were. I have a tendency to be a bit melodramatic. I can pledge until I'm blue in the face. words carry a weight too heavy for any shoulders, even those above a crystalline rib cage. 

18 November 2012

Tiny death


a slight squint
            gaze between
     here and nowhere

side with the good
  gasses condensed
             to warriors

lay down
         safe and sound
                 of a moan

      dance with thy hands
                   said someone
                       beyond the veil
            of time 
 that we know
         and love 
  as the barrier
                holding us in place 
            in this time and space

an opening between the lines
                 of scattered words
            see what I hear

        tap into the back of my mind
    glass bottles for water and wine
                                we meet again

                                 the same eyes
                   behind a hundred eyes
         follow your lead

16 October 2012

Hail and Hale



rain is the sign of fall
we take from solemn
heights, holy heights
of the skies you can't
see but merely feel in
the faint throbbing of
your precarious heart 

laughter and lies go hand in hand
in the nights, the nights that have
become long and wet and there's
this sense of longing I haled into
me from the scent of a stranger's
body sleeping on my floor a few
days ago, though I am not sure if
I should use the word stranger to
describe him because there is got
to be something I don't quite get
about him nor myself because as 
I asked him to light my spliff on
the rainy street I saw behind his 
eyes a familiar flare greeting me 
from the distant past, a flare that 
turned my being into a flickering
sign of total and acute lunacy in
kissing a face never seen before

you see it had been just that morning that I stood
in the elevator staring at my eyes from the mirror
and thinking, too bad I never talk about the time
I spent in italy, too bad I never talk italian these
days, too bad, too bad... a sigh, and I left the lift 
and vanished into the rhythm of commuting with
my thoughts anew, completely oblivious of there
being someone behind the veils of time pulling a
trigger or two in order to get my mind scrambled

there should not be a possibility
for two men to have scents that
alike, like there should not be a
possibility for such resemblance
between the face of an irishman
who briefed a sex scene from a
novel of hemingway's, to a face
of someone I saw last over two
years ago in the marble hallway
of the house on via dandolo 24



bygone

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