XI

Ж zsh:

troubadours! troubadours!

remember that i live
sprawled out like earthen pots

leaving remains of my
diet on the back steps

Ц tsz:

if i had a good friend

he'd be a greased cherub

we would stab each other

with knives wrapped in towels

Ю yooh:

look alive out there now!
gnashing your teeth wont do

you'll shit your pants
until your nails fall out!

Щ shh:

better to keep quiet

when in smiling ruins

my own violence sinks

and grows fungal tumors

Э eh:

always on the old beach

rubbing my snotty sleeve

my complaints still ring like

the clacking of false teeth

troubadours! troubadours!

X

You may remember my good friend, the hapless fleece. When he wakes up in the dusty morning, or in the thin crevices of night, he looks at his hand; he looks at his hand and sometimes thinks that it is the hand of a corpse. Has a dead mannlich jerked himself from beneath his grave to rest beside my good friend, the hapless fleece? This is sign that we are not doing well, that certain ways of sleep have led us, like the sneering face of a procuress in the wash of orange lamps, to dens filled with moss green pillows of disease, where hangs a terror with no ancestry.

Ô, but the hapless fleece! How his peculiar and swelling heart must sweat panic!

He looks at the dead hand; it lies peacefully on the pillow next to his head. He examines with the delicacy of a ribboned girl, the great blue vein in the center of the hand; the vein that is in his hand and all hands above the earth, thick and bloated, squirming quietly. The vein is deflated like the unknown remains of something lying in a puddle. It lies peacefully on the pillow next to his head and the hapless fleece finds himself returning to days when he stared at a river from betwixt the rusting green beams of the bridge looking over it, with his eyes melting onto his cheeks, with his hands dully purple.

Pull your covers over your eyes, Ô miserable one, never return home!

He stares at the little bones of the dead hand, the little bones like translucent threads of silk, with their silent geography, and finds himself cast back to days when he spread his body on the sharp grass and coughed bright green stars of snot, and leaked grey drooling vomit onto the ground, while red ants crawled from their tunnels, over his hands, and the savage whisper of mosquitos hung in the air. Wrap yourself tighter, Ô bored one, the air in Florida sags like wet bread and will stifle your coughs! The dead hand does not stir; it sleeps and sleeps with complacent smiles, and the hapless fleece looks at the tight ashen surface of skin that wraps the hand as a spider wraps a fly, examining the tiny ravines splitting across the skin and at the hairs that jutted from them to hang languidly;

the skin of the dead hand like something that would change colors, would begin to ooze cruel odors and be draped slovenly across the surface of wherever it came to lay like greasy strands of hair;

the skin of the hand that would change colors, begin to ooze cruel odors and be draped slovenly across the surface of wherever it came to lay like strands of greasy hair and the hapless fleece will begin to wonder whose hand it must be:

shut it up under the pillow and do not look at it anymore.

IX

recognize the god, old earth

http://gaiatincture.blogspot.com

VIII

I am alone.
I am not sleeping.
I am not sleeping alone.



j.S.s

VI

This long buffalo must bend to fit into the room and snorts its charged breath against the automan its charged tangle of brown fur barbs and sparks like exposed lightbulbs and lightning coming nearer. Black clouds bust the windows and crash in shouting thunder at my petrification while the hot buffalo stinks and hoofs holes in the ground. He bucks, his eyes glow red as he thrusts them into mine, contorting to level his power at me and demands. The scorch of the lightning flashes against my face. The scorch is bottled in the freezer. The buffalo twists his purple scowl and blows living, wretched breath on my face, his horns gleam dimly in the violence of the cracks and he demands we split open the freezer and douse the flaming wicks licking up our spines. Lightbulbs shatter again and I mince the pieces, sweep them into a highball glass and pour eight fingers. The buffalo grows a size and the walls start to shudder, lightning swelling and pounding against them. He mauls the glass, takes it highball and all into his insatiable maw and chomps. Purple blood beads the thin lining of his purple mouth, I kneel and pull myself before him. The black clouds rumble and throw molten maelstrom harsh around the room, I wrap my arms around his head and squeeze the beast's face against mine, licking the blood from his tongue, fitting his jaw around my delicate, human kneck. I am drenced in spit and purple blood, lubricated for any mortal passage. His jaws mightily and slowly clench. The lightning begins to quiet. His fangs prick seven spots in my white flesh. A bolt strikes and ignites the floor. His tooth saws agains the mineral deposit, my spine. I am candle, he chomps down, and through, breaks my wick, saves me from the fire.

Burns Usher's house burns
Crinkles wallpaper
Crackles floorboords & beams
Bend, forests falter in face of
Fire. Me, ruin. He, ruin. We, ruin ruins ruins.
Pelt. Just pelt.

J.s.S

V

If you’d care to think of it now:

A forest made of hair

An undergrowth so dense

No hound can bay through it

or ,

The kids giggle quietly

But you cant see them;

They snuggle in shadows

But their eyes hold milk

That drips amid the trees,

That, you can see.

Their bodies’ sheen

Like the oiliness of a magpie;

They flit through the forest

Like droves of magpies

Of magpies,

I was once told:

1 for despair

2 for joy

3 for a girl

4 for a boy

5 for silver

6 for gold

7 seven for a secret never to be told

Secrets and truths

Wan and green

Buried like sunken forests,

Their forms fan out in the tide

Until little baby darkness

Collapses in pieces

Pierced by light

So terrible

I don’t care to think of it,

Face crusted over with sleep;

No crown rends my dull brow

All thorns are dulled by quiet

And God lay there:

With the white languor of a woman

Expecting neutral company

Or guests that would hover

And say nothing, but smile

And look upwards

God was covered in petals;

The roses and violets of horror

But smiled as if nothing was wrong

These days

Which we forever think about

These days

No forest remains

But a beach:

Licked and sucked by the ocean

The beach like a set of feeble gums

To suck and slurp at the ocean;

The beach like a sick mouth

Hanging open, yawning

The kids crashed together

Gnashed their teeth

Burning in garish light

Lolling in the frothing foam

Of that dissolving strand

Smashing one another

Like a fool banging symbols

God sat alone in the dunes

Smiling; his legs crossed

And back bent:

He might be watching

The kids rolling in the sea

But it might only be

Oil shining on a puddle

And if the kids

Hurt so deeply

Why did God smile

When they ran to him

Out of the sea

Up the shore

Little paws held up

With their bird’s confusion

And absurd sorrow?

He didn’t understand

Or didn’t care to think of it,

He just smiled

with eyes like stained glass

The kids ran on the beach

And God raised his head

Slowly and ponderously

Like a great dog

Watching the distant interest

Drift across those sands

God rose and followed them

The sands slid from beneath him

God stumbled and staggered

When he reached the kids

They were squatting

In the carrion sand

Their faces to the dirt

They dug the sand

Until brine began

Pooling in the hole

it made a sound like

"*suck*"

The kids raised their faces to God,

To say: "Nothing gets out alive"

Breathing a chaos stronger than creation,

Their faces true bone carvings of hatred

They held shovels in their hands

And held roses in their teeth

They beat him until he was dead

And dragged his body to where

The waves lipped the shore

I don’t care about any of it

I cant be bothered at all

Today I wont wake up

All parts of me flowing away

Draped in slithering silks

I am marvelously pomp

Will I work today?

No, I will only smoke

The moonlight sifted down complacently

God’s body lay in the lapping tide

Years passed and it sank into the sand

There are barks of thunder

And invisible gasping clouds

Surely it is a time for umbrellas

Sincerely,

Jamie