How far is it?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interior
Of the wheels move, they appall me ---
The terrible brains
Of Krupp, black muzzles
Revolving, the sound
Punching out Absence! Like cannon.
It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other.
I am dragging my body
Quietly through the straw of the boxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheels eat, these wheels
Fixed to their arcs like gods,
The silver leash of the will ----
Inexorable. And their pride!
All the gods know destinations.
I am a letter in this slot!
I fly to a name, two eyes.
Will there be fire, will there be bread?
Here there is such mud.
It is a trainstop, the nurses
Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery,
Touching their wounded,
The men the blood still pumps forward,
Legs, arms piled outside
The tent of unending cries ----
A hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men
Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood
Into the next mile,
The next hour ----
Dynasty of broken arrows!

How far is it?
There is mud on my feet,
Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side,
This earth I rise from, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth
Ready to roll, like a devil's.
There is a minute at the end of it
A minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
It is so small
The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ----
The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask
Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
And now detonations ----
Thunder and guns.
The fire's between us.
Is there no place
Turning and turning in the middle air,
Untouchable and untouchable.
The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ----
An animal
Insane for the destination,
The bloodspot,
The face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury the dead.
Let their souls writhe in like dew,
Incense in my track.
The carriages rock, they are cradles.
And I, stepping from this skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces

Step up to you from the black car of Lethe,
Pure as a baby.

I can't admit to having much to show
for all the pain that's left me here.

Worth as much as the fading of Autumn light,
or the memory of snow

Fleeting, if all consuming, the promise
of cult status
And sensitive, yet determined
(if sleepy) stands the catcher of the
Whims at the auditorium's open door.

...But it doesn't mean as much
as the first kiss of
Teenage lovers
after an ice-cream cone.

You could spend half a lifetime
searching for moments
that look like glossy photographs
And to hear your name whispered
behind your back-wherever you go.

If that sounds luminescent, it still won't solve a problem.

But what is "content"?
How far did I get?

Well...
In my prime
I was a Roadie for Boredoms
...and they were actually pretty nice guys.

How far is it?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interior
Of the wheels move, they appall me --- The terrible brains
Of Krupp, black muzzles
Revolving, the sound
Punching out Absence! Like cannon.
It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other.
I am dragging my body
Quietly through the straw of the boxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheels eat, these wheels
Fixed to their arcs like gods,
The silver leash of the will ----
Inexorable. And their pride!
All the gods know destinations.
I am a letter in this slot!
I fly to a name, two eyes.
Will there be fire, will there be bread?
Here there is such mud.
It is a trainstop, the nurses
Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, Touching their wounded,
The men the blood still pumps forward,
Legs, arms piled outside
The tent of unending cries ----
A hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men
Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood
Into the next mile,
The next hour ----
Dynasty of broken arrows!
How far is it?
There is mud on my feet,
Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side,
This earth I rise from, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth
Ready to roll, like a devil's.
There is a minute at the end of it
A minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
It is so small
The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ---- The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask
Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
And now detonations ----
Thunder and guns.
The fire's between us.
Is there no place
Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouchable and untouchable.
The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ---- An animal
Insane for the destination,
The bloodspot,
The face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury the dead.
Let their souls writhe in like dew,
Incense in my track.
The carriages rock, they are cradles.
And I, stepping from this skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces
Step up to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

"During" of all is death maybe,
Precious life being rare so amidst.
In idle boredoms long,innocuous,fewer
The inspirations kindling sharp and deep.
Many aimless wanderings wide, hectic
Not often the calm,lucid moments, still.
Much talks cheap, too many words tripe
Silences creative but few,that flower pretty.
In an enduring numbness and sadness real
Lesser those loves true, uniquely outstanding.
In pains purposeless,cruelties dealt heartless
Present ever fewer,those angels of mercy.
In epic text heavenly,wise sermons long,
Rare that one lovely poem focused strong.
If only durings were lived, aware positive!
O angels,bless us with life more,meaningful
During lives NOW,for sliding are we all fast,
alive,dead senseless,to a death final and futile!

The suburban myths of childhood splayed on her naked chest
The stones of her mothers guilt closing her in
Her highschool cartoon bedspread beneath her back where I'm standing I don't know what she wants for me to listen or attack her jeans off to make her sing her song while I sweat on her she is shivering from heat and malfunctionous desires cracked fate
I am growing weak with boredoms temptations to have my way
My hands around her crumbling names
Swirling her skin to silence the pain
Creamy russian white and peach on display
She doesn't want to be a wife or gay but these things happen anyway
Another day in th oc
Little orange houses all in a row
Wishing with them we could play dominoes

life and its glitters, the boredoms that seek to write
the inspirations of death with its healing joys
and life with its uttermost sorrows

i, a fractured sky, disinclined to move,
divorced from shadow and voice
unwoken by the mild pull of the earth

an old romance of ears and eyes, yellow and round,
heavens-hopes the goals of a lifetime
waiting innocently for the rain.

i waited and the shadows of the earth
grew long until they were armies
sleeping near the bleached rocks

believing they were the blanketing dark,
breathing beside autumn’s haikus of
slumber the sharp fall of love, the

intense tide of low grass and high wall.

dreams rushing like princely streams
a beginning of clouds, clouds of black air
sweeping clear, like valleys of the wild

a wilderness so tender it could speak,
where the mighty waves froze the shore-line
with the hints of winter's first kiss

and the magics of the stars cried into fire,
not knowing the flower-beds or the laughter
or the crazy tears of a humble man.

love poured sapphires from its streams
glass-houses of light, where the oceany
air believed in vertical caves, monstrous

caverns of hopes and dreams, marble
statues with broken jaws, unearthly
branches that rose like strange trees

combing the wind into tangles of tide,
hollow night, with its breathing and
mights, its desires, its poetry of mind.

Breaking waves, folding in river bends (meandering)
with an effortless grace
Cupids mouth, foaming to return -
broken and filling up the landscape.
Cracked horseshoes
waltzing across a vibrating brain,
all the worlds night
quartz, cutting drunk into
your Green city.

Banishing a sense of self
uprooting positivity, displacing our discontempt -
boil out the water from the soup of human condition.
Boredoms grace.

We're rotting, lizards tongues
wearing the past, skin deep
Imbued.
a morbid relocation of entrance
authority, a fee
Reflecting light off your face
always leading back,
back towards a tabletop nausea.

Caked in powder,
i make my way over -
licking my finger and rubbing away
at the cracks formed years ago
wandering in and out of Escher's *******,
hoping to settle mind and body
numbed and lethargic,
medicine doesn't help.

An open patio door,
grooming in the whisped brown dawn -

7.34am

God's rags, crisp
displacing particles against the mountain lip
red light brewing in the observers mind.
Cubes of water
pushing through into tomorrows wake
all unwrapping like 1,000 words
diluted into one second.

I'm tired
appetite gone
graven, knowledge of the inside of my mouth
encyclopedic and (almost) boring.
It's closed again
at the crux of abandon,
the skies youthful,
built from wood, holding up the trees.
Excess - child's play for Atlas.

Rogue, electric Blue.
Mollusc in hand
living, lipless
just outside the geopolitical borders
heading back towards maturity.
Nihil,
projects objectivity, sycamore due, borders
as happiness combed our soft necks.

A situation is only what you make of it,
we're all in on this
living together in leaves -
by roadsides
making homes where we sleep.
The sky is on fire
exploding into fruition
as hot chlorine licks against unwashed belly buttons and hair
going blind and stripping back
it breaks you.

We sit, screaming secrets that speed through the highways;and from our finger tips we cry out our hearts. We Spill'm across those highways, till languished love arrives at our recipients doors.  They sit and reply in kind. It’s a whole lot of blood, for such little time.

We’d sent each other fifty messages in five minutes, and, although my heart was typing for me, I felt that every word was worthless. Just like each one of these: I want to talk in ink. I want to wield a pen that men will fear, respect and pay heed to. But, here these words appear from buttons bashed by boredoms fingers; the madness of mind renegade.

I guess the thought doesn't count anymore.

A million little curiosities
they pitter-patter along
day by night by foot
So many tragic stories
and strange endings

Can I watch them?
How can I not?
their busy feet slapping
the pavement so steadily
Like a happy toy drum

Look at a million boredoms
ready, grabby *******
Do I want to watch them?
Why would I?
It's a sorry dance to see
watching them scurry

A few of them know it
as they curl into bed
New dreams stab their brain
but where is room for dreams?

No, you silly fools
you're almost late for work

Endless, unyielding boredom
Stalls the words on my lips
Cuts the thoughts in my mind
Chases letters from my fingertips.

The color fades from my eyes
And life becomes bleak and grey
I hunger, cook, and eat
But it is bland, without taste.

My mind is barren in the spaces
Where ideas used to flow
The handle melts away from the door
And I've no other place to go.

The sun runs into the moon
The moon burrows into the sky
Hours become excruciating weeks
That sluggishly sprint on by.

Sentences become voices
Ever loud, relentlessly speaking
My eyes are my worst enemy
Never finding, always seeking.

Concise and simply stated
With boredoms' additions, I am less
I survive listlessly
Without purpose, without rest.

We live in tiny hells with beautiful lights
next to our various and sundry boredoms
blithely blithering the hawkish day
out of the clouds and into the fray.
we have no mute agendas.
we celebrate in a cauldron
of our aspirations, with our arrows to the cause
and our eyes on the contrary.

sleep is never as keen as awake too much.


so we live in tiny hells with beautiful lights
and believe that everywhere
all things are not defined but divine,
but **** it,  we don’t know how
to be less blind with
so many eyes
at the same time

staring at fumes.

Do not sigh waiting for the words to come
the soft words the weighty words and the hard,    
but take up your pen go and search for some,    
    
These rhymes are not hard, your brain is not numb,    
and by musing your work may well be marred,    
do not sigh waiting for the words to come,    
    
The words are there this is your mother's tongue
your brain it will not shatter into shards,    
but take up your pen go and search for some,    
    
Take your thoughts, weave and spin your song, till sung    
for there are no words from which you are barred    
do not sigh waiting for the words to come,    
    
A lazy pen will never get work done    
from idleness, you must be on your guard,    
but take up your pen, go and search for some    
    
Get out from under boredoms heavy thumb  
and if needs be invent words, like the bard,    
do not sigh waiting for the words to come  
but take up your pen go and search for some.

discyclical incentive
boredoms investment
in victories lap

castric effelemblem
   oikism
operating
visa vis *******