Logical Unsanity

melancholic rag dolls under distant-trenches

days
pass
by

on bittersour benches

crying without onions until infinite forever
untouched significance beneath beloved whatever

used being
jubilant,
waking from ache, the
sunrising method of equal love
of starbursts
through varicous veins of a universal
river system,
obtuse to acute of
equal wetness of
cordate water,
as we overgaze
the trace
of broken glass
of the perfect glass reflecting
fragments of
reality with simultaneous equal
scorn.

friend as strangers-
-as friends

too much fog
to see through the lunacy,
the value,
through the lunacy the crisp
of fancy
, intimacy,
or whatever
found at a single identity
significant among the mute
riot of lies

New geography – no redefinition
We burn the maps and torch the archives
We live for manifest destiny
Dead politicians in Rome, flung in brothels with chastity belts see
Husbands selling wives with no motivation, less compensation, input rivals output
Lovers living lies, rope out of reach but rather handy for
Inticing games, everyone wins
Conquest like new rooms
Like old dogs and old tricks, teach me.
Old corners or old bedposts, just a new chick, a cracked egg.
Old fashioned American explorers, drawing rivers in the mud
Washed up, beached whales
Eyes cry suds with hot scents, does that make you sweat?
Work it out, clean me up, breathe me in,
Scream, declare: I found it, this flag sticks in your skin
Let my new nation pierce your flesh
Have pride in this country
Land of the free, duty free, cheap cigarettes,
Quick vacations and quicker fucks
Declare: do not touch beyond the glass, sanity displayed in the raw
Please keep all limbs inside the vehicle,
Arms and legs and tongues, you speak
A language we don’t understand
Corrections made in Dixie land, allow this revision, embrace it in its permanence,
Feel the heat from the brand
Watch the glass turn to sand.

Bail fin.
Ball fin.
Ball (pint of).
Ball (extract).
Bastard fin.
Bastard fin (extract).
Belgium lint-udder.
Belgium lint-udder (pint of).
Brunt.
Brunt fin.
Brunt fin (slanted).
Brunt fin (pint of).
Under-brunt fin.
Bugler (in a calendar).
Cardboard gusts.
Cardboard gusts fin.
Cardboard Horatio fin (extract). Read on…

Written on the 7th day of my water fast in Hopewood.
The pain in my chest finally had words,
I could not talk to anyone that morning
and when another girl from Hopewood came
to me and asked me how I was, I spoke my truth.
“J have to go to my room and cry these tears
from my chest. Bye”
These words came through as I witnessed
the re-creation of my pain.
Read on…

As the season turns a door opens,
past and future
meeting in the eternal present.

We are complete in our cycles, spring
following winter, summer before autumn. Buried under concrete
or drowned in a million video feeds, the year’s clock
is still our own, the salt in our blood thundering withthe flood of
ancient waves.

We swell and shrink with the moon’s tides.

The past is here, now, in this moment, hidden deep inside
where we find the secret life our ancestors,
trilobites and shrews and bright-eyed lemurs, carved into our souls.
We are the painted animals the shamans sealed in the deep caves. Our thoughts
still linger in those places, where humans once wore a different face.
Read on…

make this bed big
make it so i can
actually get lost in it
not just figuratively
not just in a dream

make it so you
follow me, so that
you try and run after
me, make it so you
can only catch me
if i want you to

and make it so when
i tell myself to wake
up, i do.

but first, make this bed
big like a forest, like a
skyscraper, like a sky
scraper forest, like a forest
full of skyscrapers, so that
waking would be, just the
same as dreaming, and i
would not feel so bad
when i’m missing out
on either

because big kids need crayons too.

and bouncy balls and ice-cream and skipping ropes and teddy bears and coloured band-aids and trampolines and hiding places and favourite things and favourite people.

and not everything is about sex, in an everything-is-really-about-sex-kind of way

1.

Coyote country.
The nearby swamp eco-system goes down blazing with ignus fatui.
In the fields of chaos, in the land of awful shadow,
in a dream within a dream,
guardians of as-yet-undiscovered astral treasures
camera-eye the six-sheeters,
while nameless Americans take
the fall for paper-hanging scams,
and for faulty visions, and unregistered artillery.
The son of the widow crowds the mourners for a glimpse of the great mutation. -
No one is surprised when he spits up something he never Swallowed.
Where art is wanting, beasts are superior.
My sources tell me there are radios and chemistry sets
hidden in the ancient songs – rabbit-holes and wardrobes
folding in phase space.
I, your reporter, an artist with my familiars,
stand here scanning invisible landscapes,
watching an atavistic alphabet in action.
Call this place Coyote Country. Read on…

Sometimes strength is a weakness.
Sometimes weakness is a strength.

To be true and remain true… Read on…

It was never meant to be easy.
Nothing I say to make her believe me
Will make her believe me.
Only spontaneous honesty
Will reveal whether I belong with her and she belongs with me.
Everybody’s confused, who really knows
How dark the light goes or what the future holds? Read on…