7 May 2008

Jazzy Lungs and Whatnot, Mate

Iam flesh and blood, although the world at large insists Iam masquerading as air, no longer content with the questions held by midnight. As what dominated over truth was clothing--that sea that is never very far away--the carnality between cells plopped itself down in the green grass and contemplated exactly how its innermost thoughts and feelings had acquired the power to peel oranges a hundred yards away. The translucent cubes of light suckling at my breasts offer no satisfactory answers. Magnetic folds of walking mirrors, prone as they are to howling at the city's thin facade, are not always a pretty sight.

My sense of wonder is electric, my code hirsute. Not even my own ghostly asylum can hold me.

This madness is as quick as communion, unfeasibly haunted and radioactive. I imagine myself as the father of living spirals, fiercely met and loved in the scales of a giant snake. Some cinema with its technological barbarity will ring the bell that signals it is still alive in its rhythmic enigma and earn the right to be asleep. I only hope the armada of shadowy myth stays where it is. If it manages to unleash the absolute on us again, I'll scream like a little girl.

I will.

On the escalator to a fresh, new logic, I realize Iam once again a golden elbow of distinction with remote continents of technicolour teeth. As if I were still an attempt to excavate jokes that are no longer funny, where android sex is squared by those who still care what happens in other people's eyes. Iam besieged by that place where trees and what is sexiest about contagion drinks advertisements for thick-assed Russian brides, the purest blues that set your temperature to highly pharmaceutical bright memories. Perhaps the layers between interior and exterior could become close friends, perhaps even lovers if the feeling is right? Scrawl the unique law of the universe on the cannibal opera while dressed in catalogues, television sets and blood transfusions. Turn what is being transported to sublimation off with the help of cool plateaus. You could be in direct communication with the mother of fallen angels if you'd just put your warm hand on my shoulder once. Naturally, I'd bring you to the place where we were never baptized, and we could bury our legs in its attenuated mouth.

It's a jazzy lung in two strips of equal measure, how these clustered beads of sweat live. The rubric of telepathy kicks in, every mystery on the left lost in fellatio, but highly aware that the scenery rushing past won't improve its I.Q. It rains a parallel reality on day six-hundred of the double-helix, a perfect opportunity to understand why its genes are longing secretly to climb to the moon. I'm uncertain regarding my elbow's celestial palace, whether to massage the tail of black pools in the comradely throes of carnival, or to pose as real proof, a prostitute on your lower lip. But I can't ascertain what unites the money that bought us language and seventy inches of a common alchemy, what it loves, what it hates about me and my need to devour that which is behind the architecture of zero.

That chime below yesterday caressing the process must have been in contact with skeletal elites. Every western autism that chose to dance brown flamenco dances during the final debris, things I haven't even done yet, had to be presented underneath glass or ascend to slither along fingers of swirling dust. I only pray my veins come to see how the sun purrs ideas into being before they evaporate forever.

6 comments:

cocaine jesus said...

glad i am not the only one with a hairy code!

but seriously....


the human torch flies above toronto.

Robert said...

thanks so much, CJ :)cosmiccommunist@hotmail.com

Robert said...

why did it print up my email addy?

:0

cocaine jesus said...

voodoo mate!

fissuresofmen said...

that last line is gorgeous, rob.

fissuresofmen said...

that last line is gorgeous, rob.