Friday, March 16, 2007

We Live and Die

by Robert

Crystalline, expired with another dead crackle on the sand. You

discarded a thousand welts of electrum and leaping threats in

adjectives among the violets. Painting toxic the same colour as

infinity kept inside one equinox, it all congeals into two



Catfish spine, realms of this cylinder twining the sun without. A

mermaid's purse not in Wikipedia. Sifting love and pain, venal

economics from wet stones; christening twice as sharp on a bearded

queen. Tendons unknot the tenuous truth of libido clenched like

frightening clues shimmering in a tangle.


Phantasmic over breakfast, your hair the furious heat of a desert

sun tossed over midnight forests. A circle of small drums fogged in a

place of fallopian horror. Smiles clutching a rainbow voice raised to

bleeding levels. Tarot asterisks beneath a hollow set of sockets,

shadow victories contrasting thunder gaps.


Promises kept for once, passing, knowing its way to the white. Dada

fathers graft atrocity onto all notions of the sublime. Dreams bleed

sophistry. Factory aesthetics in pale wisps, a rain squeezing smoke-rings

into my pillow. Vicious binges nothing but a vampire mess attempting to

drink a fast flash of three-fingered burnt. Dying lore as meanings pallid

sorrow dimly known.


Down with infirm scissors glowing out of reach, old vendettas lapsed

into a fifteen core flicking green scarabs from syphilitic rockets on the

empty. Silvery theaters of meat pulsing spat out a mess of spittle on a

star with no eyelids. Cigarettes with blood between their legs like electric,

remembering the phrase we live and die pulling hooks out of the

station. Bubbling bass feathers delicate bone and synapse, response and tremor

singing my sound. You allot mature bruises purple with scepticism to alpha

throngs a prophetic lamp of light together so long.


. Droning off radioactive waves, shabby Egyptian vultures hungrily eyeing

my guts. Torment circled our skulls, the horizon a cardboard quixotic. We left

menthol filters littering a day in hell, your complexion suddenly sacral and

flying overhead. You spat lyres of vulva code, then, until bliss became torture,

hashish resin a nest of briars beneath our blackening. Organ desire plugged

into a totalizing accordion, skies of Venus. Rest smelters only blurs of light,

clams of a beat indigo fizz left to dry on the beach.


Jorge said...

Dark imagery, the stuff of film noir. Not your best by my pesonal taste, but thought provoking, if that was your aim. Be well,

Moon River said...

Yes dark at times, but I'm fascinated by the surrealist visions...don't you find it terribly sublimes even if it represent horror?

i felt entering a Dali image