Updates
Lonely foundry members floundering in metallic destitution
The truth about suburban fratricide is that it’s an urban legend
Liverish teens, parochial nightmares played out on a Neilson rated chessboard:
Rook to F5 at five.
Tinctures of spermicide on the el
Headed to Burnaby, then Roma (track sex)
Pureed suspects playing possum or plotting putschs in back alley pulp fictions
Specious reasoning escapes (like villains) the orgy of transparent evidence
Bought entirely with prepaid sponsors happy to peddle
Lira, shilling, rupee, and peso wares
To unaware materialists
A missing gingko
Disparaging stories and velvet lies, careful to sing rehearsed alibis in primetime
Cunnilingus
And barrows filled with dead innocence.
Full details at six.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
LEFTOVERS
Leftovers
.red coat
.fortune cookie
.commodores
.porcelain princess
.frozen vegetables
.wonderwoman coaster
.obama button
.taxi magnet
.unfinished butt
.collection of poe
.and my fourth grade calculator
(that still works)
.all the things you left me
.when I refused to stay
.red coat
.fortune cookie
.commodores
.porcelain princess
.frozen vegetables
.wonderwoman coaster
.obama button
.taxi magnet
.unfinished butt
.collection of poe
.and my fourth grade calculator
(that still works)
.all the things you left me
.when I refused to stay
TREE SPEAK
Tree Speak
Disheartened by a hole in Cyprus soldiers
Brittle and dry, skin like sand paper cartilage and molasses
Maple, missions failed on the back lot, fallen, like branches on a sandbar
A flicker of golden deliverance through clouds of underbrush
And a vine looses itself beyond the moor
Devils, pale green, hidden from sight, whispering victories on the North side
To anyone who’ll listen
Cones and lavender satchels are all that remain
Carried, great distances, by a trickling brook
Or a rushing bride
Quick to marry the remembered, and the forgotten
In transient harmony
Disheartened by a hole in Cyprus soldiers
Brittle and dry, skin like sand paper cartilage and molasses
Maple, missions failed on the back lot, fallen, like branches on a sandbar
A flicker of golden deliverance through clouds of underbrush
And a vine looses itself beyond the moor
Devils, pale green, hidden from sight, whispering victories on the North side
To anyone who’ll listen
Cones and lavender satchels are all that remain
Carried, great distances, by a trickling brook
Or a rushing bride
Quick to marry the remembered, and the forgotten
In transient harmony
I40
I40
Fire, burning
Monosyllabic curses
For early risers and savants
Shipping abjurated utility vehicles
Along trafficked routes
Smog made possible by highway turbulence and winding asphalt
Designed to a fault, and above one
Pacing resistance for reservoir dogs
Conscious
Of rescissible hygiene
!a spleen for the man in the red fiat!
{somewhere south of I40 a four wheeled virgin tempts 10 tons of copper and silk.}
{cue music.}
cacophonous horns yelling noxious profanities
over minute distances
lewd and unnecessary
a tabernacle of virtuous peculiarity
for when the day dissolves
and home beckons the tired and soulless
they repeat the pleonastic
tapestry of panic
in a sonnet made for sacrosanct cubists.
Fire, burning
Monosyllabic curses
For early risers and savants
Shipping abjurated utility vehicles
Along trafficked routes
Smog made possible by highway turbulence and winding asphalt
Designed to a fault, and above one
Pacing resistance for reservoir dogs
Conscious
Of rescissible hygiene
!a spleen for the man in the red fiat!
{somewhere south of I40 a four wheeled virgin tempts 10 tons of copper and silk.}
{cue music.}
cacophonous horns yelling noxious profanities
over minute distances
lewd and unnecessary
a tabernacle of virtuous peculiarity
for when the day dissolves
and home beckons the tired and soulless
they repeat the pleonastic
tapestry of panic
in a sonnet made for sacrosanct cubists.
ICKY
ICKY
0prickly stilts still
0ficticious, as prickly stilts go
1sickle cell soot rarely embraces
3visions and fishy logic
0a pickle for two
1insidiously tough, but delicious
1in a fickle kind of way
0ceramic literature, dick-less and contrite
0sickly, with syphilis lips
2tryptofene fashion idioms
1cascading down islets and pish-posh
0heavy linens, an abyss
0I insist
0mysterious
0if it weren’t for indecisive ribbonfish
3listless for work
3they’re insistent on two-fisted apologies
3and porous divisions of tomorrow
1or maybe, just maybe
2
0 - simpletons just love ambergris.
0prickly stilts still
0ficticious, as prickly stilts go
1sickle cell soot rarely embraces
3visions and fishy logic
0a pickle for two
1insidiously tough, but delicious
1in a fickle kind of way
0ceramic literature, dick-less and contrite
0sickly, with syphilis lips
2tryptofene fashion idioms
1cascading down islets and pish-posh
0heavy linens, an abyss
0I insist
0mysterious
0if it weren’t for indecisive ribbonfish
3listless for work
3they’re insistent on two-fisted apologies
3and porous divisions of tomorrow
1or maybe, just maybe
2
0 - simpletons just love ambergris.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Rhodesian Unification
Rhodesian Unification
Moldy snippets of transparent memories
Bright anecdotes and murmuring elephants
Swimming carefree in local waters and manmade lakes
- Kariba!
As I spin a series of web-like concertos
Into climactic synapses of clear thought
I wonder, and freefall 400 feet
Into my past, driven forward by the torrential waterfall
Of voices, ancestral markers
To settle in the Zombezi River
(the Kololo People call “mosi-oa-tunya”
or, “smoke that thunders”)
I revisit a village in the autumn of my youth
With wide-eyed sorrow and haunting joy
Huts of straw and necessity, with walls woven
In a timber wood orchestration, an emotional fabric
Over and under, chorus and verse
Beyond that, a man, seated, regally
In a folded chair faded green, as he surveys the night sky
Putting the stars to bed, one by one
His eyes, a reflection of my own, sharing my pain and loss
And deep hopefulness for a peaceful resolve
To my nation’s turmoil
As the amputated trunks and dry kindle illuminate
His face, and bespeak of praise for Makaha
And for the people of Zimbabwe
The Grass greens, and I recall
Our unyielding soil and forgiving crops
In my one tractor town
Tigere, my best friend, and one of the thousands of guerillas
Who were integrated into a national military faction
An involuntary contraction for ZANLA
(Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army)
A kettle for internal madness and cascading violence
That defined The Patriotic Front
And in a crystalline flash of repressed misfortune
The recollection of Tigere’s death deafens me
His killer, a soul-less 18 year old ZANU
With a 9mm Soviet
And one less bullet
The pool shimmers, and I embrace the image
Of a woman with child
Swaying in a sea of Zimbabwean Nationalists
Waving our flag in exuberance, in a stadium outside
Salisbury, during one of the many Independence Day
Celebrations held across my country, on my birthday
April 18th, Of all days
I remember the look on her face, and see the memory
In her eyes, every time I come home
And see my little girl’s smile, as she counts
The stars on a clear Zimbabwean night.
Moldy snippets of transparent memories
Bright anecdotes and murmuring elephants
Swimming carefree in local waters and manmade lakes
- Kariba!
As I spin a series of web-like concertos
Into climactic synapses of clear thought
I wonder, and freefall 400 feet
Into my past, driven forward by the torrential waterfall
Of voices, ancestral markers
To settle in the Zombezi River
(the Kololo People call “mosi-oa-tunya”
or, “smoke that thunders”)
I revisit a village in the autumn of my youth
With wide-eyed sorrow and haunting joy
Huts of straw and necessity, with walls woven
In a timber wood orchestration, an emotional fabric
Over and under, chorus and verse
Beyond that, a man, seated, regally
In a folded chair faded green, as he surveys the night sky
Putting the stars to bed, one by one
His eyes, a reflection of my own, sharing my pain and loss
And deep hopefulness for a peaceful resolve
To my nation’s turmoil
As the amputated trunks and dry kindle illuminate
His face, and bespeak of praise for Makaha
And for the people of Zimbabwe
The Grass greens, and I recall
Our unyielding soil and forgiving crops
In my one tractor town
Tigere, my best friend, and one of the thousands of guerillas
Who were integrated into a national military faction
An involuntary contraction for ZANLA
(Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army)
A kettle for internal madness and cascading violence
That defined The Patriotic Front
And in a crystalline flash of repressed misfortune
The recollection of Tigere’s death deafens me
His killer, a soul-less 18 year old ZANU
With a 9mm Soviet
And one less bullet
The pool shimmers, and I embrace the image
Of a woman with child
Swaying in a sea of Zimbabwean Nationalists
Waving our flag in exuberance, in a stadium outside
Salisbury, during one of the many Independence Day
Celebrations held across my country, on my birthday
April 18th, Of all days
I remember the look on her face, and see the memory
In her eyes, every time I come home
And see my little girl’s smile, as she counts
The stars on a clear Zimbabwean night.
wIReS
Wires
I move like pistoned drivers
Pounding the high rail skywires
With superfoil lightning
Skimming over skyscraper overpasses
To avoid Central City traffic
Bypassing the sub-city deluge that
Suffers the dregs of close quarter suffocation
When I reach the narrow patchwork
Of multi-current cable stations, I switchback
To Tri-gears, slowly, to speed my ascent
Magnetized momentum they call it -
Supersonic nightmares,
Always follow, but who can question
The sensation of flight at the cost of ten G's
Showering my Kisco contours
UBC steering kicks in, and my cortex responds
With firewire reflexes, synthetic synapses
Compiling directional data in silicon flashes
Triad Corp jacked me up good
But the version is as old as I am, so I feel
Tripsters hacking past me with the gem stuff
Freezing neon cables before I even
See them, rather sense them
The light show blisters into 100bit brilliance
Drawing saline from my dry ducts, every time
I cross the threshold, into Heavenhood
And descend rapidly through cumulative aromas
Of old town ethnicities - Curry Corner
And the Seven Seas, My home
And as I channel surf the Bark and succumb
To urban progressions - I can already hear
Mrs. Coolridges heartwarming histrionics
When I dock, waiting with a warm bowl of Teriyaki
Sushi and some purge cords behind her back
Home is where the hardwire ends.
I move like pistoned drivers
Pounding the high rail skywires
With superfoil lightning
Skimming over skyscraper overpasses
To avoid Central City traffic
Bypassing the sub-city deluge that
Suffers the dregs of close quarter suffocation
When I reach the narrow patchwork
Of multi-current cable stations, I switchback
To Tri-gears, slowly, to speed my ascent
Magnetized momentum they call it -
Supersonic nightmares,
Always follow, but who can question
The sensation of flight at the cost of ten G's
Showering my Kisco contours
UBC steering kicks in, and my cortex responds
With firewire reflexes, synthetic synapses
Compiling directional data in silicon flashes
Triad Corp jacked me up good
But the version is as old as I am, so I feel
Tripsters hacking past me with the gem stuff
Freezing neon cables before I even
See them, rather sense them
The light show blisters into 100bit brilliance
Drawing saline from my dry ducts, every time
I cross the threshold, into Heavenhood
And descend rapidly through cumulative aromas
Of old town ethnicities - Curry Corner
And the Seven Seas, My home
And as I channel surf the Bark and succumb
To urban progressions - I can already hear
Mrs. Coolridges heartwarming histrionics
When I dock, waiting with a warm bowl of Teriyaki
Sushi and some purge cords behind her back
Home is where the hardwire ends.
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