stored boxezz

I love it when I find in a dark corner of the world a box crammed with of old love letters and pome's n odd and assorted shit (like the clip from my old russian .22, still chock full of perfectly fine ammo, so watch out peeple on my very extensive hate list) like unposted letters to people and half a dozen stories about Scandinavian Flukes, my favourite type of fluke.

one day I shall go through all my old boxes and alphabetize them.

then the killing will start.

till then, let me share sum ancient wisdom while I work up a decent alibi. cest la nom de guerre.

pomes

................................

1st thought the pome

2nd thought the showing

black kittens

scatter across

red brick alleyways

and the cigarette

flickers trails

of ash

in their shadows.

They watch

mothers

tail slide

over brown

dust

awaiting

green eyed

acquiescence,

spilt meat

gathers flies

for their return,

yellow bones

point from ribs

sweetly scented

beside blue

cigarette packets,

black spots

disappear

inside

vacant

baby cats

eyes,

khaki plastic bags

in search of

dismemberment paws,

and all that

passes

is a

pregnant

mother.

.............................................................

the opening line of a love letter (not given, as far as I recall)

Do you remember testing our love by drinking the blood of a diseased horse at the local glue factory? I cant say i do either, but I think it would cement our commitment to each other,

totally.

....................................................................................

chainsaws in the morning

left my left

barking

with a chainsaw,

reflexes curling

my fingers

digging

in the bloody dust,

and looked about

to see the camera

studying my

reactions.

morning news

is so easy to

star in,

george negus

wears a prompted

smile,

and flak jacket

with his

name

on.

(part of a uni essay)

......................................................................

sarah,

this weary heart

contains no eponymous resin

to bind we two,

it beats no rhythm

nor acknowledges

a sea,

for these rivers

to wind

their course of twisting

resonance towards,

yet such heart and mind,

such beauty and thought,

encapsulated within one vessel

draws these

aching thoughts

to you.

your eyes begin the slide

inverse lunar mockings

of all skies unfolding,

dancing moist

to depths

I will not reach

for fear of losing

what little sanity pervades,

perhaps in your

pleasantries of acquaintance,

you felt me tumble

headlong

into your vision

to realise that

emerging

is mistaking

a life half lived

in shadows,

is no life

lived at

all.

...........................................................................

I miss your smile

your dusted cheeks

aglow across

steaming coffee,

your pout,

thrust forward,

now lost to the air,

the blue air,

the grey air,

the air you left

before me

now the

breath of steam

hovering

over my

melancholy heart.

How valor plays

no part

in your escape

to the ether,

how my heart,

reckless

in its extravagances,

of life and liberty,

fails in moments

of recall,

of the swell of

your lips

and the failure

of my heart

to seize the moment

to ask

that those

lips

be mine.

air,

all I breath,

your breath,

all I

crave.

........................................................

sometimes,

the hollowness of a paupers grave

opens before my weary step,

and I need to judge

the leap precisely

lest I find I am

encased in darkness

wrapped in moving soil

and gasping for

the air

I once pulled inside

so effortlessly.

The razored mirror of my fragile

ego balance rambles

and stumbles,

plucked, preserved, stapled, abused, loved,

until I spin a thread of nonsense,

masquerading as the reality

of a blue vein of self,

(longing to float free

on a needles point

and pottery,

no cares, no gravity, no pain, no self).

Can I take the red train to freedom.

................................

so my heart melts again

for a smile

rimmed in candy,

for the promise of an embrace,

fixed to a moment

in this sweltering lifetime

of unyielding

unending possibilities,

and for me the

possibilities

exist to embrace

the words of love

the deeds of untold hearts

the mocking jibes

of a sun

still passing

from eon to age

then back

to whence it began,

knowing that

I've passed

and in passing

I did know

her grace

and fell

before

its hurdle.

................................................................

some flowers

savour the pollen

settling within

the slow accumulation

gaining, stimulating pressure

till an octave is reached

through vibrations as obscure

as clouds in

the suns core,

carressing the light and shimmering,

no hands seen,

no noise issueing

just pressure from the pollen,

pulled deep

inside the stem,

absorbstions orgasm spun

twirling beneath

spring beams glimmer,

then released, unleashed,

eggs set flowers

passion,

till the air

reeks

of sex

expended.

.................................................

a song (praise be to jesus, he apparently invented singing and the 12 string rickenbacker, so I'm told)

(chords g b# a, sung in a loping country style)

chorus:

When I cry,

I cry for you,

and when I crawl,

I crawl to you,

and when I fall,

you know, I fall for you

and when I fly (elongate this last word)

you know I get a little highsome,

I get a little high sometimes

when I think of you.

I cant sleep

and its getting tiresome

cause when you say no,

it don't mean no,

it just means

I cant sleep

when you called

I held you to ransom

and all those sweet little lies

keep me insane,

irrationally sad,

more than just lonesome.

ch:

such a sweet little dittie, with a little luck the rest of the lyrics are somewhere in the murky brown goo inhabiting the base of the box. I know you are just dying to send this one to delta goodrum or maybe one of the Jovi boys, bon or blando or whoever the fuck they are.

song two (no not that one, this one was written years b4)

anymore

(cm-gm)

we walk a mile

wearing old kisses

tattooed inside our smiles

you know somethings missing

musing over soft offerings

running our fingers through snow

left to linger

warm as summer dreams.

caressed beneath your sleep

hold onto a broken stream

how long it lasted

we will never realise

now your gone

all I have to sink between

are well worn cushions.

better in the morning

if we wake and leave so slowly

stop spinning round the floor

were not children

anymore.

(william mcgonagal eat your heart out)