Fourty seven? Why fourty seven? Hasn’t the man seen enough to wonder why such an awful number must follow him in his years? It is for that reason he precedes every day with a vocal prayer to the seeker who he has not found. Of all the luck this side of the range, it would be his to be associated with such vile numeration. Yet, he still acts for the sake of smuggling and he still throbs for the sake of living.

(more…)

swim the plastic Ocean – surf the infinite cosm
the limits fade as Truth comes in sight
trial by fire, justice through knowledge
let the rod fertilize the fields
life thrives on death
death is life

live it grand.

Editor’s note -  written circa 1995

come to a head the tree said,
“I hold the sky to the Earth,
and the Earth to the sky,
kill my kind, and count your days.”

Editor’s note -  written circa 1996-1997

cotton the fourty seven degree inkling of
thinking but tricking the logical senses
and bending the surface that separates the
regions which we cannot face with our hearts
or we would swallow total destruction of the
structures that keep our conscious selves upright

run away, far from here, for today is the end
of all beginnings – if he fears the written word
fear the woman who brought him to be – this is
the origin of all false trusts that act as nutrients
to our hungry souls

the spiral rounds the corner once again agreeing that
there is no separation, there is no sanity
merely illusions projected by various levels of
conscious Ego

Editor’s note -  written January 10, 2002

byzantine behemoth awashes coldness
pretentious fly excursions across
northern Alaska seem to deaden the
soul of Woman in a way that proceeds
any formal introduction or rubbing of
affectionate heat

the plasticity of such makes and breaks
the decent man of integrity or else
the pattern of conscious pseudo-intellect
augments the moon ego so that
propagation through time is achieved
as long as the widest depths of
energetic fools incur fees
commitment that bind the slave
to the rod of power

Editor’s note – written Autumn 2001

the world of power will try to
exert control upon its subjects
wants, desires entertaining false needs
slowly covering the senses
until one day the wool is
mistaken for reality
at the moment death suspends
itself as a new place
is inhabited by illusion
with direct lines of manipulation
from our brothers’ and sisters’ minds
through their brains, connected to
all sockets of pleasure
through their filtered senses, clouded by
the will of power
the framework is already present
although we try to move from the
material to the spiritual,
the survival instinct remains,
a symptom of our existence

dream brilliantly, and awaken to life

Editor’s note – Written on July 24, 2001

In spite of direct dependencies on that which only the five senses can communicate, the wretched undead felt for on ecstatic moment the abstraction of their reality – that it was the superficial upon which they dined, not the colorous content nor the pure light of reality, merely the distracting surface – penetrate the border, the boundary, the limitation – grasp the untouchable infinite and accept it as life, for this is the cure of the undead, the walking corpses.

Editor’s note – written in July 2001

May the Sun, in its grand dynamics, call out the edge so that it may be seen on orange days when the fuzz of boredom explains away the rain and the once funny drudgery is no longer a decent place to hand out a free love that shares a stoney sidewalk block, a square that always stares at the blue of the blank lonely one who sits without a seat and quips about the quim who did him in but can now some how afford to toss a lucky jostle to the first denizens of cornered lands found under squire skies and entrance cabins for seven older bright light fight night types who always seem to slick off a gentle smoke.

Editor’s Note – Originally written on April 13, 2006.

Old duty called again only to find old soldiers staring out windows that the light of youth could not cut through. The sirens prepare such old souls for a walk down the road that is lined with lillies. Coursing with renewed vim, a man’s man who vigorously waits for his destination sits back with a reserve that puts a smile on the face of the neighbor widows. As change falls upon the currency of bondage, so rises to golden standards the shouts for release to a former day when rarity was common and wives were a step away from supporting the big push forward. Our men have traveled on the dirt and well polished rock, and require forbidden sacrifices of the Right, reserved for occassions of mediocre bombing frenzy. The static collects through time and transforms the once still leaders into vibrant defenders of the status quo. Return once again on the knees of boys in training for their day of worldly excess, cast out and used for the propagation of the Strain. Shallow may they walk, as are one in the same, as are men who were once clean, as are those called out from their peers, as are animals awaiting to be predator or prey. It stops around the fire with quick exchanges and detached expressions of lost intent.

And when it ends, they all stand to begin once more.

Editor’s note – Originally written on Easter 2006. Note similarities with “The Horror”.

The red repent and sweep away the few chances for a bounty grounded in selfless joys of terrible disinterest. This becomes the forefront of an indecent thrust that extends through the battled lambs, to the certain boundaries that only sacrificial discourse may even attempt to call out a serious dissolution of unnecessary structures into the light of uninspired critics that dance only when the fake gold is given freely among the blind class as tokens of participation in the debris of tolerant administrations. Recoil as an innocent viper, the prey, a feeble desire, and pounce in the bloody enthusiasm carelessly loved by transcendental fools, thoughtlessly caressing the smooth hope of silken comfort for many hours under the hot attention of a solar creature, reacting – destroying – illuminatus – seering the ineffectual tendancies in the only positive corner that appears to represent wasted idolatry in a paganistic zeal for morbid contests of expressive genetic rivers.