top of page


one day this won't be the same and that is always the same day one was along those lines

somewhere far back in the mystery of history the system of a drowning art for the fear of a

furnace burning the surface of the ice laid pond, not yet, nought nearly spring, hardly a spry

man could, at the front of my brain in the back of my mind at the tip of my tongue for the

wool, what is that lambskins she said at the bar i was wearing and it looked like a sideways

bolt in the neck the key in the ignition i called it a balloon she called it a print and said I was

the coolest one while we listening to the album then the original development we would run

around we stole one beer I think three times I've smoked in the lot I've been told not to drop

in from a rock and roll when up then and fasten the other bolt in the neck on the other side

of a frolic there was once when and once was then there again and i said some things in my

head it is the voice of my brain it is the boot steps tapping just waiting again for to be a

move it is a a voiceless silence in the past for flickering things collapsing mind at the chair

set against the light of the window for the book of the noose the toy with no name that was

harlan man he was scared by the pond i know not why i have heard the story before i have

walked where the black feather has dropped and i have seen a stone turn violent within I

have seen his eyes glow red from himself moving his hands and it is almost as if i made a

heart and broke it i couldnt remember then what it was i did with him nor from what my

hands a thought then instances of what could be a desirable ending to the beginning of

a sentence, these riddling things be complexities, nought it is that I see, blind men speak

in words diverted, divisional lines in parrellel times hypnotized to be prenatural light before

the mind the paradigms inverted, that is the black pyramid, there it was, the shadow of a

roach scurrying away stepped on it once and still a little gay, was it then, to be too happy

harder the roach makes an attempt at approaching a quickly duck stepping boot, the world

steps inspired a red grape attired completely in blue white and gold, like a whistling widow

like a shadow of a lightning bolt lighting the candle of the past, where was it then, the sill

of the window above the stereo where the bees made their home and made their way into

my room, both times, they were wasps then, then the bees were dragon flies away he was

there the whole time did you Nazi, there was a thought in the meadow there was a lasting

endeavour to find out where it was once then again there to be, things I used to own before

things i used to think, and ever it was just a feather within the binding of the book, it was

and it wasn't then, yes I am almost positive, that is called Prometheus bound, the tetherless

straight up and straight poison will give you a headache, more than that, that ducks closet

was quack, Crowley, my back being massaged in a dream, by the chianman himself I swear

to God it felt like a seam released, maybe that is why the sayer he opened with the prayer

for to relax myself my feet these things these old things again they are my only friends they

are my hands they are good for nothing but tapping tapping tapping away at the floor for

a hardwood minotaur carved from the treetrunk raping me at chess, I wouldn't call it a match

Recent Posts

See All

The Hourglass

Point A Needle To The Sky, Centered Minds Point A Gun To My Head, Circumstantial Ends Point A : The Diamond Sutra, Centrifical Forces Yet There Are One Thousand Arms Tied Up In The Book Of The Dead An


never was there such a hand beneath the sin play to the part of the devil's grinning twas there such a death as to it


bottom of page