i can't remember

what it was

how it happened

or when we

became such empty

mounds of magic--

only i know

her voice was
shaking. meaning: either
she despises me
or retains desires,
secretly. no matter,
we are strangers
now. (because that

is what she
wanted) and there

is nothing left.

it started so simply. only, now exists complete restlessness. the cursed enigma. the cyclical ephemeral. sleepy, sleepy cyclone. twisted internal. lay me down, my supernatural. bestow your beloved surrender. sweet, sweet dreams wait whispering.

"What is this universe
but a lot of waves
And a craving desire
is a wave
Belonging to a wave
in a world of waves
So why put any down,
wave?
Come on wave, WAVE!
The heehaw’s dobbin
spring hoho
Is a sad lonely yurk
for your love
wave lover."

--jack kerouac

ceci n'est pas un rêve.

i'm being dishonest. this spiral is eternal. an exasperating unsynchronized drift. and no matter how far i diverge, it's as though something stronger perpetually compels me to return.

a new madness has has consumed all coherency. mania. a fixation overpoweringly more solid than any other i've found myself traverssing within--which frightens me greatly. this has transpired previously under spells of an eerily similar luring--though so suddenly now i’m being pulled with an even greater intensity. there are these currents of seeming electricity swelling and sending countless vibrations, caressing each vein. i am awake, though existing as if in dream. an unprompted ecstasy has encompassed me once again. complete euphoric transcendence. whenever we cross paths, even when envisioned by means of unconscious serendipity, i cannot express what occurs other than an absolute pureness. a radiance. a known. a mesmeric magnetism, unsurpassed.

inexplicably infatuated. a note for my own records of reminiscing--if love at first sight truly exists, it occurred on this day. smitten and genuinely lovesick. this is going to be no good...

forever you knew.

this is it. this is the embrace we've been so tirelessly yearning for. energies entwined within eternal. there is a an untouched stillness, a serenity, now meshing amidst refreshed vibrations and sherbet clouds. the most supreme fusion. i sense the matching rhythms. the visions. we’ve been composing such delicate crescendos. for once, all feels whole--you, across from me with yesterday’s cold pizza and the sun setting on your sleepy forehead.

eyes glazed, longing to be stardust. dark matter. i used to caress the night--now i lay strangled by it. asphyxiated. why did i descend? what in you compelled me?
i'm only haunted because nothing will ever be unveiled.

i collapsed last night into dream without warning. but woke gently--just floated back through consciousness, still shut and stagnant, imposing a fading afterimage in the ever black pools. i pressed my ring finger into a crevice of stitching and slowly drew it up to my brow, tracing continuous unhurried circles around eyelids. eventually i rose, appearing before two large mirrors obstructed with melting morning light where i assessed my form and last night's unwashed makeup, lips stained and smudged eyes. i sat stoic, seemingly in a mind of no mind. but then suddenly it was as though all at once i was wedged in a sort of paradox, peering amid feelings of freshness and filth wherein i frenziedly grappled for grime's secreted immaculacy.

"the frightening experience i am traversing now is this: with her i am acting out scenes which prove, in the end, the strength and vividness of my memories and fantasies superimposed over reality. it is such a subtle, elusive happening, that i cannot describe it. it is as if i see and hear you clearly for a while and then become drunk, confused, drugged. and all the time a part of me is aware of the distortions. it is frightening because it causes self-doubt, a doubt of what i have always believed in: my intuition."

--anaïs nin (spring, 1957)

juste arrêtez
juste arrêtez
juste arrêtez
juste arrêtez
juste arrêtez
juste arrêtez

a luminous instant submerged within ritualistic sensations of dissonance. fields of fallen blackbirds. broken smokey crystal eyes. rainbow refraction. slippery lucidity. returning ambiguity. so gone. so gone. so gone. take me.

darling, i surrender.

muses, eternal--
my mapplethorpe is saccharine.

everything is falling into place. finally. merely within the tiny course of a day, it's consumed me with such vigor. so many new prospects are simmering and i just feel this inexplicably overwhelming sensation of sureness unlike any i've ever felt before. might as well be gazing to the moon...

what to do when you don't have access to a mountain, but feel as though you will spontaneously combust if you cannot freely and vociferously expel your rage:

1. go to your bed

2. grab a pillow from your bed

3. immerse your head within said pillow

4. scream until your lungs fall feeble

5. faint

6. astral project

7. do not return

in some strange way, it was the truest thing i had ever known.

it slid down my forearm and soaked into the blue carpet beneath me. my hands were trembling and i spilt the water. the semi-circle of surrounding souls all sucked in their breaths. i only bit my lip and proclaimed, “just water.” one looked inquisitive. sort of bowed his head in and curiously wondered in a whisper if i was nervous. wherein i retreated and informed that it was merely a normal consequence of my constant quiver. he grew aggressive and preached, peering with daggers. proclaimed he knew why i was always shaking. and i started to laugh, but he morphed his fingers into a claw and reached for his core, “it’s that burning desire!” gaze and passion gaining potency, he continued, “it’s deep within you trying to break free!” my eyes instantly sunk to the small freshly absorbed puddles now growing cold against my foot. “you must let it out,” he warned. and i shifted my head as if to nod, but my spine locked and my heart began to convulse.

it's all drifting so rapidly.

how simple it is to exist within an illusion. lashes locked under cloths stitched of spells. i hardly release them any longer. with hopes reveries will be forced to crystallize. solidify. sometimes i sense how heavy hers have grown. back turned towards the curtains, in tireless attempts to ignore the night's symphony of sighing stars. if only to see them once more, i'd curse mine open. though for now i retain the dream.

i need you, i don't need you,
and all of that jivin' around

endless loop...

all the parasitic daydreams which have mercilessly grown to dominate my psyche are so beyond ready to transpire.

her.
this.

because that's just how it goes. the important things come back. essence remains. and escape is always a temporary business.

i don't know
where we were
traveling, but she
asked me if
i loved her.
and i don't
think it was
a nightmare, but
my lungs were
empty and my
mouth didn't move.

i imagine when i cease and my body lay but a mortician's canvas incisions will bequeath beneath broken bone's cages antiquitous realms constructed of longing's petrification.

surrender surrender entwining vine debilitating she who deforms me caresses me crawls me possesses me with roots immortal surrender surrender soaked soil thy's stolen blood to revive such veins stripped to barren surrender surrender ablaze inferno unbearable she who flames misery of mystery eternal surrender surrender sweet night thy's muted stars to lastly fill my heart's empty dismal vessel.

"the tomb, confidant of my dream infinite--
for the tomb always understands the poet--
during sleepless nights when the dire demons flit"

always upon reawaken, another scratch. i emerge, inexplicably incised flesh. stinging, swollen pink. no longer phased. i've grown exhausted of such voodoo. i allow you, even. i'm aware. omniscient. you are not as clandestine as you'd like to think.

an ephemeral detach. a

momentary funk. erratic passing.

sporadic spiraling sleeplessness. did

you watch when i

beckoned a wormhole manifestation?

did you see when

it devoured a figmented

illusion into my being?

i divulged. mistakenly. stagnation,

stagnation. on the bed,

body torpid. electric current.

hesitant undulation. hovering. departed.

feral. (though, not free)

darlin', you don't mess with magic.

i must realign my center. i must. though i've not the slightest inclination. perhaps i will just sway freely. void of axis. void of weight. but i fear my floating. i know my own ways. enough to acknowledge the coupled lure of enigmatic fleet. i'd not ever return. so i've kept a small silver link attached--with only memory of the anchor. now deteriorating each minute. i've tried polishing. with a cloth woven from strands of lingering dreams, i feverishly stroked (though only ever left an irreversible tarnish). i must rid this crux before it rids me. i cannot comprehend the yearning to withhold such a rusted rivet. it's going to break. soon, it will. and in its fall, subtly bestow the most beautiful dreary clink. propelling my soul through the walls of itself. where stone will morph to glass and fall like golden glitter.

take me to new orleans.

too much i retrospect or invoke visions. seldom am i not in a strenuous psychic mêlée to evade the "now." in fact, i'm not entirely sure i've ever known the realm. it is not that it frightens me, necessarily. i'm just impassive by its persistency. the absolution. the ease of readability. i only ever crave what i cannot grasp. as though i embody that empty microscopic segment composing long-gazed upon sistine ceilings. and i promise, if you look to that voided crevice of two fingers outstretched, though eternally untouched--you will also then penetrate matter vital to my uncloaking.

yesterday evening i ventured out to brazos bend with charlie, alonso, and rosie. despite immense heat and a frightening alligator stand-off, it was entirely immersing and felt as though i was walking within a sally mann photograph.

a few that i took with her floating in psyche:
(can also view on flickr)

twisted heart throbs. divergent. manipulative.
i apologize for my perpetual dream-mucked eyes.

the broken breaths which seeped through last night's electric current are still lingering. how you floated from the warm machinery pressed against the side of my cheek. you, distant. weak and wholly wrecked. i woke reminiscing the rhythm. the rhythm and returned yearning. i dread allowing such dissipation. the engulfing echo of the ebbs. i never told you how terribly i was trembling. unbearably, i let go. though there was static in my slumber. and i dreamt a thousand tiny birds carrying your feeble body over boundless empty planes just to place you on my bed--as you promised. but this morning, strangely, after rising to water the roses, i found a single feather lay resting in the doorway.

i once was
a sculptor of
gold drenched unobtainable
truths--you were

my finest work.
and the heaviest
(despite a cast
so very hollow).

i spent today bungalow dream hunting with alonso. somehow, in the midst of it all, we made our way to a little muggy bookstore which leisurely bequeathed an aroma bouquet of old paper and bound memories and cardboard boxes and someone who had tried desperately to quit smoking.
just as i was heading to the doors, a collection of 1st edition hardback anaïs nin diaries confiscated the composition within my lungs. i felt as though a colossal earthquake shook through the core of me. bones trembling, i held them all--while also attempting to hold back the inevitable weeping. i'm typically unreasonably frugal, but this time the vessels of my heart offered no vacillation when choosing one of the more pricey collectibles. i'll be sleeping with this one under my pillow, always. my body is still being rattled with aftershocks.

“this feels like doom. this is a pyramid on my chest. i want to change blood with her. i want her slavery. i want her promise. i want her death. i want the thrown acid to disencumber me. i want to stop staring.”

--leonard cohen (the end of my life in art)

at times, i feel i’m only able to write frenziedly about things which have withered. flipping through the pages--it all died long ago. that’s the only logical explanation as to why my journals are filled with such wild fervor. mad passion. lines concealed upon lines of untamed ink. transcendence. it all died long ago. it simply must’ve.

"but i come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
and i knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—"

e.e. cummings

fractured sunlight seeped through the fissures, sluggish as thickening blood of a soft fresh wound. damning me to wake amidst the fizzing of a festering dream. mirages sprouted out of two now cognizant slivers with weary pupils struggling to adjust aperture in the engulfing illumination. muscles offered no reach--interpretation entered easily. verifying all i’ve ever needed to vanish vexing visions.

phantoms II.
(flickr)

i've reached the depths of the deep. anchored amid the drifting bioluminescence. unable to relinquish the beating--a cursed onomatopoeia that grew vigorously. my soul lingered, above some swathed shadow of blue. have i, at last, parted my corpse? i remembered sinking. how i’d twist my neck in attempts to keep clutch of the hovering gaze which suspended itself at the surface. but submerging deeper, inexorably, it blurred and soon dissipated. there was only absence. terrifying tranquility. no evolutionary awakening to kiss the swollen stars. cold ocean’s sand slid along my spine. silence. though, sometimes it’d emerge again--the gaze. hitting me (there) in that tiny void found after a fallen pulse.

grandeur, gold n’ gritty.

 e

       a

   s

y

telepathy.
tapping temples,
tapping temples,
tapping temples;
(if only you knew)

new song up.
(also, excuse my bed hair and this awful still that youtube has unfortunately decided upon..)



lyrics:
do you feel like you’ve been had,
does it make you mad?
do you feel like you’ve been had,
gonna get sad?
(gonna get sad)

passion hit my heart.
repeated, repeated, repeatedly
like a moth lured by light--
desiring the orb,
though also desiring the obliteration.
trying to penetrate that epicenter of illumination.
and while my bulb of powdered glass is surely fragile,
it somehow proved victorious against the flutters
of such feeble wings.

do you feel like you’ve been had,
does it make you mad?
do you feel like you’ve been had,
gonna get sad?

then, i hit the heart of passion.
repeated, re…
only to shatter it all in a blinding flash.
the lure burnt out,
and now i’m left flapping, flapping, flapping aimlessly
into darkened abysses with broken wings
and the relic shards of an untimely death
wedged in me

do you feel like you’ve been had,
does it make you mad?
do you feel like you’ve been had,
gonna get sad?
(gonna get sad)

passion hit my heart
and i hit the heart of passion
so hard that
now it’s gone
it’s gone
it’s gone

(it’s all gone)

démolition d'un mur (interne)
utilizing various clips derived from influential artists, i've stitched together a compilation sequencing which has been arranged and edited in attempts to portray the struggles of demolishing an internal wall.
(and is accordingly how i've been feeling as of late)

solstice. characteristically, i'd celebrate. though i'm dispassionate and unstirred. it's too engulfing. the flourish of summer, the beating hearts, the hot embracing. leaving me discarded in an insipid furrow--equipped with a cruel craving for winter. aching for the ambiance. the frigidity that wrecks my bones. the phase when all is razed and recoils to perish--for once inducing me to sense how unexpectedly alive my own soul.

perhaps, at least, it will rain today.

between my neck
and collarbone, there
is a notch--
i have formed
a hollow. so
sometimes (when i
feel empty) i
rest my fingers
inside of it
and experience the
veins plunge, then
swell, endlessly, in
efforts to slyly
ensure i’m not
(entirely an illusion).

bound in night’s gown
how beautiful her body
wearing nothing
but starlight.

tell me your desires--what twists inside you? is there anything? is it void? veiled? tell me your desires--have you experienced ecstasy? complete lunacy? have you gone mad, yet? tell me your desires--who sleeps beside you? and who is sleeping beneath your eyes? in your heart? are they all the same? am i there? is he? or he? or she? tell me your desires--do you wear masks? do you hold within you a boutique to attain them? do i? tell me your desires--what's the tempo of your breathing? are your lungs full of smoke? are you holding them? why are you holding them? tell me your desires--are they active? have you any left? are you drugged? tell me your desires--am i in them? have you murdered me? or am i your hidden lover? or is he? or she? tell me your desires--would you float to me in slumber? would you tell them to me there? would you show me?

we spoke a lot of nonsense,
grew fluent in our dizzied sentiment and half-truths.

only ever sharing sincere visions with the flames
that flickered forth from the furtive shutting of eyelids—

little fences of fluorescent orange flesh,
so sweetly barbed with lashes.

anything gets heavy if you hold it long enough.

i met a woman.

i met a woman
whose fingers
held within them
the aroma
of aged books--

and all i wanted
was to read the pages
of her palms forever.

each
lonely
line

i clutched in captivity,
as stanzas struck
my soul spellbound

(i could’ve promised
she was the personification
of poetry.)

evaporation isn’t so easy. i cannot tell if i’m seeking to part, or to be taken. only i know, my excursions are leaving incisions. this time, three lines. drawing themselves from the tip of my left clavicle and descending in diagonal across my torso, perishing just past the hip. i woke, wearing it like some sort of sash i’d been bestowed. something wants out. though, even in such susceptible sleep, something stronger refuses to concede. these scarlet marks will soon fade--along with all else.

it hasn't ceased happening.

i recall
the moment
you forgot
the moon.
(or maybe,
it was,
the moon
forgot you)
i’ve memorized
the senses,
shed sanity
resembling ridded
snake’s skin.
from me
you slithered,
and i
linger motionless--
but an
irreversibly translucent
vacant hide,
awaiting the
sphere’s decision
to wax
or wane.

i keep getting so shaken because every time i read something by anais nin, i find within the pages entire passages which i have written in my own journals verbatim. it absolutely terrifies me. and even the story of how i happened upon her is sort of awry and strange. but, then again, now certain things are starting to make sense that were once enigmas of memory.

"reality doesn't impress me. i only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, i escape, one way or another. no more walls."

--anais nin

my crystal ball is empty.

non, je ne regrette rien.

in you,
there is
nothing. (nothing
in you,
at all)
in me,
there is
something--it
is the
something of
nothing that
was you.

patsy...oh, patsy.
i've had her on endless loop today.

lately i’ve been mastering the art of fading--
my limbs, my soul, my pulse
are but a field of dandelions awaiting annihilation
a phantom’s breath tremolos in undulation
dangling seeds, vacillate,
drop victim to vibrato--
my limbs, my soul, my pulse
compose a shattered dandelion concerto
(key of E)
damned in drifting dream

cosmic discord.

these gals are my current obsession. so good.

"I’m now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I’m working at turning myself into a seer. You won’t understand any of this, and I’m almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It’s really not my fault." — Arthur Rimbaud

just can't stop the screamin' jay...

still can't sleep without my soul slipping away. alas, it's 3:48am and i'm shamelessly dancing around to screamin' jay while holding a drowsy purring kitty in my arms. what else can ya do, right?

within me
there is
a flag.
how white,
it once
was. waving
wildly (though
now unmoving)
--worn and
wrought with
weather’s weight.
worn and
wrought with
wait, alone.

gone
for now,
serenity.

the lady with lilac hair chanted, exhausted. pounding her head, pounding her head, pounding her head, against indonesian rugs. exhaling. ceasing. slowly curling, she composed her bones comparable to that of a fragile coiled fetus. it was my duty then to understand the position. so, erroneously, i allowed my palm to rest at her neck's nape. feeling her bodily pulsations go languid, then rise, unannounced, like sudden rapids in a river. small puddles piled in attempts to conceal the fissure between her left cheekbone and the woven fibers, but would only ever last for a few seconds--or until the threads absorbed their existence. over time it was as though my resting hand had been coerced into that vital vertebrae. and then bit by bit regressing further, engulfed further, to emulate umbilical cord. ultimately, the rug lost it's ability to swallow. the room flooded, easily. submerged in our secluded world's womb--although unable, we found, to float amidst amniotic fluid. so there we stay, simply sinking...simply sinking...simply sinking. exhaling. ceasing.

"A thousand Dreams within me softly burn:
From time to time my heart is like some oak
Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn."
--Rimbaud

i'm in such a rimbaud rut lately. i could swoon over his words endlessly. constant cyclical reading and re-reading. never get enough.

originally i was just going to post this song because
1. i love chan marshall
2. the lyrics resonate
and i've no idea if i'm just hearing things, however, i swear the instrumental of this sounds just like patti's pissing in a river. which is the song i've been listening to for the entirety of the summer (seriously at least five times a day...it's bad). i believe i posted it about a week ago, but i'll put it here as well for the sake of convenience. so strange.

i now know how she must feel.

“you may not believe in magic but something very strange is happening at this very moment. your head has dissolved into thin air and i can see the rhododendrons through your stomach. it’s not that you are dead or anything dramatic like that, it is simply that you are fading away and i can’t even remember your name.”

--leonora carrington