Gehenna

The new book comes out

August 14th!

Available at

http://stores.lulu.com/deadtrees

ANNIVERSARY

Start your livers ladies and gentleman,

and let us toast to our first astronomical year in cyberspace!

One revolution around the sun and a hive of whatever it is you'd call all of this.

I've come so far, to say so little...

And have loved every minute of it.

Thank you for the the support, your faith in chaos,

and for actually taking time out of your day to read this

curious collection of juicy lil' ephemerons.

Brace yourself,

for this is only the beginning...

Exhumation

I found this poem by accident in the endless mirrored corridors, false windows and trap-doors
of the pandemonium that is my PC, while trying to locate my recipe for puerco pibil...

It was written about six years ago.

There's some tasty morsels I feel, but by my standards these days it seems a bit

"My bleeding heart is oh very deep, dark and hollow,
and infested with mascara-wearin ravens with hearts that bleed exponentially more

or at least at an equal rate to thine dark lord of Arlington Highschool"

It kind of has a Takashi Miike thing going on,
while simultaneously exuding an angsty vampire-mulleted batcavey teenager sensibility.

Take it or leave it,

I thought it was deserving of a tiny sliver of the key limelight,

even if just for a moment.

PARISIAN CEREBRUM

Her shoulders when viewed through an infrared lens
mimic the frail battle shimmy of savage devilfish swindlers two-fold;
tempting but disposable, whimsical with weakness
and furious like bleeding cuticles on a
dying shrine carpenter.

Dancing illegally and fed sinking teeth and circular saw secretions with cannibals.
We were left suffering to our own devices,
stained in charming marble nurseries by the reflective river currents of
mercurial transcendence and self enlightenment.

We were clothed by the Parisian sun,
embraced by the ashes of your urn, divine and inerrant.

Loosening her Geta with rose water,
she drew an orgasmic bath where
she revealed to me the nature of her scales
and the penalty for denying
the thick leech costumes of sensory deprivation.

Death in the afternoon* was always suitable,
and we’d shamble effortlessly unto bearded-Mary mezzanines,
perching against elderly banisters unctuous with sulfur and petrol
from Molotov cocktails.

We’d spend our mornings overlooking the intersections
in an assiduous squirm of possessed life-contestants,
rabid for parking spaces and monitored overhead like
writhing infants by officious overlords.

With cleavers of the clover ward,
I’d plant a frenetic talking board thirty feet below the sward.
And they'd prison-break and watchman-evade
as long as I remained the red of your wine.

Good food fulfilling free love for drama queens,
free of consequence.

As jolly Rogers, cadgers, draft-dodgers and jailors
take turns playfully nibbling the
wrinkled gizzards of disintegrating coffin-dodgers.

As my sisters drew straws to have at the hogtying
of dimpled cheesecake dolls;
the Cadillac of kidnap and trophy-shelf breed of the belated 5th grade.

Fat on plasma in the solstice washed up and disjoined,
we were knee deep in the open sore syndrome of blackmail.

Trading shark tank pyrotechnics for kissing booths,
I withdrew from the dharma façade of protest and excrement
and fastened my beloved valentine in soft brown rope.

Stuck in a trunk pleading in common decibels,
all the while makeshift gags disguised
selfless saboteurs self-mutilating.

she would carry on ordinary, a stunning mutt with long wasp legs
sheathed in the shadow of nylon fibers,
rendered as useless as her voice in the lame shore of bastard percussion.

All the while makeshift gags disguised
the delicious skills of freckled jailbait,
pinkish with spunk and puckish with minion pubescence.

The scalpel ballet was revisited in ether dreams
in the form of oozing pineal glands,
and the convulsion of eyelids engaged in the hollow optic mantras of yesteryear.

The wretched dessert nap left us feeling fatigued with scabbed knees,
betwixt the finer flesh of fractured thighs and languid human windmills.

Alas!
Balloon tanks against raw nerves,
sharpened slits gasp for air in a hum of amphibian catharsis.

Serpentine nails slither to bind my shallow meat
like the rod of Hermes on a Kaleidoscope holiday.

All the while makeshift gags disguise
the Parisian Cerebrum lurking in sane sight.





* 1. A nonfiction book about the ceremony
and traditions of spanish bullfighting
by Ernest Hemingway.

2. A cocktail prepared with Absinthe and Champagne

- Parisian Cerebrum [Beta] first appeared in issue no. 16 (spill) on http://www.spreadhead.virtualave.net-