Beating Hearts in Thickets Untouched

I am in love with summer. Some more pikcha's!

Tiny Records

For snapshots, chaste souls rest assured.

For her

Celandine

“Sometimes I like to hand feed fish to the alligator, it makes life feel insignificant.”

- Signora Corvus

Deadbolt eyes of diamond spy us climbing arduously, vines of the dead.

Watch from afar through the cracks in your palms as
Venus becomes just one of nine harlots in their evocable orbits
and
with tridents of metaphor penetrate
our indolent reflections as they lazily genuflect in
cloud cuckoo lands quadrillion pools of molten lava.

Surprise will breath on the bride of Pleiades
in ghost notes
cited in cliff notes
despite her wax red lips turn tricks in the tidy tips
every lunar and solar eclipse.

A whip---north, south, and frantic,
as asteroid belts squirm between the cleavage of her toes.
Dutch guts are dealt as snap dragons in Stetsons and sap-gloves
tighten the pikes on my bible belt with a zealous reckless abandon.

Just wait until she plants a nice frigid gun-powdered kiss
on the frailty of your bloodstream and leaves hurriedly
in the middle of the night without her clothes.

Crystal skulls, mouth breathers, and marigolds,
cherry moles, cultures built around the automobile and mystery religions...

I gamble heedlessly with your future.

I arabesque in the baby blue industriousness of your moral virtue
and revive reapers so they may r e p o the cruelty of your affection.

Darling there will always be room for you, to breathe the breath of the deadweight.

Anhedonia # 15

I owe my consciousness to this pane of glass.
I share a heartbeat with scythes of ice and dance wildly without movement.

Your Life is Our Fiction

Been taking a lot of impromptu photo's lately,
I suppose capturing the world with a camera
is not all that different from capturing it using words and meter.
I submit to you a few tiny records of my recent travels...

I Flirt with Silence in the Pillowy Ache of Ice Water

A howl, a strum, you and I and naps in lantana.

Silver headstones in mans decline.
In the gait of the dandelions ween, making fists with her toes in tire-tracks of mud,
the clumps oil drunk and balding blades of emerald's fray.

She took baby steps,
eclipsed in the midst of a marvelous dream as one more somnambulist against the world.

She simpered heavens as if god himself had a vested interest in her existence and she could care less about it.

Her heart pumped jet fuel through brand new veins,
her extremities bucked like a doe's full of sex skewed by streams of television

S-a-r-t-o-c-a-n-o-i-d

Had he heard the word before?
Had he read it somewhere?
Perhaps hiding beneath other juicier, more plausible words.

Familiar coal black letters gashed through jaundiced legal pad.

"Sartocanoid."

Had he lived with this word in his heart or in his pocket?
Had it branded him in a blink of the eye like a hot wet trail of congealed egg-yolk?

Anhedonia # 2

The music in your skin dissolves
the nervous and is luminous;
dressed in my naivete,
we lay carefree
with one another in meadow afterbirth.

Anhedonia #12

We’re sure, by morning you won’t remember.
But we crawled below the deck like your dog
who had died and drank bottom shelf tipple till locusts arrived.

Anhedonia #9

I see you red-eyed in globs of brittle oil paint
filling your heart with sprains of eggshell blue and brackish
neither of us will ever understand.

[Anhedonia #9 will appear in the forthcoming publication
"Short, Fast, & Deadly" issue number 75]
http://www.shortfastanddeadly.com/

Anhedonia #5

I held your hand,
and my breath
and flickered faint azure like a dying star
below carpets of moss
marinated in the piss of cats.


[Note: Anhedonia #5 will appear in a forthcoming issue
(i75) of "Short, Fast, & Deadly"]
http://www.shortfastanddeadly.com/

10TIMES_TEN

My 100th post exists of course for no other reason but to inform you the reader
that this is in fact the 100th post.

It's taken like what three years or something?
Seems like a long time, guess I've been slacking.

Who the hell knows
what all this mumbo jumbo is anyway?

This blog is supposedly about a writer?
Who knew.

Willow Court

No good words, not tonight little brother.

Not tonight...

The hungry earth

"Pinned beneath her grip one is able to perhaps for the first time introspectively access the authentic self with complete emotional self-honesty.

She softens ego-boundaries and induces an

amazing feeling of warm connectedness to one's fellow man.

With ease she conjures a world

retained by residual sympathomimetic activity,

which varies greatly from "normal reality."

She subjects her children to a pure state of being,

a perceived peace with every person, place, and thing made accessible.

An enhanced sense of self-worth, forgiveness and complete self-acceptance are all common."

-Arcto Quincy, "A Study of Famished Planets"

Broken Hearts lead Complacent Lives in Being Broken

With this cold tract of white silence on the horizon,

the future reveals itself as nothing more than a blot of scar tissue

in the substance of memory.

I cannot begin to understand or dare articulate despair, but i am told very few survive what many perceive to be the corrosion of being.

Cloud Nonoxinol 9

With five senses as long as it seems we've been a single lovesick mantid

living its entire starry life happily unclassified.

What have we done?