meaning of white / and the glare that obscurestoday rumbled,
churned and went to hell
.left in the bright obscurity
appendages seem to hiss no more
waves speak no more
dandelions sing no more.
i must figure out
whether to keep hanging like a deformed
in which direction to propel this vein-knot;
a dead bird rots,
stomach heat-split and picked on,
feathers stuck to the concrete
when he peels it up.
he pours kerosene,
holding one shaking match litó
fat melts, entrails crisp,
marrow dries and bones crack,
ashes rise against the wind,
falling on gray buildings.
in his midmorning dream,
the phoenix soars.
don't look back - oh.before the
before, face it,
there were faces indelible,
the viscosity of
tar in his voice...
tar on his coarse fingers;
there was the sacred drunkard illuminating
when i hid by the bucket and
nettle brushed my shoulder, the poison
(in reality, he
ran his cows over with a tractor and there
the sacredness should have ended;
before the before there was gnarled bark
off unidentified trees
whispering by the river,
rough to the touch
i would spread out my fingers
fascinated by the splinters
now it is morning and i realize
i have never really seen an ocean
the canyons were nonexistent,
barely there impressionistic
space; flawed geometry
there is nothing to leave behind,
Dragonball Z fanfiction limited 32 and a halfWhat she describes are mountains. All kinds of mountains.
Mountains halved and sheared, their white glistening meat-
mountains bordered in black oil shores
flashed and bleached until they metastasize
to the bruised t.v. horizon, the magnetic illustrations echoing
and organizing themselves to a coast
photocopied and scarred and photocopied again
over and over until the brutal distance becomes the mountains
convulsing and blinking in and out of existence.
young man loitering behind a doorkeep forgetting about weakness
as if it never shackled you in cotton candy,
as if the air was glass, as if you had a saint's feet
and all you needed was to take her hand and roam the level sands till Mecca;
well, the tide is a good teacher,
delusions will run dry,
drybones beach, retching,
drowner tied by insecurities;
yes, the ebb tide will come and
pull away the blankets,
salt will wash you clean or
blind or cover you
one can wait for the tide's
but won't; you will stumble
blindly through the dessicate valley
stretching on forever, moaning
help us... help us.
to find a mound, netted by
salt, pillar of
to touch its crumbling hair - it is
to learn to wait;
keep forgetting h
Winter DeepTethered to such days as stillness
Too little accomplished,
much to be done.
Welcome, dreamless sleep.
Rest for a worry weary mind.
Grey cold sunrise.
Metal against concrete.
Does the plowman notice
grateful faces in warm lamp lit windows?
© L. L. Kelly 2014
best guessdebts pile up
as life goes by
forgiveness like mercy
is often in short supply
it's impossible to give
something you don't possess
so practice first upon yourself
is my best guess
boundaries The horizon seems close enough to touch, like the stars on a clear summer evening. A journey of one, maybe two days hike to the optimistic dreamer that I am. In reality, both are totally out of reach, illusions distorted by light, gravity and time, aggravated by the weakness of my vision.
I live in a world of separations. Light and darkness, left and right, up and down, in and out, life and death. My greatest efforts are at best, momentary and transitional. Foes are conquered, just to rise again; fears overcome, and then sneak back in. Mountains rise to block my path, sands flow to cover my steps. Rivers and Oceans conspire with Deserts and Jungles to keep me in my place.
Still, I am eternally the dreamer, searching for answers when I don’t quite yet grasp the question. This completed picture lies somewhere j
athazagoraphobiamicrobes rule the dreck
of the wreck of our impish fraternity
just a cobbled audacity
contradiction and reducing the straw man
(and who's not in favor of affectionate anarchy?)
scowls and white noise cannons
locked - and fully loaded
the hanging of an absurdistalas poor roaches
of the tongue-splitting brigade
to the scene of flames
dry humping the body to death
not only untouchable now
unafraid of the occasional laceration
maybe the lifelong reek of oppression
in the vicinity of cellars &
maybe the maggot-like sweat beads
as the drain pipe flange digs into the forehead
and wrist cuffs are about to explode./an att
presencehad a dream
you had shaved your head and
tattooed your breasts
but in the back of the train
you laughed your old good-natured laugh
i'll evaporate, leaving
your palms cold
you see one day i'll be on a train too
rushing up a merciless incline
hunching i'll be watching you
through a wall of splintered raindrops
maybe there were times when i was present,
but never this
was a shy spy,
slipped into the lingerie/
thrust into the crowd-
it's okay, they
... never listen,
howling from the opposite sides of the canyon
..."jag är inte elisabeth vogler...",
but i was pretty damn close, was
the "no" that scours the guts at
night after the party had
inflating pregnant slabs of pork...
in awe and silence.
effervescence is fashionable these days,
the words fizz up...
imported see-through fireworks,
the bubbles carry no seed.
reach heaven, tick it off the to-do list,
think of the message later. the
poinsettiaeveryone's heard of manifest destiny
what you can/when you can/while you can
with our small eyes eating
christmas cactus each morning
to help us keep our edge
so what monster was your father
is still that great god of gotham
his endless eyes locked
in unscrupulous patterns
through cracks in a flush, febrile sky
tiredness (millenia)as i wake up,
my head against the rock, i don't know
what stopped me
but i don't want to be stopped again,
neither by your loamy feathers
across my chest
nor by the realization of how
soft that wingspan is,
are you to choke me,
cooling my fevered throat?
is just too golden...
cotton-calved, hobble up the spiraling
mountain path, one step at a time, pass out
as i wake up,
on giving upi have known shame once,
it is something that everyone
scraping feet across bankrupt pavement-
wall street, tall and meek, sketchy smiles, rabbit feet
many people have come to live here,
but many more die here,
understand that i was surrounded by ocean
i could've swam to maine if i wanted to
but i just stood in the sky.
felt my face, felt the fever drain
i am weak, i say
i am tired, i say
but even my own mother does not listen to me.
it would be better to say only one thing
and not mean it, than to say two different things
and mean them both. it would be better to walk and never look back at
the city behind you, than to stand there staring stupidly at it.
it would be better to forget you, than to remember
reticentno one seems to realize
i don't talk enough.
i could talk mountains
rivers and lakes
canyons and forges
i could talk cliffs
and you back from one
i could talk the way
tape screeches when
it is pulled apart
i could talk red skies
and bleed history
taste music and
i could breathe silence
and hold sound,
cup my ear to the streets
and hear the sea.
obsolescenceSo I imagine you too much.
So we the blank harvest and we the collapsed desert.
So expect war,
the president says.
And the medium becomes what it isn't: open ocean.
So I try to tell you about loss but the truth is
you know more about winter than me.
So I imagine you go out and consult/consume the noise;
does it say the blue and sky and skyscraper suspend?
does it instruct the forest the yellow canyon the government install?
do you not paint the lab-suns
like a burning field?
You wonder why we are compelled to bomb.
All I know is that some people are a salvage of rainbowed metal,
some songs a hall of broken hills,
some raptures a hollow and empty building expecting laughter.
And it is always the same story: x enters x,
then too much forgetting god too much logging god too much god just too much god
and so what follows is eradication,
an army of videos dismembering a violent contact with a world of moving glass;
so x is a stranger or a country,
x is a constant e.g. war or wo