the book of eli

oh snowman,

i want to be your oryx.

caribou

i want to prowl around

in tight

dark

clothes,

breaking glass in slow motion

while on

mute.

(the soundtrack being swim and thus very much not muted. doyouunderstand)

june second. twenty ten

in the space between our words fly feeling like haphazard beings of locomotion

not yet classified as flight they are free from the talons of The Label

the deep set weight, the pressure is building and this one is not to be jumped off of, this one has a metallic structure only constructible 

in a pitch-canvas tent were the absence of vibrations are the playdough of the welder-gods 

and the outcome is something no hijacked plane can ever crash into

The muffled echoing of snow 

feet movement 

under a static blanket

the absence of sound is not silence but rather something akin to death. silence is the presence of the pure,

white and black light meeting in the embrace of joy screams, 

without noise we are rendered visible to all,

our perceptions a changeling no longer willing to live without the birthmother, returning home it shall find the silence, 

silence of a horses hooves on the bones of it’s master, 

the travelers son no longer wants to be the calling boy, he has left and will not return, he goes in silence and leaves behind…the absence of sound.

within our silence is held all the noises that were not made, not yet uttered, all the meaning that we meant, floating, 

crushing 

our lips             our sense              our vocal chords 

straining, can we reach the language of the divine and return to tell the tale in the tongue of the masses, 

let us communicate under the excruciatingly inadequate noun.

silence.

oblivion.

write about a silence.

the genre

there was a girl. she carried herself like a woman. she talked like a woman.

she met a boy.

he carried himself like a boy. he talked like a boy.

they met late one night, somewhere no one would hear or see them.

the next morning, he woke up a man, and she, a girl.

i see jesus and judas making love

what is your escape
your filthy little whimper
the wrapper beneath the pillow
the stain on your lips
dirty nails
glowing eyes
what is your drug?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

i hear a recording, low-poor quality (youtube gold). my fingers curl, my legs squirm, feet yearn to move, my head rolls, lolls, eyes fluttering closed i am there, all over again. the sound so full its you, pounding, thrashing until your ribs are the ones producing the beat ... beat ... beat ... all you do is pound out the bass, let it pour from your screaming mouth, the boy licks sweat from your neck, you are the dancer, the music, the throbbing writhing drug.
 you, altered, alive, no future, no past. just movement. in this moment you are the drop, the pulsing reaction, you are as full as you can be. seeping through my cracks, its coming, the explosion, the afterwards, but just for now let me have ... one ... more ... yesssssss.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

my pupils, jet black,
engulfing the irises
take you in. suck you up.
what is your story
your moment
your pupils, jet black,
engulfing the irises
take me in. suck me up.
now, now you are mine.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


i saw jesus and judas
making love.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _