A large glacial forest – I have not seen it before, moss covered it invisibly. Gods to earth – surviving scripts of mental oders – not sure exactly how big, but big, for shoulders. He is thriving within but mainly still lonely. She craves fire and patterns in the shadows of his clavicle. She craves the melting and the rot. And the frost. To discover only hours later, the star shaped birthmark. It existed of two shapes on the nape. Deception of the eleven.

In the faraway trees, immortal mischief. They play where there are changelings. Middle orb and Asp. Drinking arsenic flavoured seltzer. I can feel its memories as I walk closer – I can feel its invisible voice in my stomach as I approach her. She tells me her name…. Fetzel. “Maaaaaaaaaoooooooonnnnnnnnkkkknnnnn”… I can’t fully grasp her name, a stone on the mountain, liquid ascension, still frozen and filled with the current culture. The current song-wound as a postulate. The current, itself as a cave.

The people who visit will never come. Distracted by their choice to flavour air by themselves. Bewildered as they fade. Arisen in the mind of the moon. A kind of flame once begotten. In the depths of a circular monogram.

Shutting the door I gaze upon nothing. I shall never again gaze upon its anything. Making a path toward bodies double its size. A low whisper torn and pricked by various insects. From under the bark they crack with intensity within the molting tree. The wanderer who wields a painted stick and plucks.

Turning the miniature crank underneath my desk, keeps things from falling – and fills the room with pleasant sounds that I alone can’t fear.

Becoming one with the tundra cloth, one with the water dwelling plantlife lifting. With the pitch pine on the windowsill. Ersemine was shaving at the sink. The soil conditioner – bits falling bequeathed to the drain. In unison to the sound of the sea cave. The core of the tunnel hadn’t been visited in some time. The rough cut in the lime. In the den with animal skins. Down below the surface, she waited for her sister to come back with the pitch syrup. Hot syrup fell to the cement when I smelt it – the calcite evaporate.

When the clocks crystal time misremembers – a shriveled flower unwinds between the forked arm of a circular channel . Lilium bulbs- a stolon in the lower hemisphere. A glass alteration to their environment can shatter salutations turning again for them… The spinning swivel of forceps, a swift spinning fulcrum of the limbs – and feet turn fast, with pipe in hand. Chromosome 12. Channel A. demotic delta.

Around the twisting handle of the pin She reaches for the plastic portable lamp. Around the misting fertile mixture. Near the skin. Near the hand. Near the slight bony body of the skeleton fish.

A hallway that has been walked not walked but once, for them then to have seen in their defense – a relentless seething bird-dog whose legs don’t touch the ground. Remembering, their tendons twist in the cavern. She has lived in a snailshell bed for years. In her sleep as a snail creature with the mind of an opaline sphere… with the memories of a crown made of brittle thistle, many days old, a sandcastle at your feet, a sandy thought in your head. While you hide beneath the sheets underneath her bed.

V playing cricket. And the short disaster clown mixing an accidental drink. I’ve seen the horse that looks like the dog and the dog that looks like the horse. Bodies dosing corpses, rotting in the salty sunlight. Bearing down on the shoulders of humanoid highways. So many bodies. Twisted and certain fades. Shaved in the shadows swallowing old thoughts. So many movements. The skin’s flora. Scrying my eye strain. Taking her crudite medicine. A certain aspartame. His pharmacopeia mussel shells glistening. The sea seed withering in amorphous broth. The seaweed scourge of sea seed pouring flamboyantly in rounds. Paddle stirred. Hand fasting the meat of Sunday. When we fell in the harbour, Blotting the cotton gowns worn thin. I am a glass leaf perfectly detailed between the damp sheets of minotaur. Bristle breathing. The need understands the growing of teeth and nails. The shellfish, without knowing that knowledge would be sucked away quickly by the current.

I have a hum, in my neck – it has yet to reveal itself in wordness form. This moment inbetween sounds it…….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s just as yesterday was, walking through the grass. To the well, you forget who was looking- washing the many colours of the tail- a slickly feathered freak. Rubbing the obsidian worrystone, to the drover’s daughter’s who disapeared into the hills years ago. You’ve forgotten her face -Pleasure bloating the supercritical stream, or a culmination of stone stick and mud. Your brother made a bust of her – also long gone, him. The aeloncholic temperament.

His funerary mound- a rag soaked in cruel combustibles. Odourless, tasteless, aquatic dissolution. who gushes. The benzene friend. Torn and wound in gauze soaked imperial dye; royal blow. The long fatal heir/air dusting the flies green again. Sealed in cavernous leaves and bites in the sun.

The ground of burning glass. Now I look forward and sideways upon my line – confronted by a crooked smirk, poorly cut red hair – gangly young and twirling an unrecognizable contraption. Stones revived and avenged for oblivion.

Fixel Praxelion’s countenance was one to remember (or so I recalled) – her favorite color was clear. Transparent or clear as her clothing wasn’t made of/as glass (for will be the trend). A white taboo tableaux-esque tattoo of a slip n’ slide wrapping her wraithy fingers and earlobes – possibly her spine. It was separated from her hind. The sea sealed parts of mermaid. Anatomical Mangelle. Zennor the devilfish of Pendour cove. Of all the Milesian boys he was fed the herb of immortality. Of all the milestones in her fabled history she was fed the Zebulax seed of Enik’s grove.

They’d known of one another for a time being (Enik itself) had told them of one another. Fixel’s fountain mouth opens and pours:

“I shot often! I feel that I am to be entwined and twinned with the knight’s knife blade motif.”

Enik was swimming under the sand, eating the shells, and Zennor knew just what she meant. Zennor’s must laden hand detaches and performs a dance. His heart the marionette. The marionette’s sinewy golden string rod and his idol Fixel’s sonical swarthing. The electric mask. His hand mermedium, mer-murrified, un-petrified, performs as Enik perceives the dust performance simultaneously.

The velvet zenith dons the provincial troubadour in a portent pile. Fixed in a rampart peddle it carries his paddle strings down the horizontal plane. Rocking the yoke. Shriveled tending the bushes, nibbling the rose hips, he was sure he liked them. Not knowing his lymphodeionic crown, they dwelt where they once weren’t.

Up yours

The shadow of something – trying to make it out – like a pine cone. buried are parts . they come 6 by 6 in rows . separated by divers knives. they feed the swell, the rivers. diving for river pearls. Tryst pulls out a lean muskets fox eye. made for stone. she washes her teeth rinses with hand cupsful. – leans on the burlap white fabric of the birch. peels seven lines of bark in the shape of a chevron . Hearts warn round her arrows. she pulls them from her knapsacks bell and shoots in a solitary line. Streams – shadows arrow, caterpillar excuse. They know its significancer. Each one in its box – related. Scattered rows 6 by 6 by 7 suns roar. Sculpture mind. Our oars over run. White wash – golden knee piles dirt. rivals and the sonic ash inhale… external intermediate juicey froth legs tights thighs need. Oil. Smoke. Cinder. Cloth. Ash. Cough. Life alively contracted pressure hand grasp – mint handed worship. looks up from Sun – a minstrel. twice mishapen limbs of the deer. blank cover. can contain five embers crying. landed down in the overcoat. to take to the roan. the plastic ash can. turquoise leaning under my fountaining sky. the side winding. Molding and draipsing down the edges of the hive. the hut ovens. the hive winder – sharp edge shape hex. They came back down – measuring our vibrations – making sure – caring for us well enough – some of us fur covered – some snake skin lads insectoid. We remember mostly when we don’t. Our breath is the hint in this net- drive with our palms the structure under bark. She took the pine cone to my ear – slight pain its over.

It was half past – walking too much – breathing, eating salivating, too little. Lucky enough – coin flip, whistle three quarters past. Half-wandering down the sidewalk humming some hymn song – light. hits the temples. hits the shops with cakes and takes a late lunching. there couldn’t be too little to ground down. Dreaming of fritters with fruit paste and purple flock roe neem pies, but settles for quarter pudding. No bones about her. a strange way to dine. a wall painting of a bark scratched eye. a ragged cloth made ribbon. Nine quarter is too much for that string. A blonde looking child is walking toward a statue. I see through the eye. It’s twisted head imploding into a seam. lucidly willing a fantastical dream. there i can’t drown in the pink spool. pulling into the sky. Antares and Gliese 157 are the blonde twins. Menacing morose they stick a fork in mine. laughter spills in through the sink. draped in cotton dressing. drowning out the suds.

“She always had a knack for hammering small earrings.”

“You know that’s not the truth.”

There was also a quickness about her – I remember it – smelled as trouble does. Sud favorite.

“Whenever I arise my little ghost gloves come and walk under my shoes pollish.”

It wasn’t – talking to much – seething, sheets of rain soaked busk boys. I was lucky enough to know at least one of my little shrimps.

“He always argues with himself about the wimps.”

More portuguiser please. For the children at the wax house never are clean.

Thirty winding – three winding – thirty twisted rock – chewing clove. saturated natural grass rocks irish fog. Humming sounds – echos calling. People located scattered in the hills – I can’t see them, but they call to one another – back and forth – like birds – loud humming sounds… ether pale canary sounds filtered through their eyes. listening through the phone wind. to the ice they could hear shards piercing the streams as glass. wandered the banks for the dove. for sprigs of the clove. wine gum collected in the buckets dark amber pools of sap. rearranging to the fall of the red hour. sticks stuck and slicing into the fallen ground. the two were walking there. in the place where secret keys move. golden sweet and in sleep. I have one moment in my eyes mindedly – crowns, ash covered bodies in righteous pink ritual – I see through the hills – clear as a whisp. They see me and call in together – my body falls away – engolded sweet and wake water take breathing scream. Big smile now. Looking down, locking singing – I remember this knot. Just there in the juniper where the mind makes _spaces____. sparks. sparkling ahead. crawling forward and down. the face of seama sighing. taking their bridled blows to the edges. where they dried white skins tan. for the sea cake calling a brilliant distance. Ocean air water droplet spire. Thirty bodies – each by its idol – each singing – hum when is this – flattening the land with their oscillations. Now aware, a rock presents itself to me and says – “offer” – I twist him with my will and shed my hammer, string, skin.

time was…. or time… time wasn’t  – sand, peach soda, the capital letter G…

G for georgia land of fire lost and once a memo mori of the devi .. we took time there to gather some lucid grey, stone flint rock .. wandered to the shed where there was a brightly lit madonna jesus in robes.  his throne was a hemaprodites body blood.  a bathtub of liquerish gin.  a Pint of cream-sorrow.  a blasting machine like a match fire.  light poured in through tea fear in the floor, a sticking stain, a door… busted through with crackling moray eel wings – I set aflame my own spirits past looking backwards.  winged dire deer wire/dear gl ass, renowned for now to never know again the flamenco desert.

K for killing time. rolling flaps of leaf dwelling lime. light sphere, catch one drop, left to crack through the bubble black rowing. I forget my name now – aflame again writhing.  to the spire of spirits.  left dead through seer haunting. Qali merciless their sired singing shred the black swamp hour.  bubble up a terrible muck to stir the stone one.  with an amber glass rod.  a name called god.  a tailored suit for a sack.  felt nothing and bit off a chunk.  a fear  infernal -dust – we know not the flowering subtle memories of our kindred – drying the vegitables as an offering or welt – welling up – looking back again and saying nothing this time not all gone – Qali-alia hers.

time was… or time…time wasn’t – never wanted to be, sanded tree, bleach rowing boat, the capital letter S.

S for sanctuary. G for godby K for cliche and N for nest with breakfast.

-GK