Flailing Summit

Between the mountains and ocean is a town called Olympia; where I spend much time. From here I sometimes place my work on the internet. Musings upon the sight of phantasms.

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[shuashbuckler-deactivated201211]

[ozmaautonomy]

someone has the right idea. 

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make total destroy

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Eros Bound

I write a love letter as an unconditional home for images that complete my a triad. Me, love-relation (deserved of the truly “love thy neighbor”), and processes. The margins of notebook paper are golden genitalia, and I am ringing around the thighs with ink-well thumbs and a pair of safety scissors.  Staring into my own poems, addressed to work itself, to process itself, is a weaker version of the incantation to the love of the work itself and therefore the process of the very poem.  A love letter is a poem. I have arrested myself mid-stanza before upon realization that I am mid-stanza and should be slapped for not having sold my blood to a piece of mailbox material.  Yes, everything is the same and you are a child if you say so and mean it as an ends. I explain my differences now, forgetting the neurotic passiveness in forbidding myself from such points of note such as smells.  No bit of my bastard tongue can recreate a smell, though I begin a mining operation to search for the present-eternal and an adequate juxtaposition to place my words to scent.  In the love-letter, I open and close the envelope to breathe the wafting beams of fading roses and a desk of a light-stained wood.  She will forget too her weaker versions in breathing the letter’s delights, and my words will only be an accessory as I hope them to be.  My words, I wish, to be an accessory to scent and the incanted process of poetry in present-eternal prose.  I write a love letter as an unconditional home for images that complete a wheel, leading me back to the unspoken point in a triad.  

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If you're good looking, you may as well go with it.

[tehstillness-deactivated2017113]

<3 poemz (Taken with Instagram)

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The Fortunate Binary

You walk outside, a gun raffle is occurring outside your home. Three men riding three bicycles catch your attention upon the calling of the raffle-winner. An older figure approaches, a sex unto their own, and says to you "time will kill him." A nausea pervades the form, and it's as if a festering candid eroticism has gripped the humidity. The sky, strung with cloud-signs, does not cool you but strikes an intestinal disturbance in the pit of your qualms. Through a window across the street (sewage from the stone) a shadow pokes at a black type-writer, letters worn off the keys and all. A waltz floats into the air, and it is then that you compose an auria which the window-writer transcribes on the back of the periodic table of elements. You are more afraid than you have ever been, until a woman on a broken telephone says "not kids, men." Somehow you cannot kick yourself enough to call yourself a nihilist after hearing her brief undigested utterance. The breach of the form has arrived. Idealizing circadian and the processes of "what is" has only given us more fetishes. Brief breath breathes the breathing breath.

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"Time will kill him" - A Man

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Poems as a series of systems -a study in my melanin by way of your spine curve

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Breach of the Form

I was lullabied half-past sleep;

the calm of calms

inspired by mute hexagon shards.

Passing the passed past

the hellish roll of erotic thunder

fetishized storm clouds

fetishized East

all thought we looked beautiful

sleeping miles by the thousand paired apart.

Live in a mirror-shroud;

kneeling down in the glass

lighting candles

for no vigil

"no home in no vigil"

so sayeth the sooth

and so you sayeth

when rest-bags come to quell

a belonged slither secret.

Like children we run in darkness,

naked pariahs wearing crowns of silk.

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Now... did you answer cause you thought that's what I wanted to hear, or did you think about what I said and answer cause you truly believe that to be right? 

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Lineage of the Form

The recent amassing of spittle into sequin-stemmed jars reveals itself to a phenomena appropriate of a sleepwalker.  August is no month for the skinny, by all means belly-up on harlequin routines or fat if you will. These times require us not to write stories, there are too many stories.   Stop writing stories.  I only want to read sentences drawn with pearls of smoke.  I could not dare utter the words I wish to see on the street, I would be drowned with a garden hose carefully placed in my left eye socket.  Shoot me on the street if you will, but do not drown me.  Coherence is not in my interest.  The sentence, the sound, the violence are in my interest; this is the lost rumbling magic (still there).  A sunset approaches; one that will provoke an explosion to burst every disgusting stone-dome that a fat-man inspired.  The hot blending of dusk and day will prompt me to cover my entire body in tattoos of a mystic.  Our language will birth a furious embrace and a resonance only found in music.  Come the sunset, come the muted phrases, come the cutting of cords holding us puppet-prisoners.  

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For a Lack of Eye

Pronouns frighten ...

...begin to burn

the shavings of sanctity 

for a warm place along the swamp

...begin to write an entire essay

primarily concerning

why ... love for the swamp

knees huddled in mud

writhing to shifting octaves

...begin to exfoliate into the interior

casting a hungry shadow

hungry as was ever

when...realize

... am hungry as ever

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Colossal dream summer. I the flatfoot am draped in hunched back flight and sweat-sewn swims breaching the gap of erotic flight and tropicalia paradise. Festering oyster shells perfume the bridge, and I whirl into grains of symbols (notably the dead field mouse). We all noted the heavy air as of yesterday.

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Smoke-Filled Pearls

The recent amassing of spittle into sequin-stemmed jars reveals itself to a phenomena appropriate of a sleepwalker.  August is no month for the skinny, by all means belly-up on harlequin or fat if you will. These times require us not to write stories, there are too many stories.   Stop writing stories.  I only want to read sentences drawn with pearls of smoke.  I could not dare utter the words I wish to see on the street, I would be drowned with a garden hose carefully placed in my left eye socket.  Shoot me on the street if you will, but do not drown me.  Coherence is not in my interest.  The sentence, the sound, the violence is in my interest; this is the lost rumbling magic (still there).  A sunset is approaching that will provoke an explosion to burst every disgusting stone-dome that a fat-man inspired.  The hot blending of dusk and day will prompt me to cover my entire body in tattoos of a mystic.  Our language will birth a furious embrace and a resonance only found in music.  Come the sunset, come the new phrases, come the the cutting of cords holding us a puppet-prisoners.  

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Life Raft for the Young People

Stop Shaking

Introductions are important

Greet your friends' friends

Talk

Sit Outside and Talk

Stop sleeping in/death without committing

Ride the Bike

Ride it far

Nutrients are a Haven

The Kitchen is a Haven

Make yourself a Haven/the community a Haven

No Peace/ do not lay low

Fight Back

Organize

Stay Active

Open Arms

Take a Friend out to Brunch

Make a Decent Meal

Every Single Day

No Exception

Clear Your Mind

/stronger

Say What Your Songs are About

We Will Listen

A Party is Not 16 Beers

Maybe 16 Friends

Beer is Not Destructive

You Initiative the Numbness in Chemicals/and the chemical will receive

Open Wide

There are Boxes

Unravel Please

Young People

[tehstillness-deactivated2017113]

Poetry only ends on paper, never does it begin there.

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Cute

this is the night

to smack my lips

remembering the taste of vulva

a rotten thought

a rotten torrent

flushing taste-buds clean

of pearl-snaps,

tightened collars

who line the rim of summer.

I used to fuck to bask

now I fuck to forget

and sometimes

I drink a few beers

smile

then go home

make rice,

cry 

and touch my dick

giving up about halfway.

I have no box-spring

for my mattress,

I did not need one

when there was 

a soft body next me.

Hard-body I am,

bicycle built

accelerating with a pumping heart

about to burst

caffeine filled

stained by sunken gasps.