hymenopteracompassionhymenoptera by thetaoofchaos
is full of surrogates
like those brushing in the yard;
I would grant them their aspiration
one last, exalted scream
before the crisp disintegration
to be a crystal in the honeycomb
some edge of necessity
not yet worried off to the nub
I do see you
it was me
The Anarchist SermonI like the silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching.The Anarchist Sermon by thetaoofchaos
What fruit is left on Sunday morning?
Days have past since the last idea
to hear the pitch of life saw light.
The children pawn their sinew off
on unexamined vessels.
We gather up our thirsty voices
and watch as they are driven off
into the moorings of our hovel.
If I would teach them nothing more;
“savor this, these delicate miles”
until we sit along the pews
and stare into the quietus.
San FranciscoGood lord, how long I've slept this time!San Francisco by thetaoofchaos
And from what undiluted dream
full of free space and meadows,
brickless and feral,
lost in terrible infant whims,
streaking from trees to the hazel in the dusk,
have I come creaking to this ancient face?
If I ever find le sens de la vie
writhing underleaf in a crooked line of ants
or rippling in a koan made of cigarettes butts
then I’ll go back to San Francisco
and look her beggars in their pupils
and talk to her gypsy witch doctors,
listen to uningestible trumpet masters,
commiserate with the legless street congress,
revisit the subterranean shrine to urine
that sifts through the walkers at 2nd and Market,
and make love to some lost pearl of the Orient.
I’ll interrupt her philosopher queens as they serenade their oracles,
crawl in wretched street machines, carousel coins in rusty slots
that screech down to the wharf of the seal paparazzi
communing with dead architects of gleaming concrete miracles
Colorado SpringsColorado Springs by thetaoofchaos
Vacate! And disentangle
from the old familiar shadow-works,
from slim Siamese deflecting light,
from facets miring in our clock-face
from the tribal hum of sheetrock,
recurrent trumpets maddening
our corners of the cosmic cog.
Separation is the rite of birth,
discovery and flight!
Head north and west, for higher sky
and find a porthole, red summer stone
where winds will rush through the fleshmaker’s mouth
slowing our feral, atomic brume
to the comfortable gait of gravitons
dangling just beneath our soles
in the Garden of the Gods.
DivorceBefore that day,Divorce by thetaoofchaos
Sunday mornings had never occurred to me.
I must have slept through their every summons:
I never knew the time sensitive ritual of finding matching socks,
forcing “nice” shoes over misshapen toes,
the silent pact we would share with the warm cushions of the divan
waiting for Mother to ready us, memories that settle in the guts
like a madstone, which I could then pull out of my old cadaver
to save myself in the next life.
There were a few moments. Like that time, in the garage,
basking in Father’s sunrise sorcery as he fired his magic timing light
into the fluttering lungs of an engine, or when he let me aim
the water at his bucket, poorly, while he carved something
otherworldly into stubborn dirt.
I held nothing near of Sundays, nothing sacred, nothing dreaded,
save for the occasional shameful confusion
I would coax from my belly with dogged chimes
of christmas bells haranguing the church congregation
with their infernal sequence, hanging like nervou
little stirrings XI: wreckagelittle stirrings XI: wreckage by jade-pandora
rain showers soothe,
upon my skin
never mind the pain,
when you are near
how sweet the rain
Glass EyeI wonder what it's like to cryGlass Eye by jade-pandora
when you have a glass eye.
It was a passing thought.
She suffered a mild stroke this year,
they said Mom just stopped talking.
At first she tried to tell us
she hadn't had a stroke; she couldn't relate how
it caused her glass eye to loosen in its socket.
But when I went to visit at the hospital
I saw what had happened. I took it all in
as she blithely sat up in bed eating.
It was months before she could say it
and she said it yesterday
while we were having Cantonese.
Driving through the valley, I forgot where to turn
when she said, "since the stroke
it takes longer to get my mental map up".
Even though the stroke left its ravaged effects,
Mom looked quite lovely when I came
to take her to get the new prosthetic.
To my delight, she emerged with a new glass eye
that matched her light hazel coloring perfectly.
I tried not to be obvious as I kept looking at her,
laughing in a way I'd never heard before-
it was the girl of her youth.
At the r
pied-a-terreher name is M.pied-a-terre by jarfold
she wears a yellow trench
and walks on crouton leaves
humming conversations past
like marionettes acting from
she always puts her left foot
a conduit for heart palpitations
and buried syllables
along a gardenhem of hot leather earth.
she grasshops slow across the esoteric
Bible passages, familiar
leagues of depth shaped by
meadows and birdline capillaries.
M hides pebbles under her tongue
to disguise her vestigial history,
a resin of inquisition
to avoid selftalk.
she is a person with nightsilk physique
and qualitative gesture to evoke
the tannins of dirt from under her nails;
it smells of cacaoberry oil, her father's
smoke, cologne and reticence.
he taught M to spell the day in
the intimacy of atomflares, so
that when her bare toes
sunk into a place outside her soma tier
she could always have a home
a place to go from
SojournerRevisited 10/28/2012 - Read by disrhythmic HERE.Sojourner by Nichrysalis
Salt in the cemetery licked at the lacking and
Lacquered ribcages of centuries old hulls
Hulls and albatrosses overhead like
Broken ribs and severed sternums.
Masts akimbo and off-kilter, wood stained
To the marrow by the fresh saltwater from the shore
Of the Aral Sea; beached, sunk in the speckled
Sand, like the words of a guilted verdict,
A flotilla of past-flown ships and craft
Plunge further into the pebbles and topsoil.
The decay of humanity and humus emergent,
Each vessel was a well-rested relic reliant on
The sun to circumnavigate the pearlescent skies,
For the vessels could no longer circumvent the
Dusk that plagued each day.
Coerced to acquiesce and reacquaint with
The night, the marquee moon beams upon
The shoreline where sea-stricken ships offer
Shelter, like a lightn
Red QueenI toss and play with theRed Queen by jade-pandora
softness of bluish
that unravels and I chase,
losing itself amongst the
bed clothes where I
burrow and follow
like Alice tumbling
through a tunnel endless
leaving bottles in a row
with their red queen
to behead me,
who keep guard on the
nightstand and reflect
in the water glass;
handfuls of nightmare
on an oil-slick rainbow
whose mythic pot recedes
until at last I reach
where I can drink
the shrinking potion.
AnalA tourniquet bedAnal by Skyorphan
tarnished and scented sheets
moth eaten cloth of heady, anticipation
dull static flicker from the TV
shaping your face with its
attention seeking vortex
damp walls and a wet heart
flooding inside your shirt
you, holding steady and prepared
you, touching lightly to prepare
I, only a broken gloom of skin
I only a faceless pity within
You, with your soft lips
and softer hands
you with your
and your metal earring
you, are so beautiful
you are so doomed
Here in my arms you are doomed
as i am
without the knowledge that climbs into my eyes
ready to upturn violently, but surely
upon your poetry
of this and that wisdom
this and that cunt
this and that country
this and that cock
this and that pubic enlightenment
of un-shy words.
you asked for an open can
an open woman
an open book
of an anal girl
stuck inside her own ass with her head in between
her head swimming in her rectum maybe
looking for all the value punched
who said "Valletta's Dead"To those who said "Valletta's dead"who said "Valletta's Dead" by Leurindal
The Valletta I know
is the one that comes out after dark,
when all the shops are closed
and there's not a soul in sight.
She's an old lady pining with melancholy,
weathering downpours of regret
with weary sips of herbal tea.
She's a sonata that goes unheard
by men deaf to subtle notes
but watch the stupor of the cats;
hush, they hear it too.
Did you expect to see her in full bloom,
this flower, this survivor of attrition?
No rose besieged by Turk and terror
can hold on to every petal.
No rose ravaged by the drought of time
can resist the truth of wilting
yet see how well her roots endure,
and who said that soul
is fresh and red?
The Valletta I know
is not dead, nor dying,
within the musk of its mystique;
a drowsy moth at twilight.
|my favorite dA poetry|
beingof all things
be in wonderment
souls high kites with holessouls are high kites with holes, the sky is like a crystal ball
Blue sky harrow:
How lost for adjectives
To break our fast up there
Sugar, tea, and birdsong?
Of course, kites, souls
Curiosities, wind being free
While we, ground strung Gullivers
Flat beneath the
Of the wolcen burnspot
What do I call myself?
My sex deliquesced
An epicene, I'm a lover of honey bees
A curling fern:
We slip around like
In Lilliput ponds.
We dive in as
The tadpoles stop
At the empty
Of an underwater statue-
Arms like levers:
Blackening the coats
And peeling back
Stripping time of
We see the sky
Where it is skyless;
It remains an opal;
In the bowl
Blackbird Pupilsdont look at me
with those eyes
bluebird green and hazel-ache
mine, already hollowed out
and daily leak-
i cannot bear your
youd see all those wax demonshades
youd know the clockworks run
i read some other poet,
his words were blackice bludgeoners, soundless suturing socket spikes, hammergods, each one,
the last cicada to flee the moult.
but he hasnt the orbs to ruin me.
almost no one has
(the triple lunes that
PetrichorI walk without an errand for the mind.
I must be homeless.
Neighboring enclaves separate our spaces,
belie their builders’ mirthless exhaustion.
Not even necessity can be blamed
for these mud-struck, brittle gourds,
these quick nests of vasculous organs
pulsing with their peculiar tyrannies,
briefly scuttling from their hovels
like sun refugees
darting into gleaming storefronts
waffled in concrete misery
all to forestall the end of their souls.
Where can we go when we only want to breathe?
Sitting in a park bench,
trillion-visioned, crowned with galaxies,
I can rest my weary invention.
I sense the weight of an unseen player,
a secret stratagem
as she moves her piece into the glade.
I’m set in place, yet unopposed.
Uncombined with lovers, children,
the slow parade of trees and heat,
I lay beside these stalwarts,
at once, still and hurtling
throughout the travesty of time.
I assemble a cumulus intelligence
near the playground,
threatening Summer with three days