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i had ears for the undersea
i had ears for the words
"you are the most beautiful thing
in this world."

(who knows how it happens)
but the amorist is greaseless,
dead
unguessed and gone
a hoary, haunted
howlet spitting antistrophes
and drifting
above the spatterdock.

go ahead and live me down.
we all pretend
to drown in sera - this
whole entire dimension
made of
windlestraw
and totem hollows
and other things

and other things . . .

I Took the Blue BusYou didn't put the phone back, left your pills on the table
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You made cookies I didn't eat, watched movies I didn't see
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You talked, then you didn't, then you talked some more
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

You took the elevator, she took the stairway to the stars
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You swept out memories, wrote a manuscript of dreams
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
I had coffee and cigarettes alone at four AM
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

She took the stairway to the stars
I took

See for yourself.

Strip the pinbones to their teeth.
Use a microtome to thin each veil; engram to sacromere to the chest-pulp of chromatin,
You will find the same sweet euphonies:
Filatures spinning bliss from irrationals,
Rose-cloud billows from bluebird mandibles,
Shinplaster brewed to a platinum tea.

All that I'm made of,
Whatever you need.

everyone should write this poem:
i've left the universe
well enough
alone.

whatever is speaking,
whatever it knows,
untouchable
now;
the dark matter math of uncolonised dreams,
inactualities
like the moon
in the millpond.

i was bent out of worlds
in a thing.
i was counting;
a chronologist
dating hayricks of grotesqueries.

"oh,
how many times
will i
vermillionize
your touchhole?"

"how many muthering epiphonies
will wash up
like
bluebottles
on a beach?"

i will never have to know.

i am never
anymore.

this new little truth
this robin egg
blue
brooding in skies'
dull decidua
is begging
black space
for a mercy
murdering

damn this featherbrain
confuter
with its wilding
   silver blood
        tongue
     licking
  for obsequious
     anticipants
'till they burn
to a soft nilpotency -
i'll make a bed
         in
armageddon
  gray
     paper crane
ashes

here's my nirvana: the ache of the ramrod's
slow dre

PorchBleak and cold, November coming like a freight train
Sorry little colored lights twinkle above the city
The heart sees what the eyes miss
The eyes miss what the heart wants
The cycle never ends
I want an early summer afternoon
I want a house with a porch, with
Windchimes and hanging vines
Potted plants. Colored rocks and shells
I want stained glass windows. Dreamcatchers
I want the floorboards painted gray, the house white with black trim
I want willows in the yard
I want heaven.

nowadays,
Autumn mornings can be like this: near to nothing.
they do not sing
exactly
or hold to land
but mangle in the chimes
as gaslights huddle for permanency

and so, failing.

where have we left our-
selves?

i feign allegiance to it: eyes and dreams
and life, as dyes turn glass to hollowware
and wax to fruit,
as brindle on these bones
makes me your passersby.

but somehow, i still believe in you
like fragments of a mythos
which have calcified to faith.
you’re lingering in setscrews that i cannot touch,
waiting in the code of loins and blood-belief.

and as sudden as October sun,
you will rebloom from every pore
and bleed from

the end and also everything

listen with the skin

I've lost the album of my life
vistas and their episodes
ones that you were in

the wind is warm
impossibly
more alive
than nights or vessels

the wind is
all there ever is

~*~

today
it comes: the universe
is not adding
light to darkness

we are the shadows
shielding sockets
from
obliterative
birth-song

sometime
we'll leave the outside
white
and reoccur
from one to One.

Quick Fire SketchA man walking. A dog barking. The man's head is on fire. The world is on fire. The fire is on fire. The fire burns unevenly down one side of the man's lapel. The man is naked. The man glows from within, red razor slash smile, concrete eyes. The man is gone, and a moon appears. It rises quickly and disappears. A tree is barking. The woman's eyes are taped with black electrical tape Xs. She looks for the man, then leaves with the trees. The fire has missed her somehow. The dog is barking at god. God is on fire. These words are on fire. You are on fire.

pentadactylism

you realize
and in so doing
something breaks.
every minute
you deign to make
some unknighted landfall
in a mime
of an irreversible
act;
all this time
wasted
going someplace.
when we’ve gathered up the last
of roadworthy flowers,
touched our final
sundance
in the skull
then
we’ll settle
on leaving . . .

or,
you’ll say
we’re still together
hungering in underboards
dog-fed on blood slivers, whiplash and improvidence.
why
do we pick at moments
to unlock their gnashing
guerrilla war?
i have no reason for what i want
just . . . be my collaborateur
my psalmist
my letterhead
be everything that is outlying and forbidden
the cavus which cannot bear the weight of waterweeds
and i promise to keep you
burning, weeping
or whatever
it is
you’ve
been needing
ever since our funeral

in that godless hollow
of a mind

shallowit's not your beautiful face
that i love

it's how you ruin it

LightlostHardheaded autothought
puddles the nighttime sky
though bright Arcturus sinks
to meet Capella in the east.

The moon will be new,
wreaking disorder;
all indignant ballast
as you bend compromise
around its weakest point.

Stubborn Sagittarius
pours his final summer
from a steeply tilted spout.

1

I've added nothing to [your] nothing;
the complexus came complete.
For all this pathic humming,
one hundred watts,
a pyre of withering
to the clock-lyric,
bloodletting demon-fare
for hungry dream theorists,
i'm no more solid than a fist of pure thought,
a bleak syrup folding across the eye-burn brilliance
of the real and actual Cynosure;

I've dug through miles of experimental gist
ransacking atmospheres
for the throat in your song,
diving for the chromosphere of the Precedent Star
where breath first meets with broken phantasma,
where I was given semblance
by the moth eaten coverlet.

2

My amygdala orac

Water For TeaHe was glossy with sweat,
he was streaked brown.
He was unexpected.
Something simmered on the stove-
I turned it down for he was there,
in the half-light by the door;
I think it was water for tea.
The air went thick and fathom blue.
There were fingers in dark curls,
there was wet and bubbling warm,
there was bread with butter for tea.
He grew like mystery, like turgid weather.
I drank him like hope, he left pearls on my lips.
There were fingers in dark curls,
there was water for tea.

HollowdaysShortened dim days and long starless nights
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Are gone
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Coldbreath
Hollow days are here again.

Browse More Like This

More from `thetaoofchaos

i'm too soft and rotten
now
to enter
into anything:
closets, contracts,
secret orders'
sacred blood oaths,

or thresholds; a frozen inch of face
the same as light years, oceans,
never meeting

i'd rather brush my mind with pills
and stick these artifacts of wealth
hard inside your origins

and keep the grass
from living
long

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forget about me

by `thetaoofchaos, Sep 26, 2011, 1:25:41 PM
Literature / Poetry / Spiritual / Free Verse

don't listen for it, anymore:
the ugly balladist, the poète maudit
unbosoming his delustrants,
strangulations and subglossal annulments.

i want you to find my secret life, the arrhythmia
of spoondrift oblivions.
open out your palms to me; i'm over-swelling with octonaries, octonaries!
that is where i've been these years,
shimmering flush
in the night between kneeholes.

567

23 53 10

forget about meby `thetaoofchaos

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forget about me

find me (again)

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Submitted on: September 26, 2011
File Size: 526 bytes

Views: 567 (2 today)
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~Hijinxd Apr 29, 2012

The last line just sucker punched.

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`thetaoofchaos Apr 29, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I'm glad it did. Thanks for reading.

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*AlecBell Feb 18, 2012

A lovely piece, Shane!

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`thetaoofchaos Feb 19, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

thanks! i appreciate you stopping by, Alec.

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*AlecBell Feb 19, 2012

Slowly catching up, Shane!

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Mood: Thrilled

!drakmordis Dec 1, 2011 Professional Writer

Simply brilliant, in the most ornate fashion. The best of it for me was the sound of the words as I read this. It's luxurious.

Splendidly done, I say.

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`thetaoofchaos Dec 1, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

hey, thanks so much! i'm gratified knowing you were able to appreciate the sound .

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~RequiemsandReveries Oct 12, 2011

Last line-perfect

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`thetaoofchaos Oct 12, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

thanks.

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*Vigilo Oct 10, 2011 Student Writer

Oh, this is wonderful. "spoondrift oblivions" is something I will be thinking of all week now. Gorgeous. I wish I had your eloquence.

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