2/7/17

That pregnant purpose poised within a private pondering
precipitating on a precious podium of possibility
postulating its personal profundities into a populated privacy
peering past each personified personality into a purchased persona
poking at each philosophical Philistine as a personification of a public failing
pressing each putrid proposition onto these pretty preachers prancing upon their phallic pulpits

"Presto! Presto!" they proclaim
"Privileged persons are we!"

but this purring piston of purpose presses
like a phallic premonition pleasuring
a parceled out public phenomenology

"Privileged persons are we!"
"Privileged persons are we!"

Perhaps each posthumous pardon is a paltry plan to pretend
principles were always principal in our psychology
fully fearing that pregnant purpose poised within each private pondering
like a phallic premonition
ponderous and plodding
powerful and patient

Please, pass out your pamphlets on this prophetic passing
proceed to preempt each problematic pelvic photo
picturing the fallacy propagating in your photogenic philosophy
funding Planned Parenthood flirts the possibility
of presenting your penultimate failure to provide
penultimate failure to produce
penultimate failure to protect

Pensively positing the practicality of a Picket Pence Protection Program

"Privileged persons are we!"
"Privileged persons are we!"

Purchased personas forever protect the primary fallacy of their fertilization
federalization of a phallic pulpit preacher
Picket Pence Protection Program
personally fucking precious public freedoms

"Privileged persons are we!"
"Privileged persons are we!" 

2/3/17

Therapist waiting room.

Sixteen years ago. ...

"Why don't you go play with the toys"

Thomas the Train

Legos

Lincoln logs

Lincoln

Penny

Penny for your thoughts?

Honestly?

I'd rather play with these puzzle pieces.

I'd rather make a picture before saying a single word. // "Mom, can we go yet?"

Piece together piecemeal peaces // "Mom"

Ponderous photos of a truth half told // "Mom"

Fragmented fiction.

Curvaceous cures for a condemned conscious;

Condom Cinderella was a coy collector of my curiosity

These secrets engorge themselves in the shadows of your Sacred Geometry

I crawl toward it, blistering from the boil of this buxom bridge between broken and bent.

They say the pyramids were tombs

But what if they were puzzle pieces, trying to imagine the space between humanity and divinity?

The answer lies in dying within the question.

I'd rather play with the puzzle pieces.

I'd rather finger Aphrodite with all of the urgency of the Pharoahs reaching towards Heaven.

Freeze while feasting in the shade of her Sacred Geometry; swallowed by the flickering tongues of these twisted secrets-

Whispering in the dark

Worshiping in the dark

Condom Cinderella spreads her legs and whispers that no two atoms ever touch.

Runs her hand down my stomache

Chill bumps are funeral pyres to an ambition unbridled

Grasping for a truth not yet raised

Fragmented fiction

We boil in the sweat from our toils; poking fun at every incomplete absolute

Erecting a question; building a bastion from Horus's uncompromising eye.

Legos

Lincoln Logs

Honestly?

2/2/17

Dystrophy of distribution led to a consensus that the census was sincere bullshit

Dystrophy of dilation forwarded an agenda of fractating forward motion

Dystrophy of dilution caused a coagulation of conflicting consequences.

Sincere motion

Consequential bullshit

An amalgamation of processes that are a postulate pustule of pretty preachers preening for the press

Peacock feathers are just as glamorous on a dead body

Open casket funeral

Crocodile tears from a cornered crowd

Onion toting toga wearing acolytes of an Original Design

Blueprints for the future

Blue in the face from bulbous sermons

This is autoerotic asphyxiation

Dystrophy of desire propagates an unchecked commotion

This is autoerotic assimilation

Sincere motives

Emotive memories of a masturbatury mirror mingle with a minced motivation for empathy

Pathetic pistons pulsate with a phenolic power

Passionate preachers poised on a phallic pulpit

This is autoerotic stimulation

2.1.17

Distillate emotions disturb the ceremony
Blow out the candles
smoke in your eyes
crying eyes
onion eyes
ennui eyes
"oh you" eyes
o eyes
"Lord, please bless this food for the nourishment of our bodies and give us this bread, our daily bread, our daily bed, our daily head...
Freudian slip
each breath an invasive action
raiders slipping through the fjord of your lips
Fingertips chart the sacred cartography
sacred ritual, sacred ceremony
Distal moments erupt into flickering flames
count them
each one a wish
conflagarations of the heart need no fuel from the mind
Blow out the candles
smoke screen
a dying flame
ashen tombstone
each one a wish
Plant me a garden of picket fences
Sixteen white horses chomp on a rolling red mound
parade ground
count them
last charge of the Light Brigade
count them
each one a wish
Conflagarations of the heart need no fuel from the mind. 

Moving Forward (circa 2013)

Pounding

We surge. 

The foam on the crest of the wave

the spittle issued

from between clenched teeth.

What is it that drives the sea, 

relentless?

An old man once told me it was about

love.

A lady once told me it was about

possesion. 

And a child, a child once told me it was about

giving. 

A gentle kiss on the forehead,

harsh words in the bedroom, 

a child in the doctor’s arms. 

Tell me, was it love that gave you

fear that drove you

to accept. 

A kiss on the forehead,

harsh words in the bedroom, 

does he know the tears?

Foam that rides the crest of the waves-

crashing upon the cliffs.

Life grows within your belly, 

kicking, flailing;

you rise to the top,

spittle between your clenched teeth. 

An old man said it was love

as he closed the coffin.

A lady told me it was possesion

as she undid the buckle. 

A child told me it was giving

as he held my hand. 

Pounding, pounding - pulsing. 

What is it that drives the sea?

Was it love that gave you

fear that made you

give it all away.