Synaesthesia

   René's in Girls Clothing

René's in girls clothing
and so she likes him that way;
laced up in the mourning, slips on his legs.

Always, he may wait for other women;
affectionate and brutal
and crying about his name.

Hysterics in gathering, still laughing,
still wet-faced.

To obtain an honest love,
the nervous poet must've held himself
until his mother would take off his dress.




   Exsanguination

 Marshall has seen the farms. He's seen the head-stones and the old bars. Those roads were heavy with stone way back when? With his silver glint eyes, Marshall peered into the highlands, and with his glasses off for photos, he could see beyond the grey beaches into the blundered blue of the sea.
   As an omen, Marshall is uncanny.
   In his homeland, his name is spelled the same like the letters have never been cleaned or removed from the marquee.
   His labors are fundamentally identical to his ancestor's. And so, in turn too, are mine. His work; his craft has become drawn out and tedious. To much a lazy sequence of office room interruptions and humorless politics played out by his grinning teeth, animated hands and the back of his heels.
   O, if not for a love of minimalism, could he cradle a desire to know his elder's names?
   Between a bushel of hair the hue of these beaches and a young man's beard, survives an island's cold face. Drooped upwards by his smile-lines, he thinks.
   A pouting man has little reason to cry once the ghosts in his blood are revived by the draining of his body.




   St. Carroll

At times, I'm told of a reckoning
which could bring me to my knees
with ravenous gravel underneath
and dull needles raining down.
As my hands press together,
I forget I have a halo
because I'm far too
busy praying about
the weather.




   Fluid (a collaboration)

Some clouds are as I left them. Higher
 falling, twirling, writhing,
 forming bunnies and testicles and crowns.
  As
  an overture,
   they're uncanny, like
   two lovers;
   two bare fannies.
    It's enough to make you call
    it a day, get your bottle of whiskey and let
    it trickle down your brown paper bag bib 'til
    it's soaked.
Soaked as the day you were born.




   On a Whim.

Dyed hair pulled back into splinters.
                                     Big
balancing acts go haywire and fall into tumbles.
           Kids
found us in our hiding place of nesting aardvarks.
             Blame
it on the tool-shed catching fire by the hands of the house Cats.




   Fabric Wrap

            Our place is dark, sometimes damp but never cold or
            dull. Womb's walls encroaching on our space, we don't
            mind. As an ovary, it is uncanny. Bound-full blankets
            in the morning. I'm so very glad this is a real place.




   Dissonance

 Dial tones bother her as much as cheap messages do. Such an awful curmudgeon as an ornament. She is uncanny. She dulls herself; dumbs herself down to celebrate monotony boiled and feverish on the other end of the line. Breaks in silences slip between her passions and split her voice at its roots dug into her throat.

 Paper, paper, paper, paper. Her lungs are filled with paper shreddings.

 As a mute, she is uncanny. Now that she's lost her slaughtering performance to the insurrection of soundless-ness, her shoulders buckle beneath the heave of black binders, and notebook spirals stick to her skin. Pens are found as useless instruments when the larynx dictates a myriad of faded, scratchy script.

 Ashamed of her broken sentences, the castrates burn bad words before they cross her out. The Author craves her pages safety from what sophists have amassed.

 As an Author pours vanities down the gullet of her architecture, ink smears crimson.

 Page after page after page, her lungs fill up with paper.

 Rest for anchored shoulders for bindings come lighter.

 And as an over-abundance of assonance, she remains, to us, uncanny.




   All of Us

 Who wears the face of a cynic?
 They say cynicism breeds contempt. I agree, but I go further. cynicism breeds contempt and contempt may bleed a revolution.
 Who said sarcasm has no brute force? Who said a big 'f**k you' was no intelligent tactical maneuver? What shouldn't we laugh at to find humor in horror?
 See now, why are we thought to only joke around? It's not all necessarily a joke.
 We are not stoics. We love our lives on couches. Come on, it's funny, right?
 Understand the punch-line please.
 All is our creation. We owe nothing to nothing else. We do have the ability to make things better. It is possible. But who ever gets what they only want on tv?
 And there in lies the joke.
 Of all our potential, we know nothing better because we'd rather keep on laughing. And through these empty cackles, we love to kid ourselves. It's funny, right?
 The most hysterical joke reveals its tickled feetsies.
 Through these empty cackles, we wonder...if things were better, we'd have no entertainment. 




   The Stragglers

           The stragglers told me about the road beyond.
     That's why they're taking their time.
It's about convenience and procrastination.
           Makes them feel like they've got something left to
                  hold on to.
                        But they've run their course, and they pilfer
through old nights looking for new constellations. They know they won't
     find nothing but
         detritus on the banks where we
                                  fetch our water;
   build up shrines.
                     Bleak as they are; bleak as the hour, shone bright enough to blind.
           And the road stands still as everyone supposed.
           And my stomach does knot.
           And we lose our beacon shining from the last lighthouse.
           And we're far too confused to cross the waters.
           And we try to live alike. Like livestock along the yellow curb.




   Abnormal Psychology

    I am what I'm after. I don't need to exist. I'm a demo of the blood from my wrists. I hate my neighbors. I have eight months to move my lips in ways no one else can. I have little to nothing to sing. I can leave no trace; no trail. Growth follows my back. This progression cannot be beautiful or healthy where I've left it. I will do what I need to. I walk a lot. I see colors that defy their own presence. Colors that no one has ever imagined. My music stretches to blank spaces, and it stays there where it can offend or trouble not a single sorry soul including my own. I cry like I don't know what sadness is. My disposition is ugly. My woman's face is the marvel of the world. I never knock on doors; I know there's little to no point. I cuss at babies because I can. I make up myths before I tell my truths to liars. I keep my secrets in other people's lairs. No one looks for me under their own noses. I pretend I'm a bit naive so I prevent my stupidity from crossing my mind. I reside in the thickest thicket of saw-dust and musty bristles of other construction zones, but I'll be honest -- I can't build s**t. My own two hands stay sore, blistered, completely fucked in all truth. Pulsing against my thighs, my palms save my head for my grave. I only seem to dream on my feet. I keep them on top. I make them jump. Evenings are for lovers, and I'm lucky I have one. No one is quite as used to me talking to myself as you. You heal the healer for an exonerated purpose. You can keep me for yourself. You may expect the best from me, but I'm on no stable pedestal. I'm no where near the pedestal. I want to hear you. I want to hear you and nothing else. You are a luxury, and yes, I accept this. You are a privilege I've somehow gained. A gauntlet of things I think I'll fail at. All I do is run it anyway. I avoid shame in the morning, or I soak myself in petroleum. I wish I had a horse. I'd name it after our children. I'd feed it parts of me to keep you sane. I'd put cigarettes in its mouth while you shed my fears. You do, you know...shed my fears. I scream less since you. I certainly have learned to f**k like a sensitive barbarian. I know less and less and less of what I mean. This should be proof of that. I love. For worse or better, I am what I'm after.



 




 

                                                 
            

Reviews

[DavidRyanM]

Alright. Going to comment as I read so I can keep my thoughts straight. Let's start with Rene's In Girls Clothing : First off, awesome title. Second : To obtain an honest love,
the nervous poet must've held himself
until his mother would take off his dress.

Brilliant brilliant last lines. I love everything about it, really.

"Fluid (A Collaboration) : The imagery of this is beautiful. And very rarely can you find a piece with the words "bare fannies" in it and have it help the piece as opposed to making it a joke. Well done, buddy.


"On A Whim" : I feel like I just took drugs.


"All Of Us" : Clearly a plea from every thinking man or woman to the masses to wake the f**k up. To stop being so complacent and get something done. I swear, if there was another terrorist attack on this country, it would be overshadowed by the season premiere of "Jersey Shore". Why pay attention to the s**t that's happening here and now, when we can zone out and laugh at stupid s**t that holds no weight?