Monday, March 31, 2008

Sweat Dreams

Something about the
Destruction of entire
Cities turns me on.
Makes me feel sexy.

Thin legs in fire-
Bombed stockings
Small breasts fill
Total war tank-tops

Wrists like shrapnel
Screaming "Touch me
Touch me please
Herald of blight
And sexual disease!"

It Feels good to
See the dead and dying on
Comcast TV
Cause we, as better people,
Are not them and
It is great to know we have
A brilliant
Future filled with colleges
And health food and
Being green with politics
That don’t mean shit
For the rest of the planet.
Like the prospect

Of a bourgeois trust fund these

Thoughts turn me on
And get me hard while I with-
Drawal from bank
Accounts bending down to take
My receipt so
Lets believe in ourselves lets
Keep spending
On oil and war and stunted
Economies
That could care less about us
As beings but
Dig the deep pockets on our
Blue Levi jeans

Yeah, let’s do it Baby!
Let’s live the dream
We both grew up
Believing in...

Intangible things
Debt free with pickets
Fever white and lawns
Mowed vomit green

Lets make love
Craters, Lemon
Lets make
Catastrophe.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

The Never Ending Cling Of The Buzz

This one is for you since you’re fucking listening
Travesty!
Travesty to you is the improper installation
Of meaningless generic artwork, in a building of lies.
“Crimes against the s-e-l-l-l-l-l-f…” we whine.
Combustion canisters, all talk, and no action.
He taps, taps, taps on heaven’s door.
What a joke!
If you care about a pink quilt piece of shit,
And the way they went on showing it to you;
You had best begin fathoming the indiscretions I have taken
With the symmetrical layering of the army surplus linen.
Do you know the geometry of the sheet,
And the static charm of dusty television sets?
All of this mania identical,
All of the routine frantic.
Distraction more urgent to me than pills in shades of butterscotch,
Or oxygen itself.
This my art, daily art, mundane torturous beauty.
It asserts itself in the dull grey of the prairie high-school play quality backdrop, mockingly.
True, epic, travesty:
May I ask, have you felt the crushing half-attended nullification
That involves gum in a pillow case?
In terms of sex:
It’s possible that we could tale cold showers
And, cleanly, be done with this.
“But you just keep me hanging on.”
I slither down low to the ground and play pretend I am in Fellini’s films.
We watch a movie directed by a different Italian;
Di Notti Di Cabiria, and he makes me an alluring nigress
(Like the one I gave to you.)
You know the one, we watched it together,
On an afternoon you could not otherwise occupy.
Watching the women paraded like thoroughbreds
The manes of the teenager’s dark as pitch
So very low… low to the ground.
I was aroused by some deadly eroticism that appealed to my inferiority complex.
I want to be an animal in grainy eight millimeter
But, I know I’m too privileged.
Instead, in terms of sex:
Smother my face with second hand romance novels,
Then read to me aloud from them,While very, very high on cocaine.
That’ll teach me, teach me good.
Oh the unmistakable mildewed scent of irrelevant vanilla, softcore tripe.
Breath into me some viral perversion
The glow of the yellowed shot glasses all around us
Me,
I’m in the forest
I jingle the keys in my fingers suggestively
A Virgin Mary Decal;
patron Saint of the house, the ignition, the trunk And the Princeton.
You should have seen me toting her – all spoiled and rife with sensual deviance.
Oh Madonna, this time I am your son.
A boyish maiden with hair swept back in androgyny, glossed lips
A striped womb that’s accommodating and cleanly.
This is the graveyeard of your misadventure.
That port-swilling bastard of a paper-boy will be coming by soon,
So if you if you don’t happen to mind the briar patch, blonde on blonde…Could we fuck, please?
Let's spoil this pretty canvas.

Monday, March 24, 2008

mental forecast: hazy

hexagram LXII: Hsiao Kwo.

Hsiao Kwo indicates there will be progress and attainment, but it will be advantageous to be firm and correct. it is like the notes that come down from a bird on the wing; -to decend is better than to ascend. In this way there will be great fortune.
1. the first six, divided, suggests the idea of a bird flying, till the issue is evil
2. the second six, divided, shows the subject passing by his grandfather and meeting with his grandmother; not attempting anything against his ruler, but meeting him as his master. There will be no error.
3. the third nine, undivided, shows its subject in taking no extraordinary precautions against danger; and some consequence finding opportunity to assail and injure him. There will be evil.
4. the fourth nine, undivided, shows its subject falling into no error but meeting the exigency of the situation without exceeding in his natural course. if he go forward there will be peril, and must be cautious. there is no occasion to use firmness perpetually.
5. the fifth six, divided, suggests the idea of dense clouds without rain coming from the west. it also shows the prince shooting an arrow and taking the bird in his cave.
6. the sixth six, divided, shows its subject not meeting the exigency of the situation and exceeding his proper course. it suggests the idea of a bird flying far aloft. there will be evil. The case is what is called calamity and self-produced injury.

but this: is it truly better for the bird to fly close to the perch than to fly aloft?

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Maraca Override

The eye changes color, expiry of a prescription pill.
Tonight, my affair is with the Highway:
I'm attending the voluptuous repulsion of the Back Up Singers as a different type of learing taffeta casualty,
Spinning off in neutral.

The muscular reality of underlying conflict between us,
Dangles from a country noose.
I take it upon myself to shroud my misleading head wounds,
In plush and garishly patterned layers of gauze.
Revolutionaries in our field,
We sing an ethnic chanty.

Two dimensional you,
Slipping into some overdose dream -
Wrecked on the crags of everything,
You find me non-applicable,
When you tongue the little wound.

Coffin in rich mahogany,
Leads to a cool magic lifestory.
The Métis likeness of some longing;
Two Solitudes then.
Something-something, I demand.
Challenging inhalations in the twilight of today.

Slaves to a burgundy solace,
I describe an Emotional Holocaust
With a Furer in cheap out-sourced plastics.
Too soon to make that joke, you warn me.
My material is shoddy during wartime.

To alleviate your severe to mild headache pain,
You ask me to murder the cat that you only just,
Just,
Decided to name.
You’ll have to get me high first,
And convince me it’s a paper bag.

I'm so glad we agree for once!
Our sinewy impulse manifest
The tentacles grip firmly to the styles of the ancient.

Life’s Luxuries include:
Your choice of flavor of poisonous Kool Aid!
Digging in with the shape of your biblical metaphor.
The pitch of the imperceptible sound,
The viscosity of diseased blood.

Finally,
And ascending with gasoline halos,
You suggest to me that
Thursday might be better.

Ratolinguistics

Forgive me for stealing this line,
But you have Legs like God’s own barge poles.
The legs of a runner, who failed,
Throwing salt over his left shoulder.
You have the legs not unlike a woman’s.

You have an arresting way,
Of exhaling when you’re bored.
It frightened me into a militant attention,
During which I shouted;
SORRY I CAN’T BE PETER SELLERS FOR YOU
Very, very loudly,
My Catholicism showing like a panty-line.

When you’re blue, I am usually red.
And when we play in the paddock,
I am usually the horse.
Your eyes would gouge me then,
All cranberry and grapefruit.
All rat-babies, and cake-pans,
And blonde and orange and furious.

Whenever you come around
It seems like Neil Young is playing.
I am reminded of the way
He shamelessly gave birth to several epileptic sons.
You carried me over dirty Spring,
Illness carries over generations.

Let’s keep skip-ip-ipping along.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Incoming Money

Watching
Porn
Is sometimes unattractive
Especially when I imagine
How I must look
Watching

I can taste the stink
Of the actress
as she licks and mouths
A purple imitation
Penis
It makes me sick

And you know what?
I don’t get
The faux lesbian thing
What is that about?
Fake tits, botox lip-locked
ladies panting

As if they are into members
Of the opposite sex!
Like professional wrestling
But naked
DDPs as Double Penetration
Right down to the backdrop

Watching
These things
can not be fantasy
The "Voyeur" is now a
post-producted audience
Climaxing


O! emotional high speech
Heighten these words and fuck
This business up already

Friday, March 14, 2008

Growing spinach-infertile soil

Never was very good
at knowing when to wear a hat
or not to wear a coat;
You can't see the wind,
I guess
that makes it hard to tell
when the sun might be hiding something
(even on cloudless days).
The breeze must hide around dusty corners,
and behind the pale early spring leaves,
they whisper
though;
You can always listen for them
whispering to one another.
Leaves were never very good
at keeping secrets.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

of streetlamps

i've always admired
the inherent beauty
of streetlamps
and the brightness
they cast in the dark.

they know not
the hazards of bumming
cigarettes that kill
men with fatal breath,
tragic necessity.

they serve to illuminate
the frost and the drink,
for the girl
who tramps hopelessly
on the barren sidewalks they lie.

their truth takes form,
quietly singing
for the vagabond
who relies on a shelter
only light can provide.

how warm, these lamps
on which i speak
of my affection
and undying devotion.
how softly they shimmer

and forgive.

unaware of such brilliance,
robbed of forgiveness,
i would find myself lost.
deep in a cruel terrain
of night.

What the fuck does Robert Frost know?

I

Today I’m not afraid to leave the house
It is cold but I have cigarettes to smoke
I thought it was Monday, to which I close my eyes
But Tuesday, alas, stay open wide
With arms that grow long and bright


II

Today I’m not afraid to leave the house
It is cold but I have cigarettes to smoke
Beyond a fence, I see from inside
A fever breeze sick with the fits
Shake surly flakes from its perspiring head


III

Today I am not afraid to leave the house
It is cold but I have cigarettes to smoke
Beyond the fence, a sigh drools casually
Outside suggests an old season dies
Inside a new reign begins


IV

Still today I am not afraid to go outside
It is cold but hope holds up my sky
For If I sleep and gaze not on suns rise
I’d sooner forget Nature
does not need me to survive.

For sienna and flesh hugs me as victim of flush
And “blood” can not capture this
Description only mammals can name
Categorizing sensation with word like “sublime”
To delicately frame the sunset’s limitless paint


V

I am unafraid
Now to step one foot outside
It is cold yes
But today I have prepared
Cigarettes to soak up time

And when smoke,
Like youth
Foams forth from the estuary
Betwixt my tongue
I’ll go back inside

My self
However grotesque
Will know
Nothing of sublime.
Only true bliss.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Δϵινα


I have always been struck by that which is beautiful.
Overwhelming, highest in the sky, flash-boom prettiness. Although,
striking causes trauma in the child.
Ghosts of a haunted past, eternally striking.
My Mother’s smiling, beautiful face
reminds me of her Goodness and
I soon forget her Evil Eye.

Strikes subside in the Subject
as the Doer’s fists stay dormant.
Danto: “I have often been struck…”
Kant: “…strikes the eye…”
The eye’s Sublime representation confused with striking Uncanny repression!
Beauty: Transformation of Repressed Horror
Grotesque: Representation of a Higher Love of Self in the Eye of the Beholden

There once laid cries of, “Madness!”
from across this infinite asylum.
Now, only the silenced moan.
It was the mad ones that were compelled to make this battle cry.
It was PTSD soldiers that suffered in their unconscious skirmishes.
Everything else died & two things survived.

I and Eye.

Eye and I.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Variation on Theme

I

Today I’m not afraid to leave the house
It is cold but I have cigarettes to smoke
I thought it was Monday when I prefer to stay indoors
But Tuesday, alas, I welcome
With eyes wide and arms bright

Today I’m not afraid to leave the house
It is cold but I have cigarettes to smoke
I thought it was Monday, to which I close my eyes
But Tuesday, alas, stay open wide
With arms that grow long and bright


II

Today I’m not afraid to leave the house
It is cold but I have cigarettes to smoke
Beyond a fence, I see from inside
A fever breeze sick with the fits
Shake surly flakes from its perspiring head

Today I am not afraid to leave the house
It is cold but I have cigarettes to smoke
Beyond the fence, a sigh drools casually
Outside suggests a young reign is ending
An old season dies


III

Today I am not afraid to stray from the house
Yes it is cold, but I have cigarettes to smoke
While my mind wanders atop roofs high
Outside it races my heartbeat
Like the sun chasing night

Still today I am not afraid to go outside
It is cold but hope holds up my sky
For If I sleep and gaze not on suns rise
I’d sooner forget
Nature doesn’t need me to survive.

For sienna and flesh hugs me as victim of flush
And “blood” can not capture this
Description only mammals can name
Categorizing sensation with word like “sublime”
To delicately frame the sunset’s limitless paint


VI

I am unafraid
Now to step one foot outside
It is cold yes
But today I have prepared
Cigarettes to soak up time

And when smoke,
Like youth
Foams forth from the estuary
Betwixt my tongue
I’ll go back inside

My self
However grotesque
Will know
Nothing of sublime.
Only true bliss.

Sunday, March 9, 2008

Ladies and Gentlemen...

I give you Esau Mwamwaya over a track thats been making us all feel like we aint been keepin up with the news but sure've been getting that daily paper... (sorry luda for stealin your line)


http://gvsbchris.com/tengazako.mp3

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

You want to write about drinking?

You want to write about
drinking?

It's been done
and don't think you're the first son of a bitch
to get drunk
and make mistakes
and sleep in the hallway.

You're not even the second
who loves the music
that transcends time,
you're the eight millionth
who wants to write poetry
that keeps you from the gutter
and makes them think:

Maybe
my life
the reader
isn't quite so pathetic
as the writer
who loves the music
that transcends time.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Human Ruins

It is warm outside I think
I am waiting for someone
Who is late
So I get on my bike
And pedal around a park
Named after a dead man

On the west side
Of the North Pond
The ice quietly whimpers
As ducks and migrating geese
Make ripples that turn to waves
The ice breaks

On a street now
Riddled with pot holes
I cross to the other side
Of the one-way heading East
And I stop at a bakery
Where an Austrian man greets me

I ask him where he’s been
California.” He tells me
Where to him the ladies
are all pretty I tell him
I’m waiting and grab
one bag of day-old bread

She sees me now on the
Street I lock up my bike
I’m late she nods
I smile she studies
We head West we shove
Off toward the lake

It is Sunday
I say on principle
“We should pray”
So we slow down
More careful now in
Step with Spring mud

The bread is hard
I break it she holds
Hers like a sacred relic
I toss mine
It lands in open water
She doesn’t get it

“Just wait.”
I tell her about mallards
And how Canadian geese
Are impatient almost
Ravenous in warm climate
And right then they descend

On the half frozen pond
Silence evaporates
On the beating of wings
As she takes her stale vestige
And tosses it
Before Nature’s grace

She smiles I contemplate
The delineation of her
Face on the water
With mine toward her
The ducks outnumber
The geese fly away

“Partners for life…”
She echoes
I answer
Remind her that it is Sunday
That she needs
To have a little faith

In nature
Some animals wait
And don’t get full
On unnecessary things
Like the corpulent geese
The mallards fly away

We too withdraw ourselves
From the warm sanctuary
Of North Pond and walk West
Gracefully
And wait for the sunset
To shine on all the cyclopean buildings

Like a lantern
Illuminating the remnants
Of a forgotten city
Submerged in mire
We marvel at the scene as
one endless tomb without a king

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Rafter - Sex Death Cassette


Rafter is one dude (with talented friends), he made most of this on a four track cassette recorder, and it is a really solid release. Little pop pieces mixed in with long noisy tracks, it makes for a really great listen. I'm just posting one song, but I suggest you go out and buy it (or try to find the whole thing otherwise). It's out on Asthmatic Kitty Records, whose most popular artist is Sufjan Stevens, and you can hear that influence buried here under layers of Panda Bear, The Microphones, and Sondre Lerche.
Rafter - Candy Sprinkles

Saturday, March 1, 2008

hey guys
keith and i were talking about possibly posting some music here on the branches site. I think sharing what we're listening to is a good idea, but im not sure whether it would be more appropriate on another site, or mixed in with the writing.
what do you guys think? let me know!

laudanum in xanadu

Bob walks out in the woods everyday this time of year. He's got nothing better to do than to take his bottle and set his trap. Insistent on the catch, he pulls the metal pieces apart and places it on the ground. Bob climbs up a tree and waits.
its a bit too late for fox, and plus, everytime they come near he scares them away.
The trap wouldnt work anyway. its hinges are far too loose to hold onto anything for very long.
Bob takes a pull from the bottle and tries to forget about that. Instead, he thinks about all the love letters not written to him.