Cut throat and diabolical

she glared

Submissive and tattooed

she stood

Slippery and rhythmic

she moved

Street lights vanish

Stores shut down

when I hear her name

Insatiable and sensuous

she spoke

Vibrant and provocative

she breathes

Desirous and seductive

she is

Skyscrapers tremble

Televisions disconnect

when I speak her name

Venomous and flirtatious

she struts

Inviting and delicious

she growls

Lovesick and addictive

she kneels

I met her on Waterloo Street


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Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea’s side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water’s speeches.

Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour’s word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow’s signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven’s sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea’s side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

Like a dream shivering in maroon

Caves of turmoil splatter illness

An unknown species walks in the dark

Spewing words like tall weeds

Cutting through rocks with a monotone voice

Using only four syllable words

Monsters tall as skyscrapers touching

the tip of cerulean clouds

Gripping winds with hands as large as boulders

Roaming wicked jungles and grudged mountains

Over twenty thousand characters gliding on soiled clay

Surrounded by a lightning cage

Seeking a path to return their lost world

Unknown to how they arrived in Herston


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Swinging side to side

Hopping smooth down Sinatra Lane

Inhaling and exhaling Ol’ Blue Eyes

Tracing the winding road of jazz

Crooning heartfelt melodies

Absorbing the bright crisp air

Hopscotch and miracles glisten

Feeling the polka dots and moonbeams

Dolores falling in love every day

Theatre’s full of baby angels

Lush string sounds vibrating on TV’s

Verses spoken with delight

A joyful never ending jukebox

of happiness in every home

Hunks of rubbish

Scattered bottle caps

Lumps of fast food containers

Dried up cheese stuck to a

week old pizza box

Sour milk and pickle juice

creating a horrid lake

Spread out diseases disperse

like ants and centipedes

Horrifying stenches linger

Ashes expanding miles and miles

Mountains of a monstrosity

Lingering funk travels like a turtle

Baking and sizzling in the sun

Like a junkyard in the desert

Rusty carburetors and mixed bolts

Tossed out old relationships like

last years self absorbed garbage


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Colors of funk whip around the stop lights

Fumes travel like month old asparagus

Bleach and detergent don’t sit well

Dead bodies buried in ancient basements

Conversations stall in the damp corner

Book shelves wail in the dens

Rats scatter in the shape of the branch

A town polluted with synchronized lies

Smaller than a ball point pen

Memorized every decaying neighbor

The stench has dispersed for miles

I hold the most intimate

possessions

I hold your “personal” items

I hold your fixes and thoughts

I hold your chocolate

at the crack of midnight

I hold your lip gloss and chapstick

I hold the second volume

of your cherished diary

I hold items that give you something

that your husband can’t

Stranded on euthanasia street

A number of casualties walk

on the chalk lines around the

thousands of the bloodless scarecrows

Weeds and black roses grow

in gardens of screeches

A morbid hawk hovers the emptiness

barking of a dog reverberates

Eyelids are glued to mailboxes

A mindless city stuck in the trenches

Watching television from the grave

Chuckling as coffins close shut

Numbness and laughter blend

Mothers cauterized by loneliness

Fathers gravitate to only lust

Avoiding love at all cost

Mice crawling from pillow cases

Skeletons playing poker Indian style

in front of the rusted closets

Using marrow as golden chips

Despair and poverty shook hands

Pull the exasperating plug

on any side of this hellacious town

Take a sip of cyanide before crossing

this sharp and dying town

Rotten and spoiled

Under a behemoth sun

Thick as molasses

Bubbling and boiling

Covered in a thousand ants

Wretched and horrid

Even the dog whimpers

from gory stench

Earth worms screaming

A ruthless sight

Accidentally generated

Even the stars hide

behind the glossy clouds

Ground breaking substance

A couple created

living off the land

No animal will consume

Forever rancid

My imagination doesn’t see us between the sheets. I have tip toed around the questions within while sipping on truth. I’m afraid to chug to it for it will consume me. I could drink your tears, fall for your disease, and get tangled up in your words for a lifetime. I could dance with your vulgarity, skeletons, and the dress you will never wear. I could scrape the lies from the bottom inside and toss them on the ground you walk on. You will never be a china doll that was never touched. In my disordered eyes I reach for the rawness you create. I wish I could feel it in my palms. Perhaps that wish floats like the paragraphs you write. I could shut my eyes and lose myself in your barely seen stars. I could crave for the intimacy that could last for twenty minutes but cherish the dynamic that we possess forever. I could walk into our electricity and you would bellow. You are worth the aftershocks. I can use the word love for once and feel it’s purity.Perhaps my imagination stretches out too far. I could visualize us making love but drinking coffee chuckling is photographed. There are no aches, no hunger, but just a whirlwind of appreciation and respect. I can’t tame your ghosts, erase the burns, and find the missing pieces. I can’t even see your canvas due to its width and length. I’m terrified to lose something perfect. I love our vibrations. I love the flow of our burning river. I love your fragments. I love your chocolate vocabulary. I love how it taste in my mouth. Nobody pushes my imagination like you do. Nobody reaches for me with their bare hands, except you.

Chopped up dialogue

Interpretations of saturation

Absorbed by lost brain waves

Unfolding by a misunderstanding

Swallowing mashed up berries

Filling heartache with sand

Surrounding it with ten pound cement

Reminiscing the foolishness

Blaming the scavengers

Walking down Cheap Wine Avenue

like a stray dog in an empty storm

Plagued with expectations

Relentlessly undressing the wounds

Baring the char broiled soul

Washing the spots of hands

Praying to turn to the left

to see the state of peace lane

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,
starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking
for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking
in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating
across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw
Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs
illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the
scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing
obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their
money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through
the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo
with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise
Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and
cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in
the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson,
illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns,
wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of
teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon
and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn,
ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from
Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of
wheels and children brought them down shuddering
mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of
brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out
and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate
Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen
jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to
Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the
stoops off fire escapes off windowsills of Empire State out
of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and
memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of
hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and
nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on
the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of
ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and
migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak
furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad
yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken
hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and
bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at
their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of
Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary
indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in
supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on
the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz
or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to
converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and
so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind
nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of
poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in
beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark
skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the
narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square
weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos
wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten
Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and
trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in
policecars for committing no crime but their own wild
cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off
the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists,
and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors,
caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and
the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their
semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob
behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked
angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one
eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew
that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does
nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman’s loom.
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a
sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the
bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and
ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt
and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the
sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to
sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under
barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen
night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and
Adonis of Denver–joy to the memory of his innumerable lays
of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt
waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings
& especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, &
hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams,
woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out
of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of
Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment
offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the
snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open
to a room full of steamheat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of
the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon &
their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at
the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full
of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and
rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,

who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame
under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of
theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations
which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas
dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for
Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads
every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave
up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought
they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison
Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of
the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of
the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister
intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs
of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and
walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of
Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free
beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway
window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried
all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot
smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s
German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into
the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of
colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to the
each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or
Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry
seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had
a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to
Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver &
brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find
out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each
other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul
illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible
criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their
hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to
tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the
black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism &
were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and
subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of
the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of
suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol
electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy
pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong
table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and
tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of
the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering
with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the
midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life
a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out
of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 a.m.
and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the
last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental
furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the
closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little
bit of hallucination–
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re
really in the total animal soup of time–
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a
sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the
catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through
images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul
between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and
set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and
stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking
with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform
to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting
down here what might be left to say in time come after
death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn
shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked
mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani
saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their
own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls
and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable
dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys
sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless!
Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone
soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch
whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of
war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is
running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies!
Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose
ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose
skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless
Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the
fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the
cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is
electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter
of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless
hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels!
Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and
manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a
consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out
of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in
Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton
treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral
nations! invincible mad houses granite cocks! monstrous
bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements,
trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists
and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the
American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload
of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down
the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal
screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation!
down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the
holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof to
solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
street!

Woke up in the pitch black
Staring at the reality
Shackled with no hope
Barely crawling
Trying to move my tired body

Sounds of the sizzle
Shuffling of feet
Jameson walked down stairs
Scrambled eggs and bacon
glancing at my swollen eyes

“I’m sorry to hear about your father.”
A phrase that swam in my mind
over and over as I scarfed down grub
No time for drops of tears
No time for sadness
“I can’t stay in these clothes.”

Jameson paced like a rat
Imprints in his rattled mind
Struck a lonely frozen nerve
Nervousness and sweat blend
“I will get you clothes.”

Forgotten details befuddled him
Inside of me snickered
Ignited a circle of thoughts
Finally seeing a shadow
Outsmart the predator

I am a genius

Kidnapping day

I know where you park

your blatant shiny car

at your prestigious job

As you work your long day

Someone will be tampering

with your brakes

I paid the individual a few

dollars to perform this duty

in cash so there is no history

No I didn’t withdraw this

money from my account

I’m too damn smart

I’m very anxious when you start

your “I’m a rich bastard” car

I know the route you take home

You will head to the highway

and hopefully you will press

your foot on the brakes going

at least sixty miles per hour

I pray to my heavens that you

smash that car and you fly

through the windshield

Your body will be all over the

highway in bits as others

run you over and over

I want to make sure that there

is no body to be buried

No proof of crime

No body in a casket

for your wife to see

Nobody will use me
Nobody will take anything from me
Nobody will take advantage of me
Nobody will screw with my emotions

Nobody will burn me
Nobody will flex their status
Nobody will flaunt their lifestyle
Nobody will judge me

Nobody will cross that line
Nobody will look at me like that
Nobody will stare at my scars
Nobody will scoff at my universe

Nobody will flare their nostrils at me
Nobody will raise their voice at me
Nobody will look down at me
Nobody will push me around

And get away with it….

Shivering thru the animosity
Like a dungeon with a stench
A fourteen inch rustic door
No remorse or guilt resides
Disappeared in the thick of the night
Tip toeing in the burning fog
Covering her tiny mouth
Eyes wide as tears flood in fear
Disturbed by her resentment
A creeping shadow stands callous

Locking her in the musky trunk
Mystic drive to Blackout Hill
A lost and unknown address
Between crumbled mountains
Surrounded by jagged and lonely trees
A splash of maroon stains
As she attempts to claw away
Carried like a new born baby
in a pitch black bag
Throwing her down like a sack

Gazing up at the scene
Fumbling thru the grudge
Licking a sense of familiarity
Slightly a recognizable face
Face peeks out of the hole
Replaying the anxiety
Cold sweat drips on her frigid skin
Confused in a cellar
Trapped in a vault
Laying on the frozen bedrock

Hello All,

I want to do something different. When I glance through the reader I see awards that are presented to bloggers from other bloggers. Most of the awards you have to reveal things about yourself answering questions and to me it looks like “homework.”

I came up with my own award that I hope bloggers will use. The only requirement you have to do is actually write why you like their blog with a solid description. Those shows that you are actually reading it and not just hitting the “like” button.

I came up with the title because if you open up the chest you may discover many talented writers if we all take the time to read them. Their work is the “treasure.”

You only have to nominate one person and pass the award around once you receive and accept it.

I nominate Kindra M. Austin. I nominated her because I constantly see her promoting others blogs. It shows she is reading and honing her own craft. Kindra is not afraid to write about politics, religion, and throws in a curse word to display her passion. Kindra’s writing is raw to the core and it’s essence has tough fabric.