kid_hideous

here's the first piece in an upcoming collaborative chapbook I'm working on:

zoom in

amputee's embrace amidst (slagheap city bared rebar of buildings twisted into nervetrees) a
battle between cannibals (rough singing of limbgrind twisting, interweaved, growing in blackblood pool)

cast for broken bones (the slagheap
shudders, distant heartmurmur of steelbeasts'
growling passage),

dictionary of tongues' (dreams)
escape into that (darkmatterbody, wombs of stars whispering the curve)
flesh everyone has worn (outerworn, splitting, at fingertip's softly bladed insistence)

gaping wound of mouth's (shadowcavern awrithe with light)
hiss between rosaries of teeth (distanceglimmer)

instinct of torsos (sing an ice-age-ending heat)

just a (gloss on the endless fritterings of idle hands)
key to bodies without locks, such a (eye-rhyme of hollows)

lonely way to live (an eaten imminence of the remembered)

morsel, sticky-sweet (recombinant
neck's nape, where we hide kisses genuflections
orange, round and pored of intimacy)

patient (inmates of a decimated land-
question asked in touch and haste (scape)

a rage of (neatly
a silence (expounded

ticket to a run-down carnival where
urgency of fingers
violence of hips
wound an air shaped like
xylophone's quiet harmonics
yearning toward yourself, a
zoo full of domesticated beasts

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I've posted this before, but I find it necessary to read it again every once in a while. It's one of the few things i've ever written i always come back to, but can never bring myself to touch. there's this one line i inevitably reach, this one line that always makes me stop, pull my hands away from the keys. i can't tell you which one it is; it's different every time. every one has probably done it at one time or another, whether in its own stark and sudden isolation, or in the way that it cascades from the line before it.

i have no idea if it affects anyone else the way it does me. it's one of the reasons i keep writing.



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[b(e)/c(ause)]



b/c a billing cycle means more to me than the moon's lazy dreaming somersaults.

b/c absence is always speaking what it isn't.

b/c an accretion of atavistic entities, loosely engendered by others, i, tenuous network.

b/c burning: an outershell reaction: infinite regressions of in.

b/c homeless and jobless is not equal to free.

b/c i am never more real than when curved by your warm crescent in the night.

b/c i can barely breathe between paychecks.

b/ i cast my gaze down as you skin greenbacks from your back pocket.

b/c i have winnowed these fingers down to the golden straw owners use to line their pockets.

b/c i inhale the exhaust of the upwardly mobile.

b/c i exhale lifesbreath of oak, poplar, pine.

b/c i'm free to go home at shift's end.

b/c my life is underwritten by the owner.

b/c necessity.

b/c night surrounds me as no lover ever has.

b/c one senses gradations of light, whether dwarfed by concrete or granite.

b/c our eyes meat.

b/c petalflesh, soft as mine.

b/c she is waiting at home for me

b/c she left for work before me.

b/c slavery is the model for all economic relations.

b/c there is no baptism truer than that of the birthing blood.

b/c there is no philosophy more elegant than 'why?' or 'because.'

b/c there's a reason they're called bones.

b/c there's a war going on. out. there. here: the familiar recession.

b/c there's still sleeping in.

b/c these palms are lined further with every caress, whether of wood or steel, plastic or flesh.

b/c timespace constitutes the body, while capitalism, the internet, have engendered successive doubles.

b/c water reflects as well as glass.


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ladies and gents, it's official: i am an old fogie. at ten thirty p.m. last night i went to bed. and for the first time, waking up at six thirty felt pretty good.

the darkness right before the dawn is breathtaking. or is that that first cigarette?

i can't remember the last time i went to a show. i'm long over drugs and totally happy about it.

i absolutely dread having children. getting married. but every once in a while the thought of holding my own child in my arms makes my heart feel like an overripe mango. maybe rotting. soft and sickly-sweet smelling though, definitely.