Black Sight

‪#‎singpowrimo2016day1‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016‬ ‪#‎singpowrimoprompt1‬ Black Sight by ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ “The first heavenly body to fail will be the sun.” — A prophecy. ___________________________ Eyes, bon fires, x—ray, halogen, useless in the ever dark. (I remember calmness in all that blackness.) Then the cold. Moon corpse turning to ice, oceans rise. Cities disappear every month. The dead from old Atlantis, show up on new shores. The world as sunken tomb. Eastern sea board, parts of Africa, Iceland, Singapore, western sahara, slips into abyss, darker than night. The philosophy and function of time, dies. Poetry in the flight of birds are disrupted. Migration pattern dissonance. Mortality rates … Continue reading Black Sight

found poems

‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day2‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016‬‪#‎singpowrimoprompt2‬ _____________________________ I am a man of my weird. I don’t do drugs, I AM Drugs. I abandon myself to the fever of dreams, in search of new laws. I AM who I AM For I am I: ergo, the truth of myself; my own sphinx, conflict, chaos, vortex – an Empire of Sensuality / the Black and Silent God, Virgin and Hermaphrodite. Follow your inner moonlight don’t hide the madness logic is a complication, logic is always false Set the controls for the heart of the sun Control the love voltage of the sex doll rotor – control the … Continue reading found poems

Dilemmania

“You call upon the dead with your cigarettes?” I flick ash near her navel. The small, quick burn on her skin makes her squirm.  I smell heat rising from her cunt.  “Unto dust you shall return, they say.” She laughs. She wants me to put it out on her nipple, as her fingers stoke a deeper fire but the ghost of her great—great grandfather is in the room with us. Uninvited. Again. She’s touching herself, and I’m not sure if I should cover her up. He says to me, “you know what she is.“ I exhale smoke and sigh at … Continue reading Dilemmania

seedling

‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ____________________________________________ toys on fire in sink why can’t the teddy bear breathe? shredded pieces of paper , rolled into cigarette smoke and choke emulation of uncle, failed. On the couch behind mommy’s friend innocent hands in short pants I stripped Barbie naked tied her up twisted her head decapitate scissors, suspended from ceiling cloth that hung the blade, burning I’m squirming on the master bed, waiting, pretending, the hardcover cookbook on my belly will save me (I should not die when no one’s home) The instrument falls. locked in cupboard with tape on lips (I don’t know if she … Continue reading seedling

Xolarian book of the dead

(Initiation) Zoomorphic dream deities wait at the foot of my death bed. The one body, that will soon be many, trusts them enough to let go, finally, of this Gaian timeline. In symphony with the Lord, I announce “It is Finished.” bull bodied serpent headed eagle form devil winged scorpious tailed, wolf fanged, cobra hooded forms coalesce around the nine enchanted beds where my nine holographic bodies lay. Orbitally arranged like planets around an unseen sun each body is paler than the next paused in various states of undress, poses, contortions, mudras, melancholies. Some arms are outstretched like a sky … Continue reading Xolarian book of the dead

salmons on the mount

Behold the chickens’ hand Salut, Salut road busy with nightingales storming hails ripping sails thrown off course, of course tragic tangents and terror traffic hold the chickens’ hand, “run, chicken, run!” “Aloe vera plant,” vera said, “verily, verily, I say unto you, unless the hole in your hand is holy it’s only good for finger licking good “run, children, run!” Move in with moo, with mua, with Mandy with the mojito molotov death squad with movenpick vanilla smeared on maple syrup mouths sealed with scotch tape in kinky kinokuniya cubicles where: you read my epic to Gilgamesh, marshmallows meelting down … Continue reading salmons on the mount

sequential sickness

street / night with no name loss of signal from weather stations I’m mostly sure it isn’t raining. I’m sure of moons but not of streetlights we cannot trust perception sickness. heavy trench coat, empty pockets, a notebook, scarcity of clues. I’ve got no names to go on. Is this dusk, suddenly? a solar eclipse? there’s darkness and tinctures in the sky shadows falling at false angles. Compound walls remind me of police states, maximum security blockades, abandoned forts. This could be long after the wars, or decades before. This could be nocturnes age, I’m not sure. Time sickness is … Continue reading sequential sickness

ASINGBOL De La Familia

your mother: a painted doll of nails, black thorns, golden tiger pendants, kneels before kitchen knife mirrors demanding sexual intercourse.   your father: cake statue on tatami bed, cotton eye balls, lemon slice lips with silver crown of pins and needles, used for voodoo ritual.   you: cream coloured sex doll draped over wooden pony, dripping with honey and horse hair glued on soft rubber donuts used for foot physio.   ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day9‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016‬, ‪#‎singpowrimo2016prompt9‬ ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ Continue reading ASINGBOL De La Familia

The Prayer Poem

“It’s not the struggle that makes us artists, but Art that makes us struggle.” ― Albert Camus Things are quieter at home now. Everyone is stable. No more 4 a.m panic at A&E, no more blood on the bedroom floor, no more falling pulse rates, no more crying in pain. There is time, there is space, there is *quietude* and the *potential* to create. But I feel nothing. I’ve come back to a cold and pointless studio. It’s getting harder to resonate with my creations. The words and images are there but their souls are diminished. Something *essential* is lost. … Continue reading The Prayer Poem