eyes in the mirror
don’t follow eyes
in the head
but the tense cloud of body
un-poised or

it looks past

the mouth yawns slow but

mirror lipsyncs
glossologia and nostalgia
unfinished and operatic

a palpitating thing.

tendrils from the nostrils
false eruption of smoke
or dry ice
downward flowing
making the boy of morning
blood drip breathing

a wiped out thing.

eyes a red magnet
carpet a red map
stretch jaws open
hoard gate into wormhole
a yawning

“maybe,” he says

“ when you gaze into the throat of darkness
the voice of treason gaze into you”

or yawning again
or mimicries of screaming
or orgasmic
or “positioned to take in an uncircumcised member.”

lip licking thing.

you cut an apple at midnight

red lipstick help sign

fogging mirror
fogged recall
name in wet glass

“boy of you who died in the hour of your birth stone.”
smiley face condensation and/or

a compromised self child looks forward
‘a constant pendulum of critique.’ looks back

“I’m old and dying,” it says, “the future is female*”

look, peepshow, look, pimple
all the people you
wanted to posess
looks at you in the mirror

how pretty or

the mirror cracks at the sound of your name
you are famished

mouth yawns slow but
muerte grins back
teeth, white as festivals
bright as lanterns
a slew of sleepless lines
scald zones of hot amniotics deforming your inward gaze

all the skin you left behind on the bed
birth pangs pooling around your feet
seizures of self worth
how heavenly your yawning
or menses
or iron maiden collars of thought

you put your palm on your face
there’s a bridge there
your future, a futile place
“But you are not a poisoned image.”


“ you are not an atmosphere of sadness.”

I know you close your eyes
but your eyes still see
I know you are burnt out but shining.

#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day20 #mirrorprompt #allegiancebonus


random poems / failed broadcasts days 15-18

maybe minutes
maybe hours
maybe a scene of a strange man riding a winged horse
septu considers madness as a sequence of revolving doors
letting in a couple or two
spitting them out again
’to pace the streets’
waiting for their cars to come
waiting for the second coming
and poets on corners joke about The Lord, High
 and coming,
nailed, entering the cave a man, coming out a god
‘coming out of the cave’
etcetera jokes and karaoke triggers
then the couple
waiting on the car
never seem to arrive
here, he lights a cigarette
lights her cigarette
she sits on the curb
how many cigarettes are done?
there, he’s going past the revolving door again,
hailing at headlights
she’s nowhere but her smoke lingers
he’s dialing satellites
I haven’t seen cars stop
Septu watching me, telling me to look elsewhere
I haven’t seen cars stop
maybe just lights passing, bodies pacing
couples return again, sitting on the curb
I thought them long gone but here they are
confused smoking, hailing headlights
and some poet is hiding among us on the streets
jerking off to political commentary
thinking of Holy Infant Ones, Holy Sepulchre ones, Holy Septus,
the tr=etra+mmaga+ttonn of Tespu
hours pass
maybe minutes,
 and the man isn’t around and her smoke lingers, and
maybe there was a car but I
did not watch it stop
days have passed
I think maybe its morning light
certainly not in the ungodly hour
man is tired of pacing, run  out of cigarettes
she has left him
she has left the curb
even her scent does not linger
‘coming out of my cage’ i’m not doing fine she says
etcetera jokes
pages torn from a book flying through revolving doors
hailing at headlights
take the taxi
go home
doc oc’t’or says
“try to titrate the anti-tespunians of tespu’
you listen to his podcast trailing the streets
waiting on cars that don’t arrive
pacing like a tyger burning bright
#irvingpaulpereira #noprompt #nocrit #spwmday18
tespupoemScreen Shot 2018-04-18 at 12.43.58 PM



some weird poet hiding among us
will be jerking off to poems about
-humping trump
-nailing Jesus
-furry fantasies with animal headed gods
as men in white watch on
#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day15

syair poetic form – day 14

he rode a winged horse with a wig
armed with chopsticks and a twig
painted face, death metal gig
charging forward, wild like pig

there she stood in her ivory tower
wet from watching all his power
scare his enemies, watch them cower
this is it, his finest hour!

but there’s something in the air
a hidden monster with no hair
rising, outburst, blinding glare!
“no!” she screams, “this isn’t fair!”

the king has suddenly lost  his head
his heart now broken, his sword is dead
men all fallen, fate cuts thread
lands now lost in shadow’s dread

grieving, weeping, angry, wife
now is not the time for strife
all she has is butter knife
time to end this monsters’ life!

watch her leaping from on high
steel blade glinting, warring cry
stab the creature, “die , die, die!”
“no one fucks with king and I!”

kaiju whimpers, kaiju fall
kaiju crying, lost its ball
kaiju head now hung in hall
butter knife now framed on wall




#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day14 #SyairPrompt


13 signs you’re turning into Tespu

an erotic dream follows you like a girl in a blue dress

fibonacci sequence of grunts and horseshoe type panting on the phone, followed by elevator muzak

convulsive ejaculations causing you to wake up in your mother’s bedroom

before sunrise, you take one prolonged shit that does not break no matter how much you try to flex muscles in your buttocks

you buy two white bookends but end up with three and a bag of lavender scented roses

monkey shows you the sign of a macho man, then a sad gesture suggesting headache or loneliness in a crowd

cockroach, pretending to be planking but is really crispy and dead for months

drinking game starts but there is only pudding, plus it’s brown instead of your favourite colour, seven

bunch of bananas that require weighing but you end up feeling frustrated about trains, especially the snoozing in the fourth carriage

you have stopped walking under the umbrella skirt of a giantess but have started feeding the reservoir pebbles

there are bubbles in your blood instead of your precious tea from Germany

your children have become graphite even though you sold them to pastel goths

you wash your socks then understand the pleasure of shampooing your moustache

it’s 13:13 and still not time for tea


#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day13




november’s island

of course that night
while vomiting
black rice wine
or pissing on graffiti wall
and ‘the dizziness’
were signs
of my cappuccino girl
dying back home

of course at the start
I carried this rock of sadness
with all the stray-ness of a new life
marked by arcane cards on the beach
pledged me to another shore
to say, ‘here is scorching,
here is a holiday with burdens’

and how crude was the sea
how long winded the vacation
how mediocre the drugs then
how i tried to keep her alive

and how the ghost
-that first night-
wanted to fuck me
she, who was -at first evening-
an underaged yellow striped kitten
biting my finger on the patio
only to become so old, so brown and haggard
blind and sprawling on my bed
with a Garuda watching us from the corner

I sunk into the earth of her
untamed tongue of primal lingua
on the wall
a great lizard
to eat mosquitoes

my psychic sperm finds its home
to have wraith infants
roaming those lands forever…

oh, rubbish burning
draining car rides
prayer cries from the jungles
salt water baths
plenty of worthless memories

I’m no longer even close
to those humans who
shared the same space then
the same blue point of light
films that made me sick all night
not worth it at all
when she looked for me in vain
one last time before dying

but the sea spiders
they don’t leave their habitat inside
an opal web
breathing since then
eggs in this mortal coil
despite the weird dark room of the last day
strange banging on the door, ash trays breaking

I carry a thread

as I had left the texts at a place with
‘all horse and no cars’
gigolos and snorkling
boys who turn into turtles, maybe,
a head made from a young coconut

how i remember pancakes
but nothing much else
except coming home to know
i didn’t see her die
and the red star by the pointless sea

#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day12





-for whatever the tongue, .e.p.t.u.s. cannot explain the blue print of my home in heaven

construction men with shimmering blue and red visors
electric long sleeves cascading lightning zig zag
the bearded one, bright white hard hat watching me
another in balaclava , face ruined by days in the sand
they wash the feet of trucks when i pass, the nod
it’s in the tunnels, made by those overwhelming machines
cylindrical teeth, rows, rows of deep beneath
where there were once the sunken
the old ordinance, the sea burial, the blue tent, the great dismembered foot
of course the giants made these jungles, first yellow tower, first humanoid drags in white,
the puppets. of course the blue giants stand firm, wanting ghost stories,
armies during nights of the dead, fireworks, empty chairs in front of stage
long before crowned men, or best suited english tongues, or hybrid creatures of land and ocean
it’s how the construction men stand, of positions against the sun, they look at me as i pass, i am the first passer
one has a whistle, bright orange, red, one holds the ‘go’ sign or shovel, chalking out the spot another man died
red candles here, a difficult hour, no one says stop, the first sign, the first white tower risen, i am there in the blast crater
we are made to remake histories, mysteris, old woman and her wheel
i remember her wheel, which is the coin i left at the round table, when i ran after ‘she who had no name’
I longed for but never encountered.
made us to be born, one side for the aircrafts, another for the phantom cabs, the lorries. there were hardly any ships
except for midnight, NY.E. when the red flares would arc across the black, and we would come back again, here, perhaps fishing in silence
of course in the bath tub, the mid-wife, all the cops, the third world sun.
of course you will wake here first like the last of them ,
always the last of them first in these lands, unaccounted for, crying without clothes or certs.
of course the wall where #99sat. ziggurat, mirage babel of tespu. a tongue. did you not speak it? did you not hear? of course the wall.
dreamt and forgotten. returned to the first alarmed of nightdrome, the first one in the book house.




eighth day

after woman
of mammon

piano flow of cascading hair
backpack girl half squatting
(playing the flute)
zipper bags full of lustful
magazines, she’s on page six,
page twenty two
(playing the flute)
I’m buried in a lower right hand apology column
muscles aching tension headache

here below the basement I’ve known
returns again like bad wake up protocol
dim lit fog machine stragglers strays nothing men
naked teen on sofa with hydroponic pipes in and out and in her plant life

I fed her jello the last time
she believes in the ecstasy of flowers and chloroform in the aircon

strange entangled garments
hang from her loose limbs
lip-syncing epiphanies from my
funerary texts written in her alpha-beta-zebrassier

I’m aghast, agrophonia, trying to count the seconds between strobe lights when the man with the many ties might appear to drag by the hair my tender daughter but she is nowhere near here again vomiting elsewhere in some saddened club not below any basements

red light statues on stages
bare bodied pot bellied men with wires dangling, eyeing me like I was a cop

I’m a sleep patient
cycle interrupted
channels and broadcasts and consciousness shutting down
as I try. to save. the Husband. I battled. but failed.

#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day8

ode to set pu

of chiming magnets
oligarchaic furniture
pretending to be oil spills
or oriental concubines
graceful the confusion
surpassing the drone of time
in lost Set Pu


special black winged patterns
tassels, carpetry, syndromes
stretched out like Persian cats
skin rippling, yes
hours gone in the circling dawn
stealing glimpses of insects in
horned Set Pu


a small hut compared to pyramids
palm leaves as opposed to rib cages or rakes or in the tunnels where ‘let’s get shit faced’ disappeared with that yacht
and ‘you can find me crying all of the time’ chose to emerge in numinous zones
of grave Set Pu


despite gunfire
charred village remnants
yellowing of the clouds
lightning in orange skies
there hides
unflinching faces of children
as if asleep in
bombed Set Pu


and in the aftermath
all night
there were noodles
red lanterns hung without ending
endless smoke lazily swaying
from soup from pipes from chimneys
life, dimmed and hazed and seedy
sprawled across the yawn of opium in numb Set Pu
and it was all good.


#irvingpaulpereira Monday’s off tippling happy ending bonus #spwm2018day9







Tespu, bare chested and macrocosmic, the poignant asana of dangerous pools versus pastures of immolalation’s rest.

Tespu, of the spreadeagled, languid and profound, shall welcome the arrival of Devi San, who brings cherry blossoms and inquisitions.

She will cry out, O’ magnificent Eidolon of Tespu, many tongued so foul and full of widows, surrogate!

I am an aspect of your protelysing and prompting of psychopomps!

Potent is the way path of your maddening , the clarion call of our new sanctum!

As it was in Helios, so it is in Harbinger!

Connive your precious girders from the blueprint of my wet womb’s web

Live forever in these aeonic heavens and be consistent with your roaming tongue of fire and ferociousness

O’Mystical comic being from the absurd gene pool of the jester

Let your objective be the splaying of my eggs upon the fields of your panopticon!

Spit forth the septic seeds from your storming Septunian tower!

Concentrating foci to unify honeycomb and venom and virile tachyon sweat streams into an inevitable cauldron of desire!

Penetrate my mystery, O’ Grand Thief Of Tespu, that splits my fruit before your nonchalant face!

Be the Yang of my Soul, of my Species and Star lineage, merge into me O ridiculous Tespu and let us coalesce into an eternia worth feeding on!

after 2049

this is not the light of a bloodletting sun, or the crematory rage of another war. this is a heat death of loves and selves and abandoned paths, winding inward, into dissolution, into forms that lose shape and meaning and metaphor.


I am told, here is where you bury your notions of a safe and easy life. that the answers you seek will bring you truth, but not necessarily home.  Here is where you will glaze over monuments of a finished age, pondering before the great stone statues of naked human forms trapped in either mid-scream or orgasm. They could be your ancestors. They could be your possible futures. The wind has a sting of mass extinction. If breathing was required of me, I would be choking on the histories of acid rain in congested neon, of life reduced to a holographic lover. I feel my neural programming compromising itself with nostalgia viruses and future fears.


My skin is falling from a body that’s no longer mine. Theres a revenant program running through my conscii-servers.


My eyes, no longer accustomed to this crimson fog, look inwards to the deserts of time not yet created. There, I do not find the sadness I’ve carried with me since i first saw the fall of snow. There, I find myself blind or asleep or dreaming.


“you call cab sir? you call cab?”


The face in the rearview mirror is a black sack cloth. In that small reflective rectangle i can see a baby octopus crawling near what should be an eye. The driver seems dressed as a male-homosapien, in some luxurious criss cross silver grey suit, black leather gloves, a satin top hat. A dandy. But this person smells of clean cut grass and soot and cherry-ade and vagina cream. The meter says $111, what currency, I don’t know. The name tag says M-TESPU. It’s voice seem distant, like wind chimes or the rumble of an ancient volcano or the insanity noise of a coke-head, babbling in the language of angels. “you want girls sir? young goddess? star goddess?”


we are stuck in traffic.
To my left, i see a close-up of a black stallion. bloodshot eyes. sweating. on it a rider in a fencing suit, fencing mask, with steam billowing out of the face. To my right i see a large blue foot in teh distance, like a mountain, cut off at the ankle, standing firm on a shore with a  blue tent near its big toe.


“traffic bad, God die up front.”


I look up ahead. There is a heap of feathers on fire. an absurdity in the air. police sirens. fighter jets bursting past.


The driver hands me two dices with only one dot on one of the faces. I smell cigar smoke, popcorn, a decomposing animal.


“you play game,” he says, “you roll. maybe you bring dead god back.”


without thinking i toss the dice unto the dark brown leather seat next to me.  two black dots face up of course. two eyes. the light of a bloodletting sun blinds us all through the windscreen. car horns go off like manic street orchestras.


Some kind of rooster monster rises before us. I hear wives screaming with their children. the hair on my back stands. I suddenly remember my life as a Templar knight. I see the serpent tail of the monster, the shield glinting with satellite lights, i see the whip cutting through the air, then pointing directly at us.


“you bring chicken feed?” M-tespu yells, “Abrasax, hungry! you bring chicken feed!?” M-Tespu laughs like a hyena. There is no mouth i can see in the black sack cloth. The dice by my side are blinking at me.


I am told, the women and children should not be screaming. But they are too used to sights of angels or men with holes in their hands  to appreciate this Holy Vision of a cock headed god.


I am told the answers i seek are irrelevant once i’ve entered into the being of an Aeon.


I am told no matter how far I am from the DNA of human flesh, I am still at the core, begotten by teh first breath.


“You call me a cab sir? you call me a cabbage?”


The rooster god is gone. we are parked out in some red desert.


M-Tespu has a gun in my face. He is not laughing. The dice next to me have been rolled one blank one dot. There are bees in the taxi. The empty gas tank light is on and beeping.


I am told  the naked statues out there in the last Vegas dessert were actually fucking, but no one had survived the atrocities to witness it.


i am told, much later, after i was re-comissioned, that the driver known as M-Tespu was less of a cosmic being and more than a comic being, and he had shot me in the face in order to wear it for his next crusade.


I am told he may have some of the answers i seek, but his price is demanding, requiring heat death of loves and selves and abandoned paths, turning ever inward into dissolution.


#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day6  #nocrit