orchestrations of random self nodes from an exotic mirror fossil


oil of my youth
of the sulphate self
like a mongrel
or hybrid theosophy
of meat suit made by
chronos and zephyr
who were once children of the void
of crawling chaos

osmosis of cell
of gehenna prime
senses spawned by secret insects
blameless and clawed
angel of napalm and nibiru

ale of my forefathers
strong, undercurrent of spices
of sprinkled cyanide
sodium lights
saccharine touchstones

old of my kind
of synchronised self
like a monad
or halcyon hauntology
of flesh core made by
hades and haniel
who were once children of the crown
of cryogenic constants
#poem #poetry #irvingpaulpereira

medicine, as a sign of compound sex tapes 

young yellow pill
on her side
also flat on grey plains
hidden in plain sight
in pockets
on tour bus

a complicated tincture of numbers calculated in cell
one forgets to call the wheel watcher
alternate roads
bus waits opposite stations
opposite junglism
opposite drug dealing hot spots

where young yellow pill
half naked in sour light
pose with dry fingers
packs of mineral water cups
awkward and accommodating

cut sizes of maps
follow international paper guidelines
section off buildings and fuck closets
track the track marks

we dress the pharmacist with red emblems
we dress in pharmacology
we listen to chemtrails
erecting gauntlets, ecstasy
embellishments on virgin war paths

we sit where we may on the bus
never really leaving
aware of the tirade of wheel watchers
who check our call lists
reprimanding absent mindedness

we pray
that the young yellow pill
doesn’t turn into powder

#poetry, #poem, #writing
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I think, in part, it’s the hunger



highway / tour bus
rogue cell phone signal
a clear, aural hallucination
hunted by sick voice speaking of mother
past the border
through ghost static land line alarm
broadcast level peaking, piercing holocaust heaven
infection from the mansion, spreading to streets
soot poisoned sidewalks, sewerage heat

school kids locked in a den of predators
something is loosed and blind in poltergeist halls
sniffing out glands and urine stench skirts
phone batt failing
torch light dying
closed door cubicle
festering abortion nest

halls unlit for decades, abusive cane stroking teeming darkness
chalk and dusters in mouths
nails on the blackboard quoting blood types
malevolent monochrome sight and

only noise keeps terror at bay
jaded crystal chalices clinking against chipped champagne glasses
bent nails rusted by haemoglobin, swirling in toxic stainless steel
grating, friction, charring screeching
keep the noise coming
or our breaths will be heard

#writing, #poetry, #irvingpaulpereira
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processions of erasure


have a small, adolescent fever
snail like in the catacombs

a cluster of impossible white fashions
swimming through red radar
ghost riding lower frequencies
hardly hearing in carbon walls

the fire woman
holds on to forehead
downward streaming radiation
building an edifice

parts of the chromosome in soil
bone fragments among the gorgeous flora
vines, fetish knots, fish nets
our night terror mutterings recorded for ceremony

a sprawling elder mirror
blotched sectors over genitalia
dioxide breathing, the wiping out of futures
television dinners



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we make contact in an elevator, ebony tar walls, sunset light captured in fission glassware (loading bay dimensions)

she can see through synthetic skin and fabric, unhidden salient organs. I avoid my own nakedness.
(mating dance activated)

we will be bed fed, turning like anti-gravity koi with filament arms embracing.
(elevator morphs into hotel room.)

touch her face, her flesh
(rubberised, moulding, falsified accents) unwilling to break through thin layers of make up

we will make out, kissing clones of who we were


the back of minds study airfields, tombstones of fire or holographic flags flying, (something foreign descending from skies, nucleus defying, infiltration)

we will be extracted from each others’ histories, sent out by opposing missions, into red atmospheres, out as advancement (turning into wasteland failure )

love ends with smoke and current

years later i serve bucolic church
she appears as a string of numbers in a phone, then in the flesh before medication time
she pulls me away to the canal, behind the war monument wall

“you were always there when i heeded help”
(luring) there are missing speech patterns in my calculations

the people have eaten the body of the king but i have not
(she has robbed me of time, of parents, of watching the targets, front of pew)

there’s no history in her i recall loving
a stigmata / tabula rasa /
all child-ling and empty (a distraction)

under deep cover, my mission isn’t over, but here she is, asking for therapy as my mark vanishes among the servient


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The Orgone anthologicals


anti-poem field
bioluminescence beach, built by Byzantine boys
occluding texts
ocular tracts

anti-poet friend
biomechanical baying brought back Babylon
occidental aftermath
oligarchies in stagnation

mosquito nets
monopaused seismic activity
magnate malaria

anti-poetic fiend
battered breakfast behind barricades
Oedipus exhales
Orpheus extrapolates

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pentatonia’s plethora


– parasites

nail biting near vending machines
churn sputter chlorine water
coughing coffee
sandwiched in the spine tunnel

– paralysis sites

seduction, magnetism, C.T. Scanners
testing emo-tension, gag reflex, in-bound muscle groups
bending the rules of placebo
(a painstaking sensation)

– photo taking on the premises of body

an amalgam of mechanical wounds (catalogued)
an almanac of nuclear medicines (displayed in the dried air museum)
a fascine of hardened nerves (listed as market forces)

video taking target organs (extracted for commerce)

latitude (good evening, ladies)
fortitude (genteel beasts)

point of displacement to point of discernment

saturday morning cartoon ringtones
saturnine mangling of pastel landscapes


an arcane constellation of psych triggers
maple saccharine perdition
the collapse of mineral logic
the coalescence of carbon based catchment areas

#poetry, #writing, #patreoncreator, #patreon, #poem, #irvingpaulpereira

in the bodies of sanctimony

and here
coagulation of
steel, aura
track marks
darkening of
world veins, dessert medulla,
a constellation of calcified creatures
ligaments in tourniquets
caustic, circumstantial, corresponding to
youth, degenerating in a sea of
nondescript presence in brutal drag
fallen from the once zen mount
fallen from the ligature tree
fallen from our fatal hemispheres
and there
acrimonious lullabies sets us for sleep
a holocaust of time remembered as perversity
we unearth the tracks in the desert
through the failure of rocks and mirage of horizons
we plead, naked, fleeting
faithless, fruitless in our wombs
full of decrepit humours
#poetry, #writing, #irvingpaulpereira
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indolent queenie

she becomes fat and slutty with age
bloated in a black minidress
make up on her face like cream on a cake
like the cake float bed she arrives on

she’s already drunk. maybe never sober
the party was long over, but the announcement was made anyway,

It’s her grand entry
It’s her birthday
I should order her a jug of dark whiskey. My treat.

I don’t remember her like this.
even my best man, who wanted to fuck her in school, didn’t recognise her.
maybe it’s a sign of becoming a widow
spirits and grief turning her
morphing her with mad interiors
tiara as a crown of thorns

she was shouting to no one and everyone
slurring loudly about me, in third person
she didn’t recognise at all
even when she blabbered right in my face
spit raining on my skin

I give the whiskey jug to a dark and delicious tranny
blabbering birthday girl passes out in spa

where there are no more children

i will not speak of hazy storms
hiding the islands on the horizon
too late to say the night wind is coming
too late to warn the residents
I am sad i cannot discern the holographic planet
its veins and bodies of water, its neon jungles of life
there are vague illusions of people,
lined up on streets, awaiting inspection
I cannot inspect their bodies
because I am not one with hands or bodies
i’m forcing colours into shapes (futile)
i cannot ask for names,
I have no tongue for language
the book is lost in a cluster of meaning
its spirit, diffused
coaxed into depths too vast for being
the disciples, as children, are leaving the stations on unmarked trains
gone into vanishing horizons
there are a handful of us left, at least in this sphere of living
they are vague illusions of people, without a certain face or shadow
clothed in the trickery of rays
aged in either years or days
in a neighbourhood with no humans
only sentinels remain, concrete and looming
levels upon levels of vacancy
by the inroads
I spot temples made from heaps of broken furniture
signs of prior life, wood turning fungal in the night winds and rains
if you ask, what is shelter?
i will point you to the shore
from there at least we can wait
for the islands across the sea to reappear
for a depth of being to change or emerge
for the giantess to come through her witchcraftain portal
through that great metal complex with no door
i’ve been here before
on a white bed between the trees
before the yellow tower
i recall the dog barking at the baboon
i recall the man with the metal detector
they are not here now
no one is here but the breathing jungle
and the risen wall where the highway used to be
separating the shoreline from the terminal country
dividing state from dimension
did it occur again?
buildings launched into space?
it was funny then
but to find craters where families used to live
to find upturned streets
roots of an old sea showing like innards
black and twisted and sucking on air
one senses the inevitable loss
i’ve lost the tongue for prayer before ruined cupboards and dining tables
maybe i’ll stand, unmoving, on the sidewalks
maybe someone, dreaming in a far away place
will appear before me, in random
trying to know my name
trying to sift through illusions
trying not to speak of hazy storms that make the horizons disappear
trying not to mind the night winds
howling through the skeletons of creation and playgrounds