finale – a compilation of singular lines

moon corpse turning to ice, oceans rise
logic is a complication, logic is always false
we’re running out of time

Le body dies-
conscience questions memory
Yggsdrasll, the cosmological tree, extends from it all
dreams perpetually forgotten
bird of evening, moves to another tree

there’s darkness and tinctures in the sky
your mother: a painted doll of nails, black thorns, golden tiger pendants, kneels before kitchen knife mirrors demanding sexual intercourse

I don’t know when my artist child died
I’m too close to the corpse
must bury her body fast

my body is a house of veins
one thousand one hundred worlds
made from good, strong bark
this is my truth, changeling
acid burning flesh in goop

It started raining in the hall
face turned to sky
.night, dripping off lotus palm
I lay my hands on a child’s head
there’s heavy rain and tarmac, seen through white noise and static
exits changed locations
hands, sulphuric, prune like
will baptise your mess
between deep blue evening and first dark night

I spend hours surfing and searching
eyes replaced by black orbs
smoking, writing poems that mean nothing
because the beautiful women, ALL OF THEM,
have gone to heaven ala the ascension of Mary.

So why was I running, girl in hand, in a Uni?
So I set my sis on fire
I will hang my self

Pet delicacies: come here my nympho Daughter,
was your brother a good boy?
The blind, apocalyptic, ‘man of my weird’, said
You’re a Gesamtkunstwerk.

‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day29‬ ‪#‎sloth‬‪#‎singpowrimo2016prompt29‬

(how 27 days of titles and descriptions becomes the 28th poem) 

‪#‎indexpost‬ of ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ or


The blind, apocalyptic, ‘man of my weird’ said,
“here: found poems reflecting the poet.” Great,
great, grandfather, scoffs at raising the dead with lit cigarettes.
It’s all pure poetic nonsense, a disease, a seedling of salmons on the mount in the poet as a troubled child. His inevitable epic, ‘Xolarian Book Of The Dead, is what the poet dreads.
Third world cryo-chambers create sequential sickness – turns the poet into killer and cop, statues and sex dolls, while the Prayer Poem, praying, searches for meaning as an artist.

Walking the dog at a funeral, the poet hides a body.
The poet with multiple bodies and self as poetic legion
sits on fur-niture facing a questionable crisis named
Tassel Tits: a rather disturbing woman monster.

Dear Baron La Croix – grandpa, grandma, cockroaches, elvis and a death avenger enjoys bird poop orgasms while coins, smoking in my mouth, called the Harbinger of invasion apocalypse that clogged only one toilet as it searched for wife during end times in
NONSENSORIUM: A Smart house on LSD full of family based necromantic fetish photography used for advertisements in a bizarro world where there’s probably some zen meaning to be found in soup.

“those of pron everynight will know”

Hymns For The Final Rite of Being will be sung during
crisis of creation with a dose of bad memories in existential Eunos
about the asshole doctor of Marine Terrace.
From Tijuana to Uni, mexicana food and gangsters who
might also be women in grey are seducing famous haiku mom and dad, pissing on sisters on fire then hung, dead, with a hard on. They leave behind pet delicacies and crab haikus that made someone react angrily as dinner with Hannibal involving a ‪#‎labialeak‬ made Alvin Pang cringe and declare that air dried, deep fried foreskin is delicious.

‪#‎singpowrimo2016day28‬ ‪#‎nobonus‬ ‪#‎noprompt‬

Dear ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬

You’re not weird, man. You’re a Gesamtkunstwerk.
Everyone else is reflecting blindly as great great grandfather really celebrates the life of spirit. Ghostgasms, he calls it. And he quit smoking when he found out he had lung cancer. Stop bitch-sulting your poems. The mad find sense and safety in them, it’s medicineprose, a tree of life, a solid mount for children born ahead of their time.

Your epics are blood transfusions for the gutted,
they are welcomed, prayed for,
turning killers into kin, made whole, sexually alive,
full of art and meaning.

The dog brings breath back to earth,
sculpting gorgeous bodies,
turning monsters into maidens into majesties,
revealing thrones to multitudes of tired people who have been standing up for something for so long.

Stop perpetuating the crisis as a ‘poor thing’’ poem.
Crisis is like calcium, building strong, abled bodies of work since the hunter & gatherer age.

Call off the baron for cocks sake, enough chickens have died in music videos and eating coins that smoke aren’t going to save them.

Tell the harbinger to go home,
enough people wake up to the end of their worlds as it is.
Give them The Hamburgers instead.

Flush the fucking toilet after you shit,
stop hanging on to shit
that’s how you clog up your heart.
Let the doctor asshole be.

Fuck your chicken soup for the soul. There’s no other meaning other than a full belly.

and as for all those weird dreams of mexican food, grey women, pissing on burning sisters and erotic-aphyxiation? Plain, old mind junk that suggests you’re hungry, you’re bored, and you’re actually a dog. Also, you’re angry and alone.

your wife is not lost in some dream world, you’re just looking for a girlfriend. So do yourself a favour and post your tinder profile link in this poem.

Never give up.

your older self.

‪#‎civilwarbonus‬ ‪#‎ownselfcheckownself‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day28‬‪#‎productplacement‬ bonus  ‪#‎fightingwordsbonus‬ ‪#‎wrath‬

a response to:


dinner with Hannibal

Vide Cor Meum is on the Bose
air smells like roasted baby, carrots.

She says, “Dad loves supple breast meat.”
“I personally favour thighs, tongue, and neck.”
“Mom enjoys a good heart.”

“Was your brother a good boy?”

sweet little brother
marinated in ma’s milk
microwaves goodbye

“That’s a bad way to cook such a fine sibling.”
“How would you have done it?”

slice foreskin thinly (sun dried till it curls)
simmer sperm until fragrant (let sister squat over pot)
salt scrotum slowly (steamed until shrivelled)

Thoughtful emoticons flash across the screen
Spotify is playing X La Cathedrale Engloutie

“Where are all your poets, Hannibal?”
“On a train, reading poems to gutted, flopping Politicians.”
“In the dark?”
“Yes, to keep corneas fresh, for our dessert.”
“I thought we were having-

leek in labia leaks
whipped cream for chocolate rim jobs
boring kidney beans

“Exactly, it’s boring. I’ve got tako chefs ready with satay sticks.”
“You really know how to raise eyebrows, Sir Hannibal.”
“Why thank you Clarice, Clorets for your clit?”
“Only if you’ll partake..”


‪#‎singpowrimo2016day27‬ ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎nobonusliao‬

pet delicacies

pet delicacies: includes ham-ster, mice cream, bark-kwa, hot dog, rabbit sweets, terrapinyaki, sushitzu, mee siamese cat- best served fresh

‪#‎asingbol‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day27‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016prompt27‬‪#‎dietbonus‬ ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬

#horriblehaikus on how to seduce your parents


mom loves firemen 
so I set sis on fire
and pull out my hose


dad’s a necrophile
so, for his birthday present
I will hang myself


those who pron everynight will know


He locks the door
Puts on make up and a pink elephant trunk thong
He turns on the computer
Sets the browser to incognito

I spend hours surfing and searching.
key words:
feline. aphyxiation. baguette. cervix.
I find a video image link.
Young, naked teen slut meowing insistently in a bakery, with plastic bag over head.
I click to watch.
A window pops up. My headphones explode.


eulogy for future self floating in space


13087327_10153347113906595_2409929730436033376_nyou kept sniffing feet and now
you are a shoe
you kept smoking shit and now
you are a hydroponic farm
you kept watching b.d.s.m. porn and now
you star in fifty shades of grey part 50 as a g.i.m.p.
you kept going ohmmmmmm and now
you’re a lotus flower in some ponding
you kept buying high end headphones and now
you have six ears
you kept writing poetry while bodymodding with physical metal and wood types and now
you’re a typesettingsg cyborg
you kept swiping on tinder but now
you’re still a wanker
you kept painting, and eating your paint, and now
you still have six ears
you kept declaring your love for children and now
you must lawfully stay 500m away from all primary schools and playgrounds
you kept practicing Magick to bend time and now
you’re writing #singpowrimo10,200B.C with rocks.

Hymns For The Final Rite of Being.


Alessandra in the last carriage
birds of paradise, sickly on red seats
white train walls, condensating
ashes under nails,
“Ally…can you hear me?”
her toes are cringing
splashing in irrational pools of rain

Alessandra is singing.

whiskey burned throat, tongue not even hers
Why must she carry this end in her voice?

“Iirr kaaaaar , riet laaach, tsnai vullllll, Har strieeeeen….”

the density of our bodies is all wrong, but her voice, is too perfect. Tonalities destroying our world, unintentional.

she doesn’t know this will hurt, singing in his spellbound language like that.
it’s hurting the animals, minerals, seas, skylines.
such lullabies belong elsewhen and elsewhere. a much higher plane.
it’s near impossible for our cluttered, low dimensional species
to grasp this swan song
but still
Alessandra keeps singing.
Maybe she really wants to bring all of us there. Away from this tired earth.

I should never have showed her his face.

“Starrrr eierrrrrh, struuu, arhnnnn, vaaaaar, Lgaaaai, Orrrrr…”

every whispery line ruins our failed world, bit by bit; not by the hand of destruction but by the calm of his sleep song.
It’s hard to step through this current, this outward spreading sphere of offworld power
an activation by melodies she had heard in dreams.

I should never have shown her his vision.

Alessandra is crying blood.
Eyes replaced by black orbs.
Her voice, getting stronger, her flesh, growing weaker, our unified field, falling into vortex of Final Dreaming.

The Shining Man sits at the other end of the train.
As a sign, a signal, he’s holding the book I channeled from his master race.
A book no one was supposed to read or sing –
not for another hundred years.
He does not look at me. He slowly closes the book.
I understand.
Though it’s going to hurt me more than she was hurting our reality,
I understand.
Blood may be on my hands.

I should never have let her read the book.

Alessandra in the last carriage.
She’s in rapture.
Her heart is failing.
Humming those lines preceding crescendos.
She must be seeing The Resting Place. We are poised beneath it.
The train is slowing, photons, neurons, molecular structures breaking, firing.
Outside, I know our sun is dying.
Snow, falling on equator.
Slow moving lightning storms.
Predeath Gamma spikes.

Alessandra is swaying
lost in the waves of the last lullaby.

She’s taking all of us with her.
I cannot let her finish the Hymn.

The Shining Man had closed the book.
I look at her one last time.
Her blood will be on my tongue.
“I’m sorry, Ally. I really am.”

I call to mind the last word he taught me.
I Whisper what must be whispered.
The last word I wrote in their language.
The word that ends all words, all times, all things, and all beings.

Alessandra stops singing.

‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day24‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016prompt24‬

“the soup kitchen that dreams she is a dreamer will dream of soup.” – anon


fallen statue, face down in the park
curious dog climbs granite figure
American-Indian Spirit Chief kissing soil
I dream of trees; in truth, they are gone
made way for tunnels, for all of us ants

with a small cup, I roam the mall
asking for alms or stolen from restaraunt?
mom, the klyptomaniac, lingers behind me
“go wash the cup, keep the cup in pocket”

minimal japanese air condition
minimal floral pattern pencils
unsharpened, longer than chopsticks
“do not break wood, are pockets deep enough?”

there’s a new kind of soft fried chicken on TV
pull legs and wings from crispy bodies
all the patrons partake
so simple to peel, so white the flesh, so orange the skin
everyone enjoying but I taste nothing

I’ve now found the windowless room
bed and breakfast refugees
homeless matresses made for families
torsos wound up together
I gather the daughters for dirty dad
(who plays with plastic robot toys)

I’ve now seen the large, pale bin
full of yellow pumpkin soup
made by C’s mom
C’s skin is black
M is now with me
I did not miss her at all
god knows I waited by the phone
but she married a truck driver
I do not love her anymore)

something is wrong with the water

hell bent weather ruined the soup
I ask M, “does this smell sour?”
with an oar, I stir the fluid
clouds of grey dust bloom like ink
sediments settle back down
the soup is like banana milk

I’ve now spotted the caterpillar
small and swimming in canary sea
with name card box, I fish it out
I try not to cut its body in half

I’ve now seen the bowl of Kim Chi
dump it in circular river bin
I’ve never seen anyone drink the soup
The kim chi will ruin it all, just like the sun
I stir the mess with an oar

I’ve now found the japanese tea room
mother kneels by the soup barge
it looks like an oversized coffin
she holds a bowl full of egg yolks
egg whites are divided
poured into soup

Mother gives me the bowl
I suck up six yolks
I note down six ticks
in voting squares on coupon slips

It’s now that kind of time
-between deep blue evening
and first dark night-
the parking lot is empty, lit by white lamps
only a building before me, a tower in which I live

“I want to go home.” I’m tired and long for bed.
on a bench next to me, F says “No.”
F, preaches about patience. About learning. About waiting.
There’s a virus in my face.
“Use Zen to kill germs,” F says.
My left palm is glowing blue.
A voice mutters from elsewhere:
“Love is a different key to the same lock.”

‪#‎noprompt‬ ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day23‬