day6-day8

day 6

three theologies of sand
I
‘the ark’
remember the monolith
alien and nocturne
marooned and colliding near the shore
long before the suez
the breath that touched me at the beach
II
‘the 100th day’
children playing in the sun
splashing in the sea
my heart breaks with pain and freedom
my heart mends with freedom from pain
I’m with mother near the shore
III
‘post-resurrection’
where did the sand come from?
pooled next to the head of mothers’ bed
I cannot explain its presence
I only remember the threads
connecting dream to room to reverie


the seventh day
starts off in a lab with fish tanks
popcorn chicken pieces wriggling like new born mice in my hands
quickly, they turn into curled hamsters
ferocious, anxious, leaping from my palms
I bend to their higher worlds
scoop them up from a nest of twigs

I’m out on green fields
hamsters turn into dogs that run to me
‘like long awaited lovers’
“They’ve grown longer, better furred” tespu says
“Is this your sign of return?” I ask him. He does not respond.
he turns into a chattering Eurasian woman
who sees, as I see,
the cocker spaniel, ready to poop

the woman has wrapped the two dogs up like burritos
(Or in a cheesy way without cheese, ‘hot dogs’)
and because of her faith, or responsibility
She packs up the poop in microwavable foil.

she hands me all three burritos in a bag.
the creatures break free from the wrap
they spill out as roasted chicken meat onto the floor
the cocker spaniel has turned into a chicken wing, mostly deboned
the meat wriggles on concrete
maybe I’m to eat them
like some strange sacrament
‘this is my body, this is my dog’


day 8

the mistaken union (previously unreleased)
there is no matrimony between us
we are incursions and errors
wrong codes for the right line


I am not your waters of life
you are not my fabled shore
I am not your host
you are not my parasite
we are on a bridge above the world
Impotent impostors in the place of creation
you shall not be graven, I shall not be grave
we were simply, falsely labelled as exits

but see, the black door is half open
you can enter its gate or leave the room
your river is already given
follow my gaze, but not into this soul
It is not yet primed for your kingdom

watch for the light that I see far away
follow with courage, do not be afraid,
another king shall guide you, for I cannot give you rest

day5

the mystery of k.kawaii (alt take)
the soft world, cools her, holds her when it breathes
burning strands of tobacco sizzles on her skin
her heart is a glare of television night
her hand will reveal the end signs, shot on large format cameras
these archetypes are not her archetypes
she is not born for those times
but those times will conceive her
in motel rooms, in a cave, on a ship, near a tomb
her mouth opens for a lighthouse, her hair longs for the highways,
her sounded bends to the constructs in the east
“there are mourners beneath the tree of tespu, on his mountains, children will play”
the soft world pushes her out to sea
and like schools of fish, drowned tuxedoes follow
there are bridal showers behind her eyes
there are glowing drifts of tobacco leaves, touching black paint on her lips
she does not want to remember the film
but the film is an infant that feeds her

day4


“the tomb is on a ship, the ship is in a cave, the cave is a signal, the signal is a figment of tespu” – lord anon
Kawaii from Korea is crying on the ancient bed
“mother…father…”
the wolf-dog is comforting her, head on her lap,
“she is mourning the complex”the blind one said
I’m rolling a cigarette, heart broken by the sobbing sounds
“madre…fadre…”
“Ït’s ok” the blind one says softly. “they are now timeless, in a monochrome hotel, dancing to old songs they loved.”

She is becoming younger in her grief. I did not expect her to carry this pain with me. Her sorrow seems to be making my tobacco taste better. Such strange medicine, this girl, this recurring spirit who visits me from the dawn.

The dog-wolf lifts its head and looks at me. Eyes, white as snow.
It sends me a time, a place, a continuum. a book unfolds within me. a name. an invocation.
‘omandae.’

The blind one senses this. He warns us.
“Only +espu can call it into our world…”
I contemplate my cigarette.
“…and only you can call tespu back from Golgotha.”
I blow out my last drag,
K. Kawaii is finally asleep.

day3

day three

charcoal vines replace erotic red lace
guts of organic room tech revealing
snake like from ceiling,
complex, gordion nests
insect symphony, soil on ancient bed, shamanic soot

K K grows, supple, round, like sweet meat buns
the blind one meditates in shadow
+espu, in hell with The Lord

I’m on the shore, mainframe dreaming
lucid gel, petroleum muck, glowing lube
blown from nose
I’m on the shore, darkening
wolf-pup swims out to ark
“the statues are the greater things” Tespu said
“hewn out from hull, an ancestor mountain,
old ones sleep in obsidian tombs, a shipwrecked temple.”

“She did not crash” I remind him
“Yes, yes, they are our settlement, our early fathers from the dark desert.”

“there are no traces of fadre here, though I remember him being present. but it wasn’t night when he stayed awhile. He had been called by name. the sun is still his ally, but I, the son, contemplates the moon.”

the spirit of tespu moves over the waters
elder wolf-kind swims back to shore,
eyes, the lightning of love,
a crooked branch between its fangs

“I had gotten rid of wood painted blue
but here, I’m given the othern bark”

the naked trees bend away from sea
I bend my soul to the ark
the blind one is a bandit in zebra sky
I hunger for the blood of cadre

day2

“mooncakes are too bright
but by its light,
the anteaters shall walk.” – epicus the strange

“my arms and upper body overhang the window
oversighting little street of Goa
mass vegetal smells,
rancid snake oil, ghee, goblin trash,
add to the aroma of wonders
the orbs! the orbs!
such is my mandate” – from the childhood aurora of Benedicto the Latin

“KoreanOK” is done with her singing
opens hello kitty purse for pills
the blind one is taking photos of her
the room is lit by short Roman candles
red lace hang from the ceiling like erotic banners

I am one with the wolf-dog in the meditation room
but I’m also drugged and naked in the dark motel, peering out of slits in curtain, watching the police cruiser park by the coffeeshop. I’m mildly distressed but I know they’re not coming for me. I have my talismans.
The clown mask. The duct tape. The beef jerky wrapper. The hot chocolate mug.

The wild dog shifts it’s weight and I return the worldless place,
the stalagmite kingdom, the room with sea amoebas

Tespu is in the garden with the lord, sweating blood
Korean M.V is sweating on the ancient bed, hands on her bodies
the blind one thinks of the glowing disc on the forehead of madre, minutes before her last breath
the red dog reminds me to build ‘elsewhere’
overhanging window over little Goa street
taking in the scents of hemp and Talmudic preoccupations,
leading anteaters out to sea on an old wooden boat,
in search of the satellite-ark called XOR

day1

“we will darken the wooden wall
with the hypno of piano”
The Lord, Steinway & Sons

it takes time, the dried flowers

to be hung
to be shrouded
to decay
to attain patina

such still life hours

or the framed Victorian wife
golden portrait faded
wood eaten by centuries and lice

six notes from the lords’ thin fingers
opalescent, sinews strained, blackened nails

how I memory blood on ebony
thorns from dead stalk, reveries, ivory
a blind man on an ancient bed
a wolf dog, a young Korean underwear model girlfriend
leaves on heavy beige blankets, winter, stellar conjunctions

“we didn’t know what we were fighting on the mountain.”

“tespu knew, but he also didn’t think so.”

I now know there were taxis waiting outside the wall
that it was late
that I had spilled coffee on the wheelchair
that death feels like all roads home has changed
cupboard doors opened by the winds
her blouse on a hanger, floating in zero G

Tespu reminds me,
“this is not a song for madre”

I know.
I know.
I understand.

the young Korean kitten child mews at me for milk
the blind one on the bed wants fortean cakes
“I don’t know where the knights will lead me.”
The Lords’ hair is wet from rain