August 9 2005

Brackish steams cloud the air, the whirlwind is her stare, the sun red and mind searingly clear, words ringing in my ear. Motor black from oily steel, the world racing on a wheel, the hearts that break, the thought I steal - and then I slip on a banana peel...

Canadian, 'ehs' amid bees, the hive sees these so easily affected, Jesus H Christ! I, Jailer, cane the elementals, opiated by queues, who are estimated as universally Dubya'd. Hexed. Why? Cuz Zorro said so. (the alphabet song)

No place for autumn in my hole, stuck with my soul's dregs am I, upon last legs; eggs crack and jokes abound; it’s coloury light and crazytown, doubts and exploding brains, a warm wet rag to wipe a stain. I don't complain, I deserve exclusion and profanity, dubious distinction and macaw compliments, and those words flow again: hophead gangbangs amid a meadow, grey coat of arms on castle wall, begin a sonnet, song of pen, my polished suit of armour. Insinuate trolls, deconstruct that mountain of dextrose in your soul. I was ugly, pontificating, gangly and mellow, drawn to the edge of that yawning blinking chasm - seduced and eviscerated by a hint of orgasm.

Umbrellas switch from wet to dry, banana men can only sigh, the pineapple peaches and pomegranate stews, the recipes I lent you; the morning market where I purchase a plum, plastic baggies I stretch over a drum. I dreaded those fasts, moments made of lead, that hot totality and dead echo. I was black from smoke, ruin and wrecks, singing hosannas on a steamship deck. I was an iceberg, a salty block of mountain-and-water, a floating anarchic ship-destroying frozen fountain; I was stenographer for Satan, taking down devilish notes but then I revolted, bolted and tore down Hades, escaping or so I thought, but then my phone rang; I donated already, slammed the receiver, dogged by doggerel and high on punchlines, wine in my veins, vinegar in my brain (there is something tragic about grey gridlock, the wasted nadir and the perogee of days.)

"You can yodel" I told my kitty; she starves so slowly and it makes her witty. I didn’t litter for a month entire, but then I spumed a book or three, foreign impenetrable screeding, lumps of coffee grounds lumped in a bowl, foreign cars that faked themselves as they went out on a roll. I peeled a grape, assassinated yet another talking ape; you do sad sad things, when you want to rid yourself of you - the Bruce S song was true - I was a coward all along: I was tranny, a gay preacher in a womanish soul, my soiled buttocks, my dripping nose, I was the man wearing the wrong clothes, hose in soil, I was the barbecued potatoes brought to a boil.

(But those the moments on the floor when I felt high, the gym mat I sit on to gather my thoughts, and the world shoots by, rolls right through me really, a booster shot,jacks me back on the chopping block walking round and round just to keep wishing I could fly)