Love is Technology is Death #2

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Podcast #11

Habitual reincarnations assimilate our
pasts; reconstruct the bodies of our
inert years. We pass through Hell
as bodies bloated and in disrepair,
and on to Heaven’s funeral pyre.

Letting us know that inquiry
equates to expulsion from the garden.

And in my hands I hold
the fulcrum.

Swinging out with wild,
flailing limbs,
past supportive beams,
knocking out the nurse
administering my meds.

Here, in the final hours,
before death tolls for me,
waiting; waiting and watching
the wheels spin endlessly
without gaining any form of traction.

Waiting.
Waiting.

Praying for this world to close her eyes.


Fine tuned automobile,
my heart is a fine tuned
automobile.

Burning up the road.


That stolen crimson sky;
where night now bleeds,
its heart plucked out.

My bedtime past due;
like an old library book,
I’m checking in now,
laying down to ease
my curiosities.

And in this forum of my own imaginations,
I draw your smile and sing the

Habitual reincarnations assimilate our
pasts; reconstruct the bodies of our
inert years. We pass through Hell
as bodies bloated and in disrepair,
and on to Heaven’s funeral pyre.

Letting us know that inquiry
equates to expulsion from the garden.

And in my hands I hold
the fulcrum.

Swinging out with wild,
flailing limbs,
past supportive beams,
knocking out the nurse
administering my meds.

Here, in the final hours,
before death tolls for me,
waiting; waiting and watching
the wheels spin endlessly
without gaining any form of traction.

Waiting.
Waiting.

Praying for this world to close her eyes.


Fine tuned automobile,
my heart is a fine tuned
automobile.

Burning up the road.


That stolen crimson sky;
where night now bleeds,
its heart plucked out.

My bedtime past due;
like an old library book,
I’m checking in now,
laying down to ease
my curiosities.

And in this forum of my own imaginations,
I draw your smile and sing the resignation
of our bloated hypotheses.

Select crimson walls,
containing bodies in droves;
not the dead, no.

The living dead.


Forecast circumferences;
the range in which our thunderstorm
can attest to God’s reactive inspirations.

Resisting the evolutions of an
articulated degeneration;
mostly circumscribed in the loosely
convalescent theories of adamant sky.

Flushed without fear of any
repercussions; we break our
flight & sink within the circular
embrace of nature’s decimation.


Dormant cataclysms
reconstructing the disassociated
constructs of a mind once fled
from its sane polarity.

Requiem for grotesque
circumstance; moments had I
waited for your live
wires to pass through glass
through water through

My veins.

Theory cannot compute
the darkened aspect of my sun;
the blistering spots upon her
ever burning surface,

I go alone into this
sea of hydrogen and helium
wading without mark or
burn upon my skin.


Let go the melodies
of youth’s persisting sound;
and fluctuate the random
particles and waves,

dissociate and rebuild
mental parameters.

blurred heat,
static, not swollen
static blessed with an
infinitude of days
without number, no.

Static regressing into
sin, into heat, into
the depths of our disfigurement.

Static of my inebriated self-loathing,
self-idolatry; self-

Podcast: 4 May, 2017

Carving, hacking away at
the atmospheric compression;
seeking space,

Seeking an enormous
change.

This pumpkin hacking
ritual;
of digital;
necessity.

Can you conform to my demands,
let the willow tree relax and weep,
stand as tall as the sky, with blue diamonds
in your hands;

And let fear’s chains
slowly slip off
your waist,
your chemical
rebellious
place within my heart.


Curious as to
where the bombs will drop,
where the mind will go
in its descent, as gods
corrupt the psyche.

An immutable chain reaction,
static death; as there is no
movement here in the hereafter.

Jet plane lift,
a systematic
meltdown
of the engines.

And here we are,
halfway across
the Atlantic,
burning slowly up.

Burning up.


Voluntarily, I try to remember
the snapshot of our voices,
echoing through time’s slow warping.

The warble of your laughter,
and inquisitive nature,
an echo of your
slow decay.

And we both decay,
as time proceeds

Carving, hacking away at
the atmospheric compression;
seeking space,

Seeking an enormous
change.

This pumpkin hacking
ritual;
of digital;
necessity.

Can you conform to my demands,
let the willow tree relax and weep,
stand as tall as the sky, with blue diamonds
in your hands;

And let fear’s chains
slowly slip off
your waist,
your chemical
rebellious
place within my heart.


Curious as to
where the bombs will drop,
where the mind will go
in its descent, as gods
corrupt the psyche.

An immutable chain reaction,
static death; as there is no
movement here in the hereafter.

Jet plane lift,
a systematic
meltdown
of the engines.

And here we are,
halfway across
the Atlantic,
burning slowly up.

Burning up.


Voluntarily, I try to remember
the snapshot of our voices,
echoing through time’s slow warping.

The warble of your laughter,
and inquisitive nature,
an echo of your
slow decay.

And we both decay,
as time proceeds to grasp us
in its influential hands.

Even so, love is ageless,
timeless, careless.

And it spills out
upon the berry bushes,
upon the trampled grass,
upon our feet.

And within the solid portion of my soul,
that immobile beast of pure dimensional
construction; where nothing moves,

That framework of a bull; skeleton of an elephant,
within this firmament; my heart moves.


Bottles of angels;
little transparent capsules,
filled with our memories of youth.

And her death bed,
and my death bed beside her.

But I couldn’t find my will
to lay down and dream forever;

And now I hear the clang
of a dinner bell, and now I
feel the cool breeze of the
freezer wind passing through the kitchen.

Little white light,
gone out,
but now it’s back,
cascading stars
shoot through my flesh;
and I emit some form of
shadows mixed with perpendicular assumptions.

I emit some form of
excruciating euphoria.


Howl with me,
as the night becomes our ancestry;

Let us diminish into dead bodies,
bobbing slowly in the saturation of the mire.

Yours next to mine,
slowly departing breaths;
bobbing.

Bobbing transcending.

Immutable faces of desire,
of addiction, of corporeal information.
Data bursts of what lay beyond the grave.

And I ignite myself;
I burn, and I do this in a flashing blaze,
my transcendence. Finished with time

To spare.


Love,

That awful enigmatic emotional state.
That feeds on our depressions
and our anxieties.

And passes out pamphlets
one at a time. Or here,
take two.

I don’t know what to do
with these admission slips.
Carry them out unto completion?
Attend the group discussion,
a group of two,
or secretly three or more.

No.

I say let these moments pass
like quickly filtered streams of smoke,
into the lungs, and expelled.

As time
transmits
our clockwork
bodies, inescapable
chimes & clangs & ticks,

Death descends.
Not death of the body,
nor of the mind.

Death of heart,
that leadened hunk
of inescapable sinking
emotional plunge.

Howl.

Winter’s sore kiss upon
chapped lips.

An inescapable death,
but one I enter into your
warm, guarded, locked
room to attempt an escape.

As time
transmits
our clockwork
bodies, inescapable
chimes & clangs & ticks,

Death descends.
Not death of the body,
nor of the mind.

Death of heart,
that leadened hunk
of inescapable sinking
emotional plunge.

Howl.

Winter’s sore kiss upon
chapped lips.

An inescapable death,
but one I enter into your
warm, guarded, locked
room to attempt an escape.

Cold hands pressed
deep into my Play-Doh
mass of mess & blood
& veins perpendicular
to a transcribed ascent;

Your hypnotic breath
and little ovarian modules
of cadence & reconstructive
molecular biology;

Carbons base theater
readmittance with a ticket
dated two years past,

But we slide through,
your seat by my seat,
even though there’s
an aisle between us.

And we’re watching
the wrong play,
but it doesn’t matter;
everything in this low-lit
pornographic cave
feels like re-runs anyway.

Pixie sticks, pot stickers,
marijuana in flasks, in jars,
seeping out on stage and getting everyone high,

Even the judge and jury can’t
speak. Can’t name the man
whose sentence it is time to give.

And my feelings for you
they come out of my chest
like tendrils of some
monster in a horror film,
tentacles or pulsing
erect penises electrostatic
curls of life-giving hypothermia.

And an altar
of our invocation
mocks me,
turns my language inside out,
says I

Cold hands pressed
deep into my Play-Doh
mass of mess & blood
& veins perpendicular
to a transcribed ascent;

Your hypnotic breath
and little ovarian modules
of cadence & reconstructive
molecular biology;

Carbons base theater
readmittance with a ticket
dated two years past,

But we slide through,
your seat by my seat,
even though there’s
an aisle between us.

And we’re watching
the wrong play,
but it doesn’t matter;
everything in this low-lit
pornographic cave
feels like re-runs anyway.

Pixie sticks, pot stickers,
marijuana in flasks, in jars,
seeping out on stage and getting everyone high,

Even the judge and jury can’t
speak. Can’t name the man
whose sentence it is time to give.

And my feelings for you
they come out of my chest
like tendrils of some
monster in a horror film,
tentacles or pulsing
erect penises electrostatic
curls of life-giving hypothermia.

And an altar
of our invocation
mocks me,
turns my language inside out,
says I must consult the oracle
before I bend my poems into
shape, banging, scraping, tearing
away; pouring the ink of my
disgusted cryptological enema.

I open up the entirety
of myself to your womanhood,
looking for the mother I never had,
the wife I never knew,
the daughter I lost in the flames
of a transgender schism.

Somewhere along the lines I discovered myself to be that woman. I was my own mother, and daughter, and self.

How the wind hangs dead on the air,
and the chimes cease to sing,
even your clothes on the line
only drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

And embraced
by the empty arms
of my own enclosure,
speaking soft words to myself,
hoping you will hear me,
hoping you,

Will read this passage of my time,
the waste of half an hour’s expenditure,
beating keys against circuitry.

Wanting nothing more
than your approval.

YouTube: 3 May, 2017

Lists; gathered interruptions placed upon our
midnight sky; those piercing rays of interstellar
light. Fracturing our intimacy and inhibiting our
words.

Words. Nine in number,
not ten, not a pile; nor eight.

Or less.

Nine.

Would you play this role for me, for tonight?

Beaches; unguarded philosophical
transformations kept within these shores.
A treasure trove of
information; laid out in systematic circuitry;

And your algorithms
distorted by principle,
formed for a reconstruction
of a loose menagerie of self-doubt.

You undervalue yourself.

And in my look
upon your face,
I see; I hear–

The sweetness of rabid animal;
the howling I have heard before
in the depths of my disease,
when the muse drowned me
in the mire of my own creation.

Killing time;
watching the nose bleed,
and the ferns catch fire;
and the angels landing
like UFOs landing
in the middle of the afternoon.

Your heart,
what death does it divulge?
What spacious scores outpo

Lists; gathered interruptions placed upon our
midnight sky; those piercing rays of interstellar
light. Fracturing our intimacy and inhibiting our
words.

Words. Nine in number,
not ten, not a pile; nor eight.

Or less.

Nine.

Would you play this role for me, for tonight?

Beaches; unguarded philosophical
transformations kept within these shores.
A treasure trove of
information; laid out in systematic circuitry;

And your algorithms
distorted by principle,
formed for a reconstruction
of a loose menagerie of self-doubt.

You undervalue yourself.

And in my look
upon your face,
I see; I hear–

The sweetness of rabid animal;
the howling I have heard before
in the depths of my disease,
when the muse drowned me
in the mire of my own creation.

Killing time;
watching the nose bleed,
and the ferns catch fire;
and the angels landing
like UFOs landing
in the middle of the afternoon.

Your heart,
what death does it divulge?
What spacious scores outpour?
When I confront the rhythms of its sanities?

Mine?
Are lost in number.
How many voices,
screaming, mad, distraught;
wanting someone to water me,
transplant this damaged mass,

To care.

False starts,
fits of borderline
personality distortion.

With moods so tempered
as to break solid steel;
bricks. Binary compositions
in aluminum.

You run through
my flesh like lava,
burning me up,
without breaking down
the container.

I am become
a feel good frenzy,

Opening the doors to miscalculation,
closing others. And then, what will happen
when the door slams shut,

I’ve been through this before,
but it doesn’t frighten me.
The pain doesn’t frighten me,
the absence does.

Your open arms.