Love is Technology is Death #2

Love is Technology is Death #1

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 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 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.

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 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.

Podcast: 3 May, 2017

Get off the tracks,
I need you here, in the cabin.
The seat next to mine is not empty,
but across from me, the view is nice.

And there’s a score of harmonica players
practicing the National Anthem;
in the caboose. You can hear it
if you turn your head just right.

But not too much,
don’t disturb the man
sleeping next to me.

Our eyes lock,
and we know each other’s secrets.
What happens when the curtains drop,
and the Wizard is made out to be a fraud.

Our words are our mystic voice,
and we are scrambling for attention
in this cosmos with our mistaken identities.

My shelter and my womb,
to step inside you,
and feel the vibrations of your
vocal chords.

To lull me,
even though I do not sleep,
even though I do not toss and turn,
but play fierce arrhythmic beatings
against this enclosure.

Because I want you to hear me
the way I hear you,
For every pitch, perfectly sounded
and alive with not death,
not silence, not droning on and on and on;

I want each syllable to make you
swoon.

The way you affect my indifferences.

Had you thought that I
would become still as a sunken ship
draped in moss; when I heard you speak.

But I am like a roaming
wolf at night, howling.

Howling into the deep black void,

Too pierced to care who hears.
But I know they will not listen anyways.

So I take off
the drapes from the windows,
and I set in the silence of the night,
a lantern and a thread of hope,
that you will see;

The shelter I have made
for my own sake,
without the room for company;

I have seen your shelter as well,
where you hide like little foxes in a den,
darting in and out without
caring who may hear.

Rumbling in the earth,
rippling through the oceanic
cauldron. Your echoes.

The echoes of your tears;
within my breast.

Those broken hymns, religiously
patterned gods; who talk in
riddles about our destiny.
As men, as women, and as children.

As black, as white, as soldier and at peace,

Because peace is the star which we
attribute all our hopes and dreams to,
because love is the star which we
aim our shuttle towards.

Knowing it will burn,
knowing in advance
that it will devour us.

Subtle hints;
not so subtle.

Not the subtlety of an actress;
the subtlety of a jackhammer.
The sly smile of a made up clown,
not speaking anything.

But you speak,
and in your words
I find myself
unable to breathe.

Motion imprints
on this sensor’s skin,
leaving traces of you.

Traces.

An illusory state of love’s rehearsed
sedative qualities; spoken into a sea
where swimmers fail to realize
they are drowning in.

We part ways,
no.

We part our lips.

We contextualize a little bit
of our culminating point.
Read arrhythmic diary entries,
speak arrhythmic placebo-holden
conglomerate transfusionisms
and oriental proximities to
each other’s descending stairs,

Down.

Down the spiral,
naked and without text.

Just spoken words;
coming from the dark.

Issue 1, Page 5

Polarized snow caps; integrated rhythmic
condescension. Here’s where the line was
crossed.

In the caverns of my hallucinatory
parabola, an ovule shaped doll with
thin horns piercing its skull, entwined
iron threads and a piecewise malfunction;

The neurotransmitters in this
parietal orb; dealing out hypotheses
and cigarettes by the carton;

I knew then when I heard your voice,
that these fluid bodies of malicious
intent could go on for days without sleep,
without dream without letting me

Wash away the ineptitude and the
catharsis.

Issue 1, Page 3

Inert matters;
lost souls sparking heat waves,
and it doesn’t really matter.

The twist of your tongue
as you say grace;
as we sit down to eat,
mouths full of poems
and we haven’t got the
time to digest any of it.

What matters more
than words; transposed on paper
or in text on LCD,
is the slight shift
of our constitutional surrender;
capitalizing on the fact that we
don’t play fair.

I don’t play fair.