bleed red and think green,
for life's wounds turn sleep's themes
to cobblestones piled in high
Whitechapel walls where dreams
(born and broken into rows)
find each other; maybe murder; die.
two corpses on a dirty shore.
one speaks in tongues, one speaks no more.
a pregnant belly blackens suns,
dreamers dream like loaded guns.
the furnace glows and glitters gold
as time declares the whore is sold
to a man who casts looks right and left
like dice. regret leaves him bereft.
we awaited nights for dreams of sand
where moonglow circuits fluttered and
stuck like cups in the mouths of dogs
and cats, and sleep was in the fog
spent necks shouted down
past icicle sheets
around the surfaces of buildings.
those towers rise up in wrath,
grey whales from under earth
that spit waves from the windows
where we sit and watch the world.
like diabetic starlights, space rocks
shaven down to dullness and inedibility,
strung lines of flight held back, bent
against invisible seas. we will
be pushed by microbes
from mud-bottom graves
that send us all like zombies
the asylum is shut. the city
droops its eyes in daylight. God
takes all things back
through the windows of our behemoths.
ducks and doves and broadbills
hit like raind
there is one hill of many in dishwater
and dumpster blood that I chose to love
as a metaphor for truth. the shapes there
bring ruin, things without eyes
that look in the man and tell
him stories where he raises
fists against himself.
there I've found garbage art with wings,
things flesh-robed speaking from the hill pulpit.
they are sick in movement with speeches
trembling like stomachs freshly split, squares of
indecency coughed into black bags
behind that place that served Italian.
I like the preaching faces—sad things
half-digested on sidewalks
where disgusted men pass them by.
on this hill I'v
she gives him the blue light look,
the careless thing they share in dim rooms
half-built. it's a pretty lie
not unlike certainty.
she's aware of the hate. it boils
piss like lust in her guts under lamps
lit by gaslight and grenadine.
she married without vows ,
a promise to never leave that
sticks like litigation. the pulses break
cast off care like blue
snowfields into rigid water,
and wash with mud the thrust
of earth, our skin soft as salt mines.
built you are
of bitch and buttercream,
of soured elements in the blue
dot of a pin-prick spotlight
and windowed skull.
we can watch the fire fade
into a black rat canvas,
into blue gates that tumble up
and loose finger grooves,
smear eyes across your face like warpaint,
faster and faster,
momentum in the race to nowhere.
and once done, we turn,
we go aground and push
up the lines of blue backs
orbiting the moons of that
rising ass, around corners,
a shattered life in starshine,
EXT. CABIN IN SNOWFIELD - NIGHT
Snow is falling in the winter of 1930 upon the exterior of a wood cabin set deep in a forested snowfield. We can hear the sounds of WIND and TREE BRANCHES RUSTLING as SHIPP begins to narrate.
Another one down.
A hole begins to burn in the side of the wall, spreading out quickly, almost as though it were paper, and we hear the FLAMES CRACKLING. Through the hole we see that Shipp sits at a desk inside, writing furiously with audible PEN SCRATCHES.
SHIPP (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Another one down...
Shipp's notebook has a variety of names written within it, some of which are crossed out.
there's a darkness some nights that sticks
to everything. I'm sitting in warm rooms
covered in machines of colored noise
and I feel no health but the black thing
that's stuck to nighttime TV and coffee,
to bedclothes and the sweat they'd make,
to mottled dogs and the backs of children.
I am the dream, I think, another thought
brought up by the pair of them, two laughing
kings all smiles, tagteams and telepathy,
sharing what I can't give because they
didn't dream me for giving. I am
a dark heart in a brittle brightness,
a sun shining in my own night sky,
and in that there is bruising, a spot
leprous white on skin
that grins a
now I lay me down
to sleepless sweat, to you
and I, those fever dreams
that wake us screaming names
like sex and the violence
that follows. you called me
just the once, and even that
didn't stick like the sighing,
the sweet exhalations
you breathed for one birthday,
or the crass clouds I choked
back into blacker lungs
cancered round with hope.
now I lay me down
on dark paths walked
toward starry skies
where there is no grammar,
there are no words that wander
from the safety of unlost
in the dregs, here
in dreamed diseases
I run to your forgiveness,
feet alive on thin prayers
whispered over pil
this apartment is
my still bleeding bastion
a smoke screen
violation of unsteady truths
a segregation of
perceptions that stick
heartfast, overt in
vastness of villainy. pulp
mulch of what
we ground for goodness
goodness me, we
seem to have made these
messes, pretty putrescence
we all wear like apple-
pearls in perpetuity. good
let us tear apart
the green and growing
and leave the burnt
because I have no room
amidst these books
and boxes for anything
less than transgression
happy are the raped wombs
happy are the
stone hearts, are the light-
less lives lost to ingratitude
happy is that goodness
The young junkie sat up slowly, sliding his back along the wall to roughly where it had been a half hour before. The edge of the steps had begun digging into his back, a discomfort he felt worth correcting even high as he was.
The vial hung limply in his hand, already charged and shot. It had been poorly done. Red leaked from his arm and was spattered over the surface of his dark skin and over the plastic vial's cover that showed the glowing yellow and blue electronics beneath. The liquid coalesced into a rich velvet as it chilled in the morning air. The familiar tingle danced about his head like a hal
Armageddon washes in on silk and sand, a cool breeze
to refresh the days of death, the dry days we dug
down to suffocate in mud. the gentleman in me
let you die first.
Hongyan drowned herself in the Miluo, more
blue and youthful than the water, a sad end for beauty
barely born. we, too. we, that thing that died in flight
on feathered wings that ground down to dust.
after the fall, we grabbed branches dropped in river silt
to write a chronicle of dying drawn in down-watered red,
a hateful article carved on hearts. I still hear those
beating demons, who pound out new pulp, fat and
gratified and rive
Magnificent within the grass,
Artful in the clouds above,
Resplendent shine you from the east
To every vision that I love.
Into your hair, into your skin
(Naught else to seem hence half as bright),
Etch you bliss that sweetly grows
Zealous faith within its light.
Man was crafted from the soil.
Arid is his dusty heart.
Rising from that ground I see,
In rains that number thirty-three,
Everything you've grown in me.
Nevermore a mere man called
I, now that such love I've known.
Come, my dear, onto the grass,
Onto what thy sweet hand has sown.
Love me as seems best to you,
Ever down on sod and stone.
water like a groupie on
the grass, caged candle kindling
broken on singing
songs that sirens throat
water deep like a chicken
hedgerow cover and coop
for shelling out at farmhands
while I am waiting on the eggs
water whole in steeping tea
that drags the liquid down
to comfortable woman's hands
rubbing my temples at length
and charging nickels
for the softest kisses
within the earth slumber hearts
and older things that warm the ground
beside beds of onyx, beside the foundations
of castles long fallen from clouds,
and here we part with earthly treasures,
buried like boxes of gold, or sea sand in bottles,
or crosses worn for years about the neck, things
we've loved and kept that speak
in whispers through the strata.
so we bury our machines, and post their graves
with granite sentries that remind us,
though we have loved them,
to let them rest, and to watch instead
alive with the footfalls of our fathers.
we spread the feast of chokeloin and sicksteak,
portions piled high to feed us and the witness that
worships the rise of our disaster. the fly-like
face smiles as daylight rolls down through windows
to shine upon the buttered hands we hold out toward
our bitter-basted banquet. the sun dances in our wine,
a drab bouquet climbing into nostrils and setting
the stage for the flavor of the coming plague.
the wine first we hammer down, groaning into glasses
as the filth finds tired bellies; so much easier
to swallow than to love. the meat is dark and beautiful,
cut like coal shallows in the marbled guts o
the whiskey whispers amidst indiscriminate music,
a comfortable spot in the house where warm waters
trickle down to trap the trembling of temples.
all the good things scream your name, lucid
and dreamless things the good Lord forgot, but there
are whispers in misdeeds, in places shady
with the weight of rot that overhangs all our misery.
feed the might of this friction, the heedless hill on which
indecision stands in the sun of suicide, basking
and basking and basking. I'd beat down the lie with
song, but my vines grow voiceless, the garden
gone to growls and overgrowth. I'd shout the lie into
dark holes in the ground and cover
carnal intrinsicality dances with bourbon
slickness down this tilted gooseflesh, gardens
of grotesquerie overgrown with bullets and bonfires.
cattle comment upon the backlash of this commission,
a squarish prison to leave the people amused and
perfunctory. no sense can be made of the magic
that once sat here, of the past that
blocked the path of dark incandescence
before it threw the gates wide to smile
as all the simple pleasures came inside.
I'd kill the little gremlins, but I'd be
alone with their designs, alone in filth to think
my fill of sicknesses back to life, test tubes
and half-eaten TV dinners stalking long
the pen falls to the ground
in an agony of hard gravity.
the clatter rises back to mind
and ear and heart; it climbs
through a brackish crash, wet
and slippery, with copper rings
that shatter the peace
of honeyed tea and cigarettes.
these mornings race with prayers,
little myriad whimpers run
through with muscle reflex.
I stick the silver pin of begging
in my veins and hope the drip
lays me steady. God listens,
a new drug to hold back the old.
my back and kidneys ache.
I've swallowed too much ink,
too much black tar run down
the page, now too thick it sits
in lungs like chocolate frogs
on lily pads melting in su
a rupture from beneath
night terrors, out
bursts noise and steel
in a fountain shower
pumped up in darkness.
the veins move with
pain exquisite, bulbs
of life pushing through
to beat the heart
of long dead Lazarus.
in defiance of funerary
decree, life exceeds
the organic norm,
a new heretical you
in youth obscene.
the drumming sounds again
amid signals; hear life
revived, love again pushed
to the throat in song.
another you erupts
from her, bullets
in the teeth, blood
upon the skin,
newborn and vital
in the cosmic pool.
challenge ills, conjure
strength from the old
catastrophes. in love
you are ren