Your hand is a grin

Your space is no space, but in dreams manifests in figures
Down the corridors.

Whatever subtext there might be to
Explain to me after our talk, your talk
Convinces palindromes to turn back

Convinces me to be a worm of meaning
In the EARTH, disorganizing things with gestures.

Feeling, sparse and incomplete feeling
Drumming, drumming like a red, worn drum.

just helped out on a few songs with nic spence it is kewl!

chck it ouwt

i will post them now

princessdaisy24:

Art response to prompt by poetryriot - Time is a Wound. 

(via mermaidsbite)

there’s a difference between being oversexed and using the dirty show that is western culture to your advantage/to make a statement as to the need to change.

The method was too strict. Too many chances to muck
Up, bad traits of control that multiplied the harder with
Doting upon the revisions of the seeming. We beggared

An oceanic thought once along the poison-ivy trail, a
Short strait of sand, formed ourselves right as we could
So as to be stirred right once up against the vague froth

Of it, it to come like a hefty, empty promise that shrinks down
Eventually, if one writes it down, gives the words it pops
Into our head an anticipation we hope to harness through

A method sans logical base, since it is not of experience;
The seeing an oceanic thought must be had, yes, but we
Must bathe too; we must wet our heads in its vagary awhile.

If this don’t happen, we eventually realize we must magnify,
Are, what is not even there perhaps, if anyway at first we barely
Saw. To encapsulate a thing so small and reckless, ah. If only!

But this leaves the anarchical purity behind; things, rules rather,
So many for what we did not know were the wrong paths yet, that
Were, because of the rules, the addition of this or that, more

Seeming for the seeming. Prefer blindness, madness. Form,
After all, technique, started without a name, anew, perhaps
A flourish. Brusque sand-spells into a tide-wind elapse

Then fall back to the shape of dunes. But for that moment,
Vision blurs, some great volume takes itself as its own stage,
Part and parcel of life, and to be not removed but somewhat

Hidden away, cloistered, shut off; and then flatness, a sin to
Standardize the grace of the beach forever by our intolerable
Fear of a plateau, is made by luck the rule for that age,

. . . . . . . . . . .

Maybe so as to give hope to the notion that a
Thing had altered and now reflects on the now,
Maybe so that we see our own markers early

And convince ourselves that this will matter in
This way after our death. But the markers are
The rules, the standards. And method is only

Given if needed to affix the chaos, like a beam.
We should have been the massive whirlwinds
On a beach, forgetting the death of wind, just

Forgetting formulas, forgetting nothing but this
‘Now’ thing, making that more pitch than dunes
Of sand even. A moment of blindness, fierce

Pieces of brown wind,

thethicknessofvulgarity:

Liminal Sting
metaphysicalconceit:

foxhaven:

moarrrmagazine:

What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take? - Adam Lupton

Holy mother fuck

wow
metaphysicalconceit:

foxhaven:

moarrrmagazine:

What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take? - Adam Lupton

Holy mother fuck

wow
metaphysicalconceit:

foxhaven:

moarrrmagazine:

What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take? - Adam Lupton

Holy mother fuck

wow
metaphysicalconceit:

foxhaven:

moarrrmagazine:

What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take? - Adam Lupton

Holy mother fuck

wow
metaphysicalconceit:

foxhaven:

moarrrmagazine:

What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take? - Adam Lupton

Holy mother fuck

wow
metaphysicalconceit:

foxhaven:

moarrrmagazine:

What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take? - Adam Lupton

Holy mother fuck

wow
metaphysicalconceit:

foxhaven:

moarrrmagazine:

What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take? - Adam Lupton

Holy mother fuck

wow
metaphysicalconceit:

foxhaven:

moarrrmagazine:

What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take? - Adam Lupton

Holy mother fuck

wow

metaphysicalconceit:

foxhaven:

moarrrmagazine:

What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take? 
- Adam Lupton

Holy mother fuck

wow

thethicknessofvulgarity:

CHANGE THAT WAS RATTLING IN MY POCKET.
out here in hartford callin greens on my own bud
gotta catch a train always forget to do it,
and this has happened three times over
three consecutive days. im broke. i dont
have a lot of time to spare before they-
-find me. who????????????????????????????????? find ME: yeah,
but who finds you???????????????????? well, let me elaborate:
	 i tell you—well let me tell you—i speak of the black
eyed men grimacing and in white
jumpers and each with a large net, emerging from an unmarked van parked outside F COMP- -with an uncouth unsightly dent exposing metal behind the paint; men with armpits smelling strongly of fear and morphine, the two together combined to inspire in the nose some new and exciting olfactory thing: some nervous antibiotic to clear away the odd mushrooms growing on my brain, now, thriving unnaturally with a use for death. they follow me, looking for me, i dodge their presence, not for long. anyways, so, yeah, uhm, blah and and and and if you gotta say summin dont hesitate to tell to me of your own personal troublingly hued experiences tender experience: dark losers smoking lotus, keif, scraped resin from the sides of the bowl, shimmering criminals like negatives in the light, exposed and- -made a blankness of what was anyways a partition of some blank familiar scene. our lives, hidden somewheres in this seminal time
of post-plane-crash energy. gorgeous crumbs of lifemeaning here, replayed like a flicker, like the photographers twinklingly white smile in that picture of him on our wall at hom.e dearest Debbie, dont leave, space your thoughts out a bit, before yu do this. this doesnt fit, i will stop—Debbie dont be a flikcer please, dont be like that lifemeaning; scumbag, she mutters—humbug, something, some other voice, that; dont really know what the point of it was, besides to focus on some fleeting cherished thing, some really great thing that happens once and quickly as for our perception to trip over it after it zips by, unknowingly and sensed and and andand then the knowledge of its existence is known and there, because yu follied out of order thru its stride. this is somewhta to say that what comes comes so fast, we seem to see it twice. once in perception and once in the pain of realizing. we are egotesticle basturds caught in the eternal nut onto the femininely falcate (oddd wword) stomach of the emaciated prostitute from heroin, withdrawing, and bleeding from every hole; this, which is really just fuckin semen thrown against a distracted wall of skin and a navel, sweet Jesus, she was beautiful. not entering that void of shadows that is the pussy, pointy, poignant truths hoard in us like locusts, instead, only to be spooged out senselessly upon paper skin and it is abrasive with bruises, stretchmarks, trakcmarkks on her wrists, yes, like pretty trees- -and as pale, furiously. furiously fuckd. we are made queasy and hesitant in knowing these tools in our hand

BASTARD. [based off of Hills Like White Elephants, a short story by Ernest Hemingway]

thethicknessofvulgarity:

We have reached
A simpatico. The
Intensities have
Quelled a bit, and
Now we can move
On. But, where to
Go from here? If
There is more that
You want to say,
Then, you should
Say it, and not
Wait for things
To explain what
Silence may happen
To rebuke, depending
On your appraisal
Of the situation, which
Could or could not be
The right way to
Look at things. I
Know, you are very
Pretty, but this
Embarrassing melodrama
Is not needed. Shit happens,
And, perhaps, more shit
Again. Life is
Unfair like that, and
Often people dismiss
Eachother, and the
Person is not taken
Seriously. If only
You could see it thru
My eyes, you would
Understand that this
Is pretty scary, isn’t
It? I mean, I cannot
Even fathom how things
Got so big so fast … . .
And you didn’t even
Bother to tell me? Well,
It is all over and done
—With, and now, I guess
We can go our separate
Ways. I will always
Think of you, I suppose,
With fondness, and I hope
That this mistake can be
Undone. Water under the
Bridge, eh? What a phrase
That is. But it is true,
Really! I do not blame you
For this, It was my fault,
Really—he takes a moist
Gulp of tea—you really
Would not have wanted to
—Be around me, anyway,
During that previous time of
Trial. I was so upset that
I ran off, in the hopes
That you would not have to
Witness my so overtly
Self-centered weakness, and
Wow! I come back, and it is
All over with, without
Even consulting me. I
Suppose you should have
Consulted me, but I do not
See how I could have
Improved things, I really
Am bad about making
Decisions ha ha. And
Now, however, I must
Go—says this after
A brief, hesitant
Pause—you really
Have broken my heart
By doing this. I wish
You the best, however,
Secretly I am too in
Love with another to
Give in to your callow
Requisitions. I am
A man, after all, and
You, being a woman,
Would not know what to do
With such a volatile
Personage. Only another
Of my own sex, could
Truly understand. It is
Better this way. It is
Quite alright, no need
To cry; tho, your tears
Are, to me, the loveliest
Excess of yourself, the
Loveliest thing that, secretly,
I wish to see. I wish
To see your pain. I wish
To corrupt you. You are
Hereby invalid. You are hereby
Null and void.

babyish:

thethicknessofvulgarity:

Minuscule, all the things
Perspective lends. Funny,

Where they end up, outside
The unfinished

Cosmos of our heads.
Weird where

Doubt leads, if you wrangle
The fear of it enough to talk

To it, tell it to settle down;
Speak to it like an adult.

Get serious. The utmost sterility
Is pedological