Tuesday, 22 July 2014

Laced


confused everyone wants to be blond they think things will happen easily but all I feel is nausea when I see this year’s fluorescents sweat comes and my clothes feel like a living thing should that not have happened the sound of mental failings argue with music please music will be provided and poured over ice
 
one moon stares at four clouds that night sleep was my friend travelling home in time for mad storm cycles I touched the sea don’t move the sky parted like sheet metal doors crashed flashing violet and silver gashes was that a dream
 
he’d been wrapped in heavy duty tape standing for most of the operation just a parting for his breath to give and take encased they lifted him onto a bench and bound his feet so only the toes could move there was another on a parallel bench hospital height nothing can be done how long were they behind the curtain no one knew
 
human bats fettered made the backdrop laced into latex only one shade exists the tone altered slightly it’s surprizing how much torn lace weighs and my symmetrical metal worked in opposition surely heat by now ice is wrong if I melt before we’re issued with boiler suits 100% concealing and one way glass over the face
 
Livonia has a reservation her false face drops into her hands after the wires were cut no blood just a power fizz as the machine burnt out strange how shattered mirror smells like burning skin
 
all I can hear are the foot prints of a very small rodent only recognised later when I see them and the hands that stopped as we arrived moving again if we leave I saw you there yeah you exist violently tearing out the pages wanting everything to end
 
there’s laughter outside and a year’s worth of rain fell in one drop you should have been more careful with your emotions die now I think he said thank-you and let me stand touch close unusually docile for a place like that where eyes are long and crack from over looking at something you wish made sense
 
a technician came with shears I expect to see a corpse open but two live men skins patterned for war rose from the table the closest I’ve ever seen to man flying the human bats waver moaning clear with veins live forever a lost time piece breaks under my foot I collect the pieces and post them to my birth place
 
lightning was trapped in the drink I left alone for a moment I had the feeling of my lips and tongue being stitched as I drank the liquid darkening clouds remained in the glass friction will occur sub-aqua everything can be explained now devices are invented to record and translate down until we understand even my face in the mirror can’t be trusted
 
plaster of paris heats as it hardens mustn’t inhale eternal visions of that strain of fern who grew from rocks born before day and night passed so quickly there were orchids changing
 
strapped in so the lower limbs have to rest and fat was used for survival all that remains is ivory cyanide cubes are handed round and shrouded forms take that other poison the one that bleeds through the skin for better effect
 
cancers swarm senseless into flames spitting victory I’ve waited a long time who’s the master here
 

Wednesday, 9 July 2014

Red Mass


Out of isolation trip the ex-goddess screams like holy relief now she knows there is no god in the workhouse with witchy Ellen she hand marks the walls and smiles her arse cheeks at anyone who can’t stand her face they think it’s the moon getting brighter but no it was only someone sparking the light while the wall irons shoulder it like a marriage and the blackbird flies corner to corner berry blood wet on his beak

we’ll leave our leathers off for this one and call the waif home with her cheekbones that cut whatever you want to a shag stamp on her neck in this room speaks a giant language now there’s three of them one with mad young skin dead leaves gone copper on the live side the blackbird whips them to a shiver cut to an ex-goddess throat but she’s only acting and spits blood alive from her belly now everyone needs feeding the waif is first to the table lies her back down and uncrosses her girdle now the bolts are drawn and the play can truly begin

blackbird drops her a still-beating heart and she bites like she’s never eaten before throwing scraps to the men whose tankards beat down tasty rhythms come over here cherub don’t call me cherub the wall irons need turning so blackbird cleans berry blood off his claws with a lizard tongue he’s grown for the night

ghosts are awake the wall irons hiss it’s a shame Maria didn’t make it no one’s seen her since May but we’re here in this workhouse for witchy Ellen to slow wailing caverns now she’s made bones strong holding irons a mouth salty red and lick scented she shakes herself out as she pleases death watch beetle out on a stag his fur coat makes him look rich crawls over the piano for a feeler around he’s alright just his owner is lethal a dealer in sighing morgue organs

a touch of the old one his tree roots make cracks in the floor and eel round the room a fine perch for blackbird he’s our lordy pulls our heads open route open witchy Ellen and ex-goddess draw out let’s call it a vévé though the waif says it’s strappy end up Billy and laughs when death watch drops his own signing their work then he has her turn over and signs himself again on her back.