30 April 2011

pink tulips w/ shellac'd scotch

i skip't 13, here's week 14:

garden shears in the ventricle

she set my short stories on fire
weeping oil paint,
every few minutes orange schizophrenia
between love
the starting of mooring out
of telephone calls
in the carpal tunnel of soap operas from the 70s
sewing regret
w/ rain & oh, white phosphorous...
"it's you," she'll say
somewhat elegiac, defiant; the memories,
the brash kitsch of oxycodone & cocaine
w/ prayer books—
edges, evidence, non sequitur
the lines, unsteadily edited by ammonia water
arson, & a sense of accuracy...
not not wounded
in the glorious smog of the vignette

* * *

bridesmaids setting each other on fire (a haiku)

meticulous details in notes, unpublished
shy, intense
i.e., the sunday news
on valium—
the previous evening's communion of chain-link
lightning, liens
insistent it shd be a wild-flower show, rather
a cultivated-flower show—
the wallpaper
in her bedroom, et al. like a lawn
slaughtered in life-blood—
& i'm asterisking
at the stained-glass seams, restocking
my remington
w/ the same images, the paper
abrading scoffingly at the soporific uxo,
cf. the comfort—
it was a depressing brass tack;
the fussy aesthetic
of a garden, tumbledown in veneer, assumed
as lazy winter weekends
were implicated
through the assuages of spring, skeined—
in silence, etc.
i sat quiet, listless, affixed
to the architecture
the prescriptions of corresponding dresses
tortured against
the recused countryside of dissemblance—
by now, the equity of the discrete
embrued through
the evocation of a jump-page—
the tumult, the sexiness of whitewash, guarded
by the columns
of another decision, recovery
or recrimination, w/ perfect resuscitation

* * *
one-thousand leaves, of evol & subtlety

the trouble starts w/
an evolved
style of водкаprayers
the lucidity of
posed against
the "unheard of" myocardial;
delaware is a state
the geological maps
of airports
, theorised;
constantly, wallpaper
¶s w/ italicized
the candour of nouns
as the novel proceeds
memory ebbs
herein the motives of the
the basic
material of the drama
after things
fell apart
now certain, paperheart;

the blood runs thin

as always, thx. for reading--

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