Open again.
the city:
my process:
a city of forms. creation swamps. chew down, do not breathe.. register, do not create. see, do not believe. review, do not become. pause, do not add. forget, do not name. wonder, do not understand. re-form, don't form. feel its weight, don't distinguish.
be swamped, don't grasp. become lost, do not know. and then if you must, then, know all over again; and forget all over again.
Be helpless, suspend.
open all that's closed; let it float, absurd, and excessive.
and then please let me know: what next? can you go back?
yes, i must create to talk about dissolution. that is the flaw you ignore.
(change form rather than inhaling it for what it is)
you're helpless, in a vast sea: suspend the anchors.
volume, not meaning.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Local Gods
Then there are gods.
The chosen few.
They are experienced, more outdated than old, but old nevertheless.
They know everything. They have sized everything, been there, done that, they are the tripper voluptuaries and the objectifyers with a cause. They have their empires strong. And with it, they are the undisputed supreme epitome of manhood if only in a little place called home to them. They assume the position of all-knowing misogyny with a greatness they command. They revere with boyish reticence another self proclaimed local god(dess) of equal talent, and use the words 'bitch' and 'whore' for every other being of the opposite sex, for they are the higher of beings, men of few words and large history, the desired, the all-knowing. Their humor is unconventional and they are too supreme to talk straight or often, to speak at all.
They hang in bunny outfits.
Worship those who ask for worship. But before that, identify your gods.
Yes, They are god's gift to womankind, some, god themselves.
It's hard not to be charmed by their delusions of supremacy - their worlds are small, usually.
Sometimes they let you know.
They are the men whose ugly semen is vastly public (greatness calls for service) - and the sacred one too private to venture into (such is their greatness).
They are born to breed many : They are the men who 'love women too much'.
Men of few words and many memories and masculine as it gets.
They are our local gods - And they are only too welcome in our scheme of things.
If only modesty was a virtue that came with power and talent.
The chosen few.
They are experienced, more outdated than old, but old nevertheless.
They know everything. They have sized everything, been there, done that, they are the tripper voluptuaries and the objectifyers with a cause. They have their empires strong. And with it, they are the undisputed supreme epitome of manhood if only in a little place called home to them. They assume the position of all-knowing misogyny with a greatness they command. They revere with boyish reticence another self proclaimed local god(dess) of equal talent, and use the words 'bitch' and 'whore' for every other being of the opposite sex, for they are the higher of beings, men of few words and large history, the desired, the all-knowing. Their humor is unconventional and they are too supreme to talk straight or often, to speak at all.
They hang in bunny outfits.
Worship those who ask for worship. But before that, identify your gods.
Yes, They are god's gift to womankind, some, god themselves.
It's hard not to be charmed by their delusions of supremacy - their worlds are small, usually.
Sometimes they let you know.
They are the men whose ugly semen is vastly public (greatness calls for service) - and the sacred one too private to venture into (such is their greatness).
They are born to breed many : They are the men who 'love women too much'.
Men of few words and many memories and masculine as it gets.
They are our local gods - And they are only too welcome in our scheme of things.
If only modesty was a virtue that came with power and talent.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
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