skip to main |
skip to sidebar
nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
drops of intricately sweet, an acme of bliss
textual relations/e-ruptions
ho w am i here? a number of different levels to look at that, most time-related: my tiredness, tomorrow's productiveness. the taste of pumpkin seeds in my mouth, salted and smoky. the knife is on top of the airconditioner and it is a tool and it smells. not like a magazine but like a machine. the feeling of heading downtown, similar in the sense of a place in a city and underneath someone's pants. transgressive, simultaneously top and bottom. like swallowing rum without raisin or raisin without rum. sing a pirate's song. ruthlessly steal a steel heart and don the fake lashes of a drag queen. ideally, though, this bed is a homemade and temporary raft, a book written cuz there's nothing else to read and you wanna feel what it feels like to turn a page and not what it feels like to read the same sentence over and over again. the same sentence over and over again. but maybe that's what's already happening. the dog chasing its tail/tale is a broken record. the revolution is a rerun. what did the wizard teach us? that falling down is all there is, a shopping cart released at the top of a hill. or, lots of empty black plastic bags = there needn't be anything inside.
slavic dreams make me creamboys ride bicycles beautiful as crystal icicles
i have you, and you are like the wateri have you, and you are like a father
you are not here, but oh gosh, i am happy
you are not here, but oh gosh, i am luckyit's like everyday my memory of you is packaged in a person. and everyday i say goodbye to you and you go. at the subway down through my body into the ground and then underground. through terrestrial tunnels wearing my tshirt stained with me.
you lived uptown and you were richer and straighter. now i live downtown and i am poorer and gayer. except for when i go back sometimes in my mind and sometimes in my place and i remember laundered hips and hypocrites and green spires and green globes. the green and the black swirling and elevating until you dissipate into points of light.
the sickly sweet. the nazarene. the almond horn and the horn of plenty: boys run on rooftops - elevated and athletic.
LOOK!antony - great white oceandiller, scofidio, + renfro - arbores laetaeevaristtikaren finley - black sheephaircut 100 - love plus oneanne teresa de keersmaeker + michele anne de mey anne teresa de keersmaeker + michele anne de meyshirley mansonnino fixo - buttonspolice - so lonely steve reichsea + cake - weekendtalking heads - dream operator yazoo - only you
LISTEN!grant lee buffalo - halloweenferron - misty mountainerik halldenjanis ian - between the linesnatalie merchant - riverlaura nyro - it's gonna take a miracleowls - bury yr mindtalking heads - new feelingcris williamson - song of the soul
they are planting 100 million trees in venezuelawhere you and yr sister would sing for money for the children of godin his tree, she fell before the serpentyou collapsed in front of the viperat the age of 23an enigmathe number to which all incidents and events are directly connectedlike the tree to which all incidents and events are directly connectedthe dream of lifewhere you deny beasts a death for no reasonand pick fruit fromthe tree of lifewhose branches support a phoenixand whose roots extend into water –a river branching outand finally reaching the seanocturne communique/nocturnal e-missionwhat you've done is a treasuretextual relations/e-ruptions i do this to feel like it's/i'm moving. even as the train roars beneath my feet. did you ever think to makeout in the subway train. and not just before goodbye. and not just after hello. and when something is hard something else is soft and that makes it better. animals are circling outside the door, and we're kind of like animals inside the door too, but soft ones with plastic bags full of clothes. soft like rosy lamplight, vision without focus, and a desire that is directed but knows no bounds, knows its course but not its cause. sometimes it can really be like a vacuum. and the idea of a vacuum is a nice one cuz inside it can be anything and inside we are anyone. overactive imaginations at once shortcircuited and realized by impulse, that is, a simple pulse that beats according to expected experience like when a trap snaps: yr hand down my pants.the memory of the map. remember the map. the southern cross.falling into that pool you fall into after orgasm, i imagine the world is the ocean and yr bedroom a lone boat at sea. and we are alone at sea.i want to meet you and then i want to make you, or, i want to make you and then i want to meet you - a lithe and vagile body on a green velvet cushion on the blue tiles of an empty pool. hair shorn and spirit in an owl. wet and cologned with chlorine. eyes so dry they are tearing. puckered skin and water. windows and humidity and diving boards. heavy shorts sagging. clean - suddenly we're outside in a lake and there is a horizon and the sun is setting or rising and there are no words or clothes anymore.it's there in the way you smell and taste. in the stubble, upper lip, the way we kiss the same. a pair of pink underwear, easily discarded. a sticky string. yr fingers move like smoke through my pubic hair. a smile i only see halfway cuz the other half is pressed into a shared pillow. and an eye in which i can see all that i feel, happy as it is, to be in a windowless room outside of time. a dark space on a cycle of expansion and rest. a borrowed toothbrush and a cup of water. this, the only place i look back. and maybe this, the reason for the smile. showing off colours and pages. and a sensitive armpit.tarred and feathered, we are worked up and covered in sweat and the detritus of this mattress. a pair of live white parakeets clean in dirt.you cup yr hand and i follow, sips of water in a dirty mouth. hunger, nervousness, and the time management of an epicurean. when will you call my name and how? i want it defiantly whispered, with a whimper. how it will please you to be forced to say it. how it will please you to be under my force.on a park bench, flowers. on a park bench, asses. there is no need to make excuses for yr obvious excitement. only to bee. double over laughing at the brick path. staring at white shoes touching. white hands touching. and more laughing. just before a hand is thrust into my chest, buddy-like. the careful planning, the anticipation, and eagerness. first i was here, now i am here, where are you? four quarters short of an avenue.to walk the same path in hopes of arriving at a similar point, an empty bench. and the roses. what constitutes a recreation? in it, there is some sense of the innovation. but to recreate - as in remake - a day, a place, a second that is passing that i'm still living in 24 hours later. does this inhibit the appreciation of the current second? seeing the sky here, who needs turrell? and the coy in the pond, just a flint of orange. and a bee's procession, gathering pollen. an elevation, an hour.from the park to the park, i inhale and together we invade the arch. and the day, it is a march, dragging a tired dog who is chasing its tail around the world and through banks and over lovers.hang the banner above my bed, and hence, hang the banner above my head. yr cock, a dowsing rod, crooked and pointed at me. you say i look like a little girl, like an eastern european hustler cook, and cute in vintage glasses. well i say wrap me up in yr vintage t-shirt. joan and judy. an alarm clock singing, waking him up. i can't look you in the eye. why?can you see the angel in the mirror? in the dark it's holding you.and i apologize for the climax, but you say relax, it was yr best intension to relieve my tension. the eager goal: to lose track of time listening to new order on the v train. if there is a stain, there is a stain. just like if it rains, it rains. but for to walk, to imagine a future, an apartment, an appointment, and an actor. or to be an active actor, like being on top or being downtown. blue eyes and blueberry pancakes and the view of yr ass on top of the covers in moonlight. a delight. a healthy and generous appetite. the symmetry of limbs in an erogenous knot. and a pillow to muffle the sound. to calm down.white spots and a broken umbrella. my love for you is too conventional, i know, like a microwave or whistling or these shoes. but it persists, nonetheless, through the weather and the seasons, naked and perturbed. in yr dream it was the apocalypse happening and it was bob dylan singing and somehow you had a sense of everything, a grand plan sustained and realised without an eye on the world, an inviting mouth outlined in red lippie asking "why?," or rather, "why not?" a rhetorical question as affirmation: If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow Why, oh why, can't I?LOOK!air france - collapsing at yr doorstepb-52's - give me back my mandonovan - catch the windbob dylan - desolation rowfirst aid kit - tiger mountain peasant songfleetwood mac - tuskmartine fougeronerika janunger - weightlesslife with judy garland - me and my shadowsmilksinead o'connor - jealousthe 100 greatest, gayest albums (of all time)peechees - mad doctorpets - a good day for telling liesbenoit pioulard - idyllqueers - don't back downshakira - pure intuitionstereolab - neon beanbagstoned college kidsamy winehouse - valerieLISTEN!dr. dogbjorn kleinhenzlou reed - caroline says, pt. iirobyn - dream on
