the heart factory is a lonely hunter:

both a woman AND a fag:

i have always been in love . . .

yes, we are witches, warlocks, and most of all demons. and we are coming for yr children. warn them about the girls all dressed in black and never trust a man with lily white hands. writhing on the floor in ecstasy. waiting to be raptured. fiery eyes and downy thighs--polluted young flesh. the menace. the evil. we can smell their sour milk smell. we are as tenacious as sharks and cunning as foxes and we will lure them into dark and sticky basements. possassed by hung animals and pools of blood. 

nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
missives to the misses

textual relations/e-ruptions

i can see the lights hovering

i am on the roof

they are on the horizon

blue like hot

hot like how

a stick of butter

might melt in yr pants

gang of 4

in village leather

know how to move around

know how to fool the town

enter the room

white walls

white floor

white celing

silver mirrored chadelier

translucent acrylic furniture

see-through to

seated naked asses

eat like a farmhand

drink like a polish plumber

enter the space

you are either

wounded by it

(the density of romance)

or

presume its ineffectuality

(the imperviousness of reason)

is there a spectrum?

or jus indecision?

i want a confession, a reaction,

you want exercise.

no regrets. jus livin with mistakes. some you could have prevented and some you couldn't. the inability to not dwell. being in a bind. hitting a wall. the beauty of lateral movements is that they are mutually exclusive w/hitting rock bottom. life as bumper cars.

looking at:
leonard cohen - in my secret life
elias + the wizzkids - mr right guy
guapo
mgmt - this must be the place
geoffrey o'connor
tiny chance of planet collision
rosa von praunheim
yoko ono enjoys rare music honour

listening to:
cleast eatwood
thecocknbullkid

the glass
gossip - dimestore diamond
helvetia
last portray
frank o'hara
publicist
strike

nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
the truth is not that i want to fuck you but that i want you to want me to fuck you

the pleasure is mine
is twofold
watching you gleek
and breathing yr secondhand smoke.

textual relations/e-ruptions
pajamas and the grace of
snow on blood
church on white.

chest naked
cold
a mouthful of lies.

bare feet
on a wooden floor
blank shadow cross patterned wallpaper.

wrap me up
slip 'n' slide me into a drawer
THAT SOUND.

the house doesn't smell like smoke anymore but it does smell like cat piss.

blue background
black trees
the inability of ice — slippery.

wish the sky were higher
the days longer
the woods warmer, polished.

if you cover yr face
if you sing aloud
then go up on the roof at night, or an attic.

don't talk like you know it
don't turn on the lights
don't cooperate.

let yr nose bleed
yr knees bleed
the books are in boxes.

a knock at the door
and you're made to perform
smiling gay-face in glasses.

you're gonna lose it, loser
the last frame is one between the legs
boyish boy-face facing the surrogate father.

and bagpipes.

deliberating is debilitating.

peace, love, and kurdt.

in dreams (may):
i'm on a ship trying to find life rafts and vests but everyone's faster and taking them already and i know i should have hidden one away to begin with. you've moved in my sleep and i wake up in front of a mirror. a barn is going past the window and we are docking. i don't try to find my family but they find me anyway.

you've just had yr blue velvet blazer tailored but you're too uptight to ask daddy for a ride so we're gonna walk along the side of the highway.

lots of driving around on 4wheelers and mopeds and things that go slow and are close to the ground and are yet to be invented. you are drawing yr own map on top of another map and it is making a mess of the order.

a green sequin leotard.

we are sailors and we are playing videogames and i blindfold you by wrapping a black leather belt cross yr face.

looking at:
bau bike
distant world circles tiny star
german corpse may be luxemburg
glue society
lol theorists
peaches - lose you
space headache a real phenomenon

listening to:
magnolia electric co - josephine
joni mitchell - that song about the midway
wilco - theologians

DEAD TEAM DRESCH POETS SOCIETY