Friday, February 19, 2010


Angels of vein combat with owls
Tobacco prone skin
Full of brass and forlorn silver
On the sandfield
Nose fleeted
For prolonged scrolls of winter
Sandfeet whistle like celluloid
Black mud of eyeholes or holes in the eyes
Deaf my room
Mediaeval wings and ceramic
Zinc ash, clowns of wicked penis
Dialing the days for a commodore
A worm of camphor.. saliva screen..


On my bones
Heaps of conjuring stomach
Leathers dead for dead of grains of dissection
All daggers melt down into ashes and blues of calender hue
My telephone chords
Freed beyond for
Flakes of doors in the sky

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Radio Station

Getting loaded by the wheels
Fooh! Damn tails…oaf…doltish
No historian gives me a bark of wisdom
Black-eyed like engraving snakes on the majestic wall
Bubbled celluloid at least…..wrapped up with ferrous
Skin is zero for zero is stone…
Vestibules of tamed calendars…
Like a pre-historic bugle blows upon the afternoon
For the feathers and buffoons
Cryptic groaning all around my hollow shirt
Tobacco-fly inside the radio room
Winds of auction never leave this city of maroon highways…