Coucou baby

♩♪♫♬

coucou honey baby- heard
you slew that last night stand
and blew that ol bailey building
let the cold night air come on through the land


♩♪♫♬wake up in the morning

in lieu o some highstrung feelin
you were seeking somethin true
news that you been standin around waiting
to change your views
broke your shoes, yes
you let your hair loose

won’t lose nothin in the askin
won’t lose nothin in the take
we aint nothing but the love we make ♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬

Its that same predictable delay, the sway and lurch following on the hunch of a bigger realization. Stop. Stop. Commas and eternities. How many bookshops have i walked into, cafes, life stories and watch-pieces. The whole of our brothel culture, our buzzard mentality, our fetishization, federalization and fashion, an internet chatroom, a forum with a scroll down searchbar, tasks and triumphs on a par, the fountains of youth, cortez and the curmudgeons, the cyclops and the catheter, calypso and carmichael, caring and concern and connubial bliss. static and spill over the sill of a something we so hoped to seal. theft and thunder. beings and bedded beauty. berate me degrade me and don’t you dare change me, the soup seeping from eyes and a finger flesh

Woke up after four hours of sleep into the chilly morning and the messy house. I’ve obscuring or ameliorating the one and embracing the other. For once its the weather and the open windows I choose, jack the frost creep in like a spiderweb burglar with his brine crowbar at the ready to fight off the police. Polishing off the shell, demented sediment from the window ledges, desperate scrawled manifestos from the panes themselves. Two million portraits scrubbed gently off the mirror muck into rags and reflection. Bulldozing pine tree groves shot from the unwashed laundry, battling the brackish and crayfish sprawled sink. Watching my skin spread.

I’m reading all these sundry voices of the young american poets cabal, thinking maybe its time to focus on this business of interactively introspective extended metaphor instead of half allusions and polyvalent intimation of implication and supplication and gristle and goop.

now the blur days are resolving themselves

into a lurch and lull, i’m rediscovering

all the songs to a seagull and the

composite reagents that make

the monster in me manifest,

the writing beast. these things

are coming to a head, the pregnancy

beginning to show. minerals and meter

dancing towards lodestones,

logic fleeing into fairytale and

a fairly unobjective account

of something not that unlike me

(…one of these days my creative writing solution is going to have to be something better than ” well first i will rest a few hours, and then wake up in the morning, brilliant productive and energetic…”

waking up 14 hours later in a langor hanging like swallows from the baggage at my eyes …surprise!)

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February 27, 2012 · 2:06 pm

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