with Karl~William Klenk, Cassie Klenk, Halo, Jordan Dawson, Alice Aster, Willow O'Toole

Underground Flower
part I: flower milk blood moon, in full via solo show

Forget about the bugbears of the day, still..
slathered in glue and swathed, glowing within flies. I sweat and watched as the light hit the flex in your back while you lay mindlessly digging up our floorboards and realized, some hole had replaced you. Getting closer every second, threatening to pass / threatening to consume. You lie there still, knowing only I stand here (still) to guard the aging process. A dog always returns to its vomit, or whatever. Such is our agreement, such are our roles; and we assume them.

like a sugared and feral doll, shoving cakes down my throat, mirror glass we stretch & moan & pull true. bathed in the same doll’s clothes, turned themselves into glass, pressed, one painted black with charms against mere lust, bone, flesh, can i be so wrong? movement sliding down the smiled imitation of everything, the angels came down and brought him back up, the clouds came and devoured me, groped like nails across a chalkboard, say you are. and here I am, worn with the missing pieces: the main purpose is to explore this eclipse.

Underground Flower
part ii: sunlit midnight strawberry moon, in full via light harvesting complex

Phantom swanling wedding bands rake rip and color about the pimpled grey woman’s goose-neck pickled in her trouble bath and salt rimmed river house, on licking web and browning water string...

My own attempts at such an ascent crumbled in descent to depths even deeper than tideless pools stowed away in pepper-sauce caverns; not lost but not without loss either. I hope these juggle hopes make a mark or embed in something which sticks, nevertheless I will remain here in swan’s place shooting turn about shots at purgatory’s lowest mantle.

that you seep. oh, shine. garments shed for the phosphate cuneiform sky, frail towering bodies dew-stroked to the clouds, polyphonic them too and a love stashed in the bushes left behind. solarized my heartstruck vein, clod my breath to shadows slipped in the distance, damp pharmacological morning longing to surround something and i have this electric silence, blazing with clouds.

peeling time with a paring knife the juice stings the cuts on my fingers and i barely taste the fruit. this always works well for me, for me who will display things. the steel horses bridled by the wind like an enthusiastic crowd, great horizon-bridges that span the rivers like giant segments of time before I had this solitude, plumed into sighs in the sun with a glitter of knives.

I could never touch it again. the cloud-level rose above my eyes; I could physically feel my thoughts grow softer and begin to glow. bounded north and south shipyards have the crooked lines of their smoke, and I have the day when the sun passes on a dying track to unload its fury into the ocean: love is not an image. fools deride what any child understands easily in the grass, the fear that nothing will ever be so stimulating as the love and hate of dreams.