with Alice Aster, Halo (Torre Alain), Jordan Dawson, Karl~William Klenk, Cassie Klenk, Willow O'Toole
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.
karl~william klenk, drool tax jar
devoted husband to the paradise of delusion. cretin magician balancing suffering & rapture on his putrid cross. this cross, his own sordid flesh. a bleating of horns drown you in the distance
jordan dawson, the dirty chasm man
Here we find the little carnival horses with trailer trash and clippings of pornographic magazines convening together with swans and fragments of sea shells gotten from the bottom of the radioactive ocean floor.. I follow the instructions of interstellar matter to create non linear spaces of passionate embodied enchanted radiant devotion. In this way, the temptation of broken chain links and mutilated unwanted forms made holy and resignified is a form of materialist exorcism and surrealist insurrection.
alice aster, welcome to the pleasure center
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.
halo (torre alain), flower system: volty
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...
She calls for a house to homes, not just a rubber room for mind clubbers but a solemnly sworn love bank that reaches and breaches the tippy tadpoles grotto, only buck stopping on bugs breeding ground zero where unrest shells and ganders.
Quiet statues slack stare outward in ugly suckling thought band-aid bathing but
veiled away from the headstone maker’s blue red blinking rattles. Content with your proposal: “an icky ode to spectral send-offs must be honed in perfect boomerang rebound,” headstone maker set to work a tool for peaceful warm returns to and from forever’s celadon threshold.
With time, ability via fashioned tools can be abled, but through tears and cries the process shakes in hold, quivers in thought, and altogether halts in memory. Love from beyond the grave a silent glamour smoke in echo chamber.. the perched ember’s calling you!
Picky plucking leaves neighboring water fowlers bathed in Styx-y wetness and bless-d butt naked, not enough love left in-wake to wake the cadaver yet fruitful in lower drives those unconcerned with outcomes or birdy bias. A chill east-wind sets a cardinal standard, lost lovers can ogle at the mountainous bar above and before them the unafraid even attempting a full mount with success slimming down to none. Tethers clipped to lonely heart breaks fix bind and carry fantasies on haughty night wings, the light of day void on moonlit twitters.
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.
karl~william klenk, water fowled, water fouler
i water a glass universe, heavy electric skies tattooing the leaves and the wings of it melting away wherever, this light took the anterior of my spirit lifted beyond blue to pink. fires lick at the filaments, thin ripples of earth, the water sits, its energies are sleeping free. outside, lit softly now, sea of white noise and static, my insomnia forever piles verses glossolated senseless and senseless me. i left glassy-eyed again and am filled.
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. left back inside this atmosphere, constant voltage, warm air, needles under your palms, the sun creeps through the grasses race with ants. 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, smoke-plumed into docile 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. typical mint haze above the grown bald field, the prickly wall of honeysuckle, milk in the can with a greenish haze, small near the beds and dense on the furrows. 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.
torre alain (halo), flower system: justine