Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Thursday, May 21, 2009

psychoactive prayer.

strange to think of this city without steelironrod straightjacket, red masonry or eyes, strange to think of poetics without too-obvious ginsberg references and these rollicking misspelled lines that in my head and in existence will not stop rollicking or misspelling themselves or being strange as strange is this.  i find myself owning nothing these days and holding onto less which is weird because i have such large hands.  i find myself wanting to hop the tiny inadvertent passenger crate area of these coalcars into the abyss which is particularly offbeat because my legs are less and less my own.  only my fingers which are sewn on by capable but clandestine friends i remember i once tried to claim ownership over, but no longer.  someone said to me as i was blooming down the street with her, i find every poetry i write comes out as a confessional.  and i didn't say this because now i know it, but of course it does, every inane streetlight is a direct confessional, a white light to god, an effluvia mirror to soul, a non-corny reflector of mucusy-light path.  and we are perpetual catholics in that realm.  the booth is ripe, with every over-rhymed sidewalk crack.  whose mother's back will we break today?  tell me prophet of cement trucks.  i thought i heard you walking but it was just myself wearing its halloween shadow costume.  and it is barely yet june.  by october, the mask population will be out of control and we will have to assassinate it so that we can drive cars again.  but what if all that roadkill, all those so-called dispossessed demons were really angels on chevy grilles?  is that what it takes for our machines to be truly suicidal?
these days, colors come in all shapes, but none of them seem to fit right.  that isn't totally true tho.  only right now.  the nowness in which everything has a green glo-stick glow like aliens went to bad techno raves and the MDMA just made their pupils explode into this supernatural thing, crawling between the bricks.  they are here for that, that thrill, that ectacy that good shit, and they won't leave until they've found it.  i am foremost aid in this endeavour b/c they thought i had the hookups.  
does anyone know where i can get some real ecstasy?  not that speedball knockoff, but like, ectacis?  you know, way back, didn't they invent that in 1969 or 1956 in a small wine poetry gallery or an unending open field and then it promptly disappeared from the universe.  i want to find that.  the little green men iz after me for it, and they mean business.  or seriousness.  ecstasy is only a joking matter when the joke tugs you just within the cusp of ectasis, that is it.  that is the joke.  as the laugh track winds down and the city still lowercases my i's.  strange to think of you now, unsustainable mishmash of narcotic corn syrup eyed dreams.  i come back to you tho, it is more than an unhealthy unsustainable relationship, it is a human one, and we apes love the glory of defeat like it was the drug itself.  so i wander round you and weave my fingers in yr bones as if yr arms had some semblance of being open.  blear eyed red-mortar skeleton girl.  strange to think of you without real transport or eyes.  strange to keep writing these odes in the absence of  people to nonexistent entities as if they were entities that existed.  strange.so strange.

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