I
In the Tiger Blossom sunburst you began onto me hallucinations of tobacco stain;
On high, dusting inky black with fiery passion fruit sherbets, joyously proclaiming your own psychedellia.
Vivid lucidity waltzing with the golly gosh neon templates,
Quivering in brightest oranges and cheap tequila dawning of eras erased,
Seeping livid fluorescent wrath amidst the waves of faux despair, distain, and a poor mans epiphany.
The blinding patchwork terracotta, beaming from open bud popping of the maternal humidity of lazy days wasted,
The roar of the thick treacle darkness,
Leaves me euphoric and craving tacky Mexican diners of this world, calling to me through Nevada and tropical Arabia.
In the Tiger Blossom sunburst,
Where I found my vitality.
II
Leg in concertina:
Long;
Yet sleek and swooping from breeze to dirt.
Her ankles,
Refracted by ozone,
Scattering across midnight skies,
And Shatter'd as sand,
Descended upon augmenting shoulders,
And made babies shriek in their grandmothers wombs.
(Through Amsterdam,
Through cheap cuisine,
Through Easter's coco hymen)
Through a filthy Christ,
Your ragged lord in Antioch;
With his finger in every pie,
With his finger in every pie.
And tongues,
Of fire,
That lapped at the salted thighs of our mothers.
Still virginal;
Wide eyed in their papish sensibilities.
(Feet first out of Centrum,
To the west!
To the west!
To the land of opportunity,
To mop the jism of those who came before.
To taste the salty seed of Odin;
And delight,
That he finally feels like such a naughty little slut)
The Lovers
...we meet,
under ever decreasing circles of amber,
tongues that sear like brimstone and sweat,
"ill have you licked like the cobra by the chime of twelve bells"
gnawing and pulling and tearing at earlobes,
rabid gooseflesh shadows, cast jagged against bloodied brickwork
we as porcupines met,
under the light of midnight hatred in stag clash of primality
Ginger Snaps
Oh steely lark, hark, I repent,
Thou of burning bush lament,
Of asshole, seven shades of plum,
Mahogany and rosehip beacon.
Strive in poison, for mule and stem,
In hack, and cool shade of Bethlehem,
Strive yet in aching light of men,
For nimble arpeggio passion?
Oh pain of pride, and blood of beast,
That wept in muscle fury heat,
That echoes silk, and leaves me beat,
For cherished cunt most true
Humid Greyscale
Twenties futurama; in this thick, uneasy, moonbeat throb,
My muscle breath suppressed.
And in bleakest mercury half life,
We burned by brazier;
Under iron wills,
And torso thrust.
A primal lusting after,
The masturbatory ache and heave,
Of these muscular shadow games we play.
Dreaming of anal chivalry:
The unwritten mantra of the cosmos
Luncheon with grandfather,
Under tree.
Overhead static of killer bee.
Want to look,
Yet fail to see,
These brutal trappings,
Of white noise and gin.
Who knew he had genitals?
Tommie's Career
the Big Kahuna,
he wields,
shotgun apathy,
year after year
breath with bite,
scent with grind,
bitterness and indifference,
he plods to the beat of,
ten thousand wretched sea shanties,
unshaken by years
eyes searching from cave and crevice,
cave and crevice like toil,
Fleet Street, she will burn his soles on her ashen carpet,
rise up and ruffle his mane,
and shuffle her feet in nervous lightning rooms,
she will offer him
Indian moccasins and high cholesterol
Widow, Widow
Whisper to me with Ellen Jamesian kinship,
Without this cosmic swirling doubt.
You have your volcanic gender driven opiate, brandishing cutlasses and snifters of crystal methodology,
Did I question my own sexuality whenever you gazed at me, broody with providence, form and the most diluted condition imaginable?
...Its difficult
You are reducing this sexy seascape beyond the sound of jagged ringing eyes,
Perhaps you are bowing,
Perhaps you are smoldering for the elusive shut eye clickety-clicking of the Kodak whores,
Perhaps you have already began this troubled forgery of bronzed ions and disassembling of messianic well wishers,
It's just a flying visit,
...I am floating again
Full Human Cost
This is the age of the sickle and the grapefruit;
The inbred heart.
With jagged eyes, needles and pins, needles and pins,
They sweep me off my feet.
Staccato, staccato, smear and empathy,
Fragrant skulls blooming on deaf ears,
I am munitions,
I am downtrodden,
I am the child of bigot,
I am troglodyte of Valhalla.
Upkeep and immunity:
Gentle and lacking.
Sandalwood.
Marzipan and cigarettes
touch paper, and cut,
Cunt above the rest,
Resting for sleep,
Wrestling for time,
Sobbing a paupers grave into the firmament,
I miss beauties skin,
They miss limbs,
In and out the dusty bluebells,
Round and round the pretty panzer,
They sleep in the shade of eye,
I nap in the shade of sleep,
Haunted by sands,
Haunted by guilt and kinsmen.
I caught myself lusting again
The Dissolve
In latte dreamscape,
under cannabis moon,
I staggered down brewery,
and screamed of a parliament convulsing at my feet
Clockwork sky; on cog and hinge,
unhinged by clockwork cock and ball;
that you,
should refresh my mind,
empty handed,
in these stale old streets.
With stagnant eyesight,
and morning breath I,
dodged a sliver bullet,
and escaped down Whitechapel;
coat-tails to the wind.
You trape,
through town.
I watched;
And
split,
Your ego,
with the
bandaged
hobo.
Icarus (aka. 'Icarus Plastique')
As humble as egos,
...That rise like empires;
And muscle through the subway crowds.
These nylon icons!; Our rehashed heroes,
Who proclaim their noble truths aloud.
...that rattle chains from knoll and window,
As they bare their bloodied souls to yang;
Who scratch at floorboards,
Who gnaw at ankles.
And scorch their wings upon the sun.
Hunter
Hunter, who pounces on flesh,
Hunter, who's sexy midnight eyes smolder,
amidst robust carcass stench.
Hunter, who i am not,
yet passions pound so proudly,
proclaimed by meaty fleshen slap,
Up! Grey matter Swine!
who writhes and wretches,
and is lost from without;
Flaying in the same filth that pronounced our fathers as 'men',
large men,
large brilliant men with heaving crotches,
and hands that crush souls like an 'honest days work'
...ego's that begin.
this filth, that beckons to obnoxious vinegar flannel,
outstretched,
by sagging wing of a battered maternity.
Wearing at the corners, of this young mans mouth.
Untitled
Hollow tin can rattle that,
pleads 'accidental';
Begging for the great centuries afterbirth.
Disappointed;
as it tumbles,
down mortar pathways; Godless.
Now crushing all foolish illusions,
of ragged kittenhood,
in it's sordid wake.
I baked,
in crushed tin,
boundless;
midday; behind the bowling alley
...and behind all pretense.
Now perspiring wildly,
committing the last remains of,
Lambert and his unquestioning gimp,
to the asphalt;
Stripped of all graces.
Hollow, hollow, hollow lord,
Icon of insecure plight,
(mine's a single malt whiskey,
at the Railway Bar).
Whoring of the highest.
Fluid
Memories of thick tropical nights,
And of riding in taxi cabs with angels;
Of days and days and days of convergence,
With sun,
moon
and all personal hells,
Somwhere between the coco shades of some lounge singers eyes.
Consealed truth, and self fears,
Resting at ease upon Gaze's mutual cuff
Shattered lightbulbs, and the strangled midnight personifications:
Of Louis Armstrong at the foot of your bed,
Illuminating all idle thoughts of the great nocturne,
In the humming shoplight drone of cheshire eyes,
(And denture grin).
His hips gyrating wildly now,
Far, far beyond the dilute confines of earthly self restraint.
I fear the worst;
I fear the pains of a wicked sobriety.
Thoughts booming like flaming schoolmasters,
From the,
flanks;
And from a boudoirs bottomless corners.
**All work is Copyright of Connor Webber 2004**
Amsterdam - Aug 04
