Dissonance in the Bright Silence

I am.


Silence is a well.
Black, not visible.
If you were
Looking--
You'd see,
traces of implications,
of deep-dark in
the dissonance
in the bright of blue.

Fuck a Bitch Up

Power is Often Very Quiet

Words webs,
Star-snare,
Every-enchant,
Jewels entangle,
Enchant, Incant,
Incandescent,
Magic-make,
Glow-gather,
Love and lovely,
Glitter Shone,
Pearls for eyes,
wanton nerves,
un-baring bone.

Bard, Witch, Stars

She used words like stars     Stars used she like words     Words like stars used she

Used words like stars she    Used she like words stars     Like stars used she words

Words like stars she used     She like words stars used     Stars like used she words 

Like used stars she words    Like used words stars she    Used stars words she like

Stars she used like words    Words she used like stars     She used words like stars

Stars like words she used    Used like words she stars     Words like used she stars

She used words like Stars    Stars used she like Words    Words like stars used She

Like stars words she used    She stars words like used.

Love Song

Incarnadine weeds,
Strewn with wildflowers,
 red-work, black and red,
 Stargazers in daytime,
make me a ruby ring,
for your devotion.
 Six million, in a season.
Gambled, won, for
one. Star brighter, as the other dims.
 Star light, gaining bright.
To be one, it was always meant to be.
Ammutseba, I'll wear red. 
And crown myself with 
tri-partate star and wear the moons
of Jupiter for jewels.
Power is often very quiet.

Rebuild

Winding into doing other way, knee, meniscus-- replacement. Lugubrious.

Satie

Medusa Invoked

Medusa, in ancient times was an amulet against all harm. This likely traces back to the time when she was a goddess. Even in the telling in which Perseus vanquishes her, she does not die, but becomes portable magic, a shield against all enemies. Medusa is the cthonian goddess, a female expression of Dionysus. Algol, tri-partate star, is a harbinger of creative genius.

Bird

Times Three.

Tower

From the Dark Tower
 We shall not always plant while others reap
 The golden increment of bursting fruit,
 Not always countenance, abject and mute,
 That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
 Not everlastingly while others sleep
 Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
 Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
 We were not made to eternally weep.
 The night whose sable breast relieves the stark,
 White stars is no less lovely being dark,
 And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
 In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
 So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
 And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.
Countee Cullen

La Red In Red

The red line,
(try not to see it.)
cuts you in two.
Twilight cast.
A crack,
a rail,
a tear,
a thread,
a blood scrawl,
with splinter
of bone.
Glister crimson
blister. Unwanted.
Bone jar shaker,
worms in the head.
La Red tangled,
blow fly,
maggot snack,
crimson claw,
flesh snag,
hag catch,
sag and groan.
You can't
look away.                          

You can't want to.
Fever swamps

mosquito murmurations.

fish snagged in
a nightmare net
of folly's prison,
slime emits,
self-smothers.
Eye hook,
jewel-bright,
ruby ripe.
Try to rip
it out, but that
blue orb is
caught.
La red in red.
A big mistake,
realized too late.
Fear is to fear,
and only fear is left.
Sinister turn,
offering burn,
the spell cannot
be
broken.
Glitter, slither,
cold snake.
Smoke, fire,
burn, break.
Tumor excised
with a butter knife,
carefully laid
in dish of white,
was a heart,
now a bite.
A morsel for
a jagged maw,
putrid lump,
carrion to gnaw.

Meanwhile,
we have all
you ever wanted.

This
 bla
  de
   cu
    T.
     v

Rumi

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Incant/Enchant Strawberries Under the Moon

Sweet-night, moon/bright
Strawberry summer,
We draw down the dew-drop shimmer,
draw in the full ripe glow,
Softly, vital, grow.
Brighter, softer, lighter,
more beautiful, we, than blue,
out of space/time hue,
this invention colored new.
Because phoenix
the fire can't consume.
We're the lightning,
and the bottle.

This is Surely a Sweet Tune

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I'm Back From the Dead Motherfuckers

The up above is beneath my feet,
My machine makes magic,
Even when I sleep,
Witches three, high and deep,
Glimmer and Glamour,
Shine and Shimmer,
More every day,
as the other does fade,
Witch chant, witch glow,
I'll hear your tales as
the wind does blow,
Writhe and squirm,
the worm will turn.

Link time.

Roses Are Thorny When You're Strange

A pink rose given to a hasty hag is but the thorns. In other news, we're doing her like fun with bubble wrap. If the bubble wrap were fatty or membranous and coated with a peculiar slime that seemed to glitter or shine in a manner that warped the space around the popping bubbles of it. It deflated in a ghastly manner, the glitter-slime oozing into time, speeding or slowing it ever so slightly, such that your watch and mine, heretofore synchronized are no longer.

Make a Deal

I woke up I was bodiless. I was floating free the eye is three. I counted three. that star is three. symbols are not abstract at all. The direction is easy. Baile.

Mirror, Eye, I Fly

Mirror, mirror on the wall.
 It's as if you never knew me at all.
 Perhaps soon I'll introduce me to you,
 it'll be a fine how-do-you-do.

 I think you caught a glimpse of red,
 that time I was out of my head.
 Blue is well-known, long in your cage,
but now is black extrapolated, and red the rage.
 You might check out that empty cage.
 The inmate, it seems, has fled.

 Mirror, mirror, blinking eye,
 now it's time for us to fly.
 I've stopped and counted three, y
ou said you'd make it up to me,
 now it appears that's mine to do,
 sacrifice now is you.

I have my pretty words for blades.
Glitter and shine.
Nerve and bone.
Wanton, wanton,
unbare-- atone.

This is a Love Song

I was in for two, and you just for you.

To The Extreme

Yo, I'll solve it.

Witch Box

 It was a candy tin, the like of which could be found anyplace, or at least that was the appearance of the thing. The reality of the thing was something more exotic. The reality was anything she imagined in any one of her guises. It was a box, the lid of which opened a door to an alternate reality through which the dreamed thing could leap into this world, making this world an altered reality each time it opened. It was a witch-made thing, drawn, itself from dream. It was a magic machine.

Time For the Ghosts to Weigh in

Eyes of Blue,

On the Return (What Goes Around Comes Back)

The sister who waited in the airport lobby did not, at first, recognize her sibling. Her eye caught briefly on the figure creeping toward the gate, ocular-snagged, she would later realize, on the scarf. After watching the last passenger pass the shuffling, bent creature that had stopped halfway as if overcome by the exertion of dragging the wheeled bag, she was arrested again by the scarf and this time the thought full-through. It was the one she had given Lureen at her departure. Her eye began to excise details from the corpus of the specimen before her. The creature was bent, but bore the general proportions of limb that her sister had, if one applied a mental stretch to the caved torso. Her bearing suggested absence of something henceforth integral, as something, not spine, stomach, heart, but at least as vital had been sucked out, leaving all remaining parts to collapse in a heap, disconnected in the sack of her. Her, and now she was certain it was a 'she,' owing to a few details of dress not customarily seen in unison applied deliberately to a male. Such pedestrian items would not please anyone set on flamboyance of any sort, thus nobody wishing to enact femininity, but would be chosen by a drab church lady in the effort to get gussied up for a funeral or a picnic, or a picnic following a funeral at which the hair-oiled, financially secure widower would want to succor in one not too limber-limbed. Lureen looked around at those gathered to fetch the disembarked, giving, for the first time a view of her face. She'd not left six weeks prior a young woman, nor even a particularly youngish older woman, but had been a semblance of vitality, whereas the visage of the woman Wendy now observed looked not so much to be her elder sibling as her parent. It wasn't just an accumulation of wrinkles, or dulling of the eye, but something less definable and more devastating. It was more like the whole body was uncannily shrivelled or compressed, and atrocious collapse or disintegration was nigh. Excerpt From: Graham Harman. “Weird Realism:.” iBooks. Lureen's gaze wandered over the assembly without stopping on her sister. She looked vague. Not exactly confused, and not drunken, but somehow unintentional, somehow un-reasoned. She reached down with a great deflation, as if she'd lost another internal bit in the exertion, another infinitesimal constituent having vaporized before Wendy's eyes. The woman before her was disintegrating. The scene before her eyes gave way to one that played again in her head and had for the past week, but this time the effect was a queasy slide into a thought she couldn't form, but which was, nevertheless an unknowable surety at the liminal place that feeds the dream not recalled. The woman who had a husband Lureen stalked for so long, plotting to win his affections and secure her own retirement had appeared in town. Wendy's eye had passed her over in the grocery store queue sans recognition until an incongruity hooked her in. It was a scene converse to this one. A few threads of glinting silver caught the light in the long, dark curls that tumbled down the back of the young woman in front of her. It struck her instantly as a lovely incongruity. Silver glints in the locks of a woman so lithe and youthful were a current novelty that had an inarguable charm. That was what she was thinking when the woman reached across the conveyer to take a chocolate bar from the display of impulse items there. The woman in front of Wendy was someone she'd seen before, although her looks had undergone a transformation of a reverse kind her sister was now exhibiting. The transformation was complex and felt strange, unnatural. For the appearance of age to regress was the stuff of dark legend, suggesting midnight rites and blood spilled in places far beyond the stain of light pollution, yet this was still more sinister. Discussions in church of the dark practices of devil cults and rock musicians didn't contain description of anything like she was seeing. Etherial was a the only word she could find, but it lacked in both physicality and mystery as a description. The woman in front of her turned full face toward Wendy, and her breath caught in her craw as she croaked what was intended as a 'hello." The necklace she wore was strange. A small metal capsule that looked utilitarian and hung at heart level. Charisma was what hit Wendy upon first seeing this woman a few years earlier when her sister had told her a tale about seducing the younger woman's husband, during, she later found out, a time when he was suffering a drug-hazed psychotic episode. She'd felt disloyal for wondering that a woman such as she would have an unfaithful husband at all. Then, Lureen had let slip the man's medical travails, which explained it from his point of view, but it would never make clear the hatred Lureen had allowed herself to express for someone who had done nothing more than stand in her way. The more Lureen talked, though, the more she questioned her ever having loyalty to such a creature as her sister. It wasn't clear until Lureen's soliloquies of id made clear that this man was out of his mind on drugs and that Lureen saw it as her opportunity. Lureen's hatred, oft expressed in the most stark terms, terms that would have been surprising- given the fact that they seemed to bear so little relation to any sort of cause- coming from a dive-bar speed freak, but from someone who generally comported herself with church-lady primmery, it was disconcerting. Wendy was unaware that the woman, whose name she no longer remembered was now a widow, nor that a sigil for her sister lay inside a sorceress's box of magic. But she was witnessing the effects of that reality, even as Lureen wheezed her way from Italy back to Medford wracked with pain and decomposing by the second. Halted by some vague fear, she heard further sounds below. Indubitably there was a sort of heavy dragging, and a most detestably sticky noise as of some fiendish and unclean species of suction.

Hag. Bang.

To the pain.
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Hexan

The Tower Falls

To be rebuilt. Incant. Enchant. sleazy, nasty, inveterate, laughable, wretched, avarice regressed- turn it back, run it through again. Deconstruct, destruct.

The hag? That monstrous and nebulous adumbration of the pithecanthropoid and amoebal; vaguely moulded from some stinking viscous slime of earth’s corruption, and slithering and oozing in and on the filthy streets or in and out of windows and doorways in a fashion suggestive of nothing but infesting worms or deep-sea unnameabilities. laurie rawlins

That Leg

You'll find it useless
as a rotten log
filled with termites
and worms.
decaying into the floor
drag, sag, limp, groan,
what man will put
good wood in a
stinking hole?

Stroke

See red.
a growing spot,
to the right,
paralytic
fright,
shit and moan.
Beg for it.
 

Explode

When the rot sets in to
the sagging sack of entrails
you drag on boney legs,
 and organic processes process
the stinking innards of you,
 in the heat, the splatter will coat
and crust and nobody
will wish to clean you off the walls.

Oh, Miracle

When one finds onself at the destination once cast in fore-time by glimmer path, look about. There is no ordinary. Nevermore will be. When one finds oneself self-conjured, then rise -- a self-lit rainbow, soul-sparkler, fire-cracked and everbright.

Chronic

When seconds become serrated,
moments catch claws in the soft places,
sound snags sinew into agonies new,
they all will say there's not much to do.

Lovecraft

“perhaps a sensual fantasist who would place us in a world of strange and indescribable pleasures, in which candles, cloves, and coconut milk were of such unearthly perfection that language would declare itself nearly powerless to describe them. A literary “weird porn” might be conceivable, in which the naked bodies of the characters would display bizarre anomalies subverting all human descriptive capacity, but without being so strange that the erotic dimension would collapse into a grotesque sort of eros-killing horror. We will see that while the stylistic production of gaps augments Lovecraft’s power to depict monstrous horrors, the horrors themselves must occur on the level of literal content, not of literary allusion. ”

Excerpt From: Graham Harman. “Weird Realism:.” iBooks.

Played to Keep Playing

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Web Catch

This web
catch-trap
hag-snagger
rhyme, time,
feet, measure,
stanza and sting.
The bards knew,
and we do too.
Link.

story

I'm waiting to hear it,
Paying attention.

The Algol Variations

Black is extrapolated.
the third phase.
Its nature gleaned,
by observation,
of the variations,
of the dance,
of red and blue.

Run

"Any two particles that have once been in contact will continue to act as though they are informationally connected regardless of their separation in space and time." Bell's Theorem

Setting foot in here, you will never leave, and guess who runs this show?

Happy

Omens are viscous and making me smile. I'm studying the change in style. I already heard the jet plane sigh. The momentum is toward a new life. Don't cry, but you'll wish you cold die, meanwhile, I'll need no plane to fly.

NOW.

In the emerald city,
I found my magic whole,
Oyster shucked at
the Voodoo, taken
with a bit of horseradish.
At the Crossroads
by the Lucky Dog,
dropped a dime for
spirit and took a
communion and
danced.

The omen spoke
of a plane trip,
one the hag will
undertake, and which,
from the moment
the engines whir to
life--- will go horribly,
terribly wrong.

The way before me opens,
oysters at Voodoo,
and clams at the cross
and an omen that all
the workings are
in motion.