Tuesday, April 24, 2007

A doctor dressed as Captain America sexually assaults a woman during a costume party. booked while still wearing blue tights and head gear. in possession of a large burrito and drugs. While in the restroom, he attempted to flush a bag of marijuana as well as a joint down the toilet. The police were able to recover a joint from the toilet but the bag was flushed.

Friday, April 20, 2007

THE MASOCHISTIAN: Burden worthy of abandonment. Woman to the whimpers of the unreformed paroled. Hung on nails a decade wide, sentenced to an unweaned infancy. Peeling in the zone, the organ flaps like clipped reels of film. When will slavery mean anything more then hooks in the blue lights? Then a cleansing hand casting shark-maws over lacquer-bathed features? The tagged, overwhelmed with rumored heavens, operate until the tract lights hum.

WOLF TICKET BOX OFFICE: Need is not generous. None is all reward. Eyes minus the talon delusions that only complicate the letting go. Leave me a maw where I can twist in the ganglia. Sometimes I feel like sweating. Why give it a name? Stylish grace is nothing but a fall that moves to fast for you to know the spike is there, waiting on hose to trim the crease that otherwise will not glow. I'm not in for escape, though abortion is fine. . Tell me what deceives your sleep into believing in the breaking day. I'll listen for footsteps. The intrusion sustains me.

PEACH PITS: I wake up back first. Thrown out from laughing at the idea that I meant anything to you. You like the none of them, ignoring what beares your name. An angel I didn't even know I wanted until she told me "this will be hell". Justify my leviathan. You're only naked once. Supine on frigid metal, badly stitched inside a pink coffin. The catalepsy in tribute to the crime. No more testing sugar for bitterness before welcoming sun and flies. Why wish for your love-taps when time has battered the shingles in?

GOODBYE, LAZARUS: He commits rape everytime he looks you in the eyes. He walks like a "woman", hiding goat horns in a rusted coin slot between the slope and the crash. He creaks on hind-legs around abortion-matter, blessing the tits his tongue hid from. And while he plays up the cuts I know peaks into the pit of wound would humble or confuse. But we'll forgive him, cause we remember the goodbye to the horses who came for rifles to avoid the run. Though gesture can be nothing but empty, he moves to labor pains as if the dance will epitomize.

TARANTULA KITCHEN: We've talked enough about the sun, comparing slits to horizons as if one would open in tribute of the other. Bandage atmospheres smooth out the folds to let the constellations blotch. Breathing feels like watching someone else vomit. There is no blood anymore. No one who won't feel around for hangnails. They'd rather laugh with the routine it has become. You won't confine me to performance anymore, torn between "mute" and "virgin". I've never been anything. At least now I am no one.

RECOVERING VIGILANTE:It's hard to vegetate without meats to gnaw. A numb wash-out just below "recluse". Ghost-tamped sands...gnarled melodies from wire in hands that are pre-occupied with the thin air between furniture and the well-aged dirt our eruptions have petrified.. Form enriched by splatter-film possibility. Wormed cores convinced by the canes that they're something sweetly. Bleach will be exchanged. Pressed and steamed before attached to squid-gifted apparatus. The masochist hushed by conquering voyeurs. Grindhouse heroines writhe before the drill-bit, glazed in the syrup our jaws invoke.

LARVAL-STAGE RAPIST: Deep down, I've always wanted to be beaten. Renamed "example". Enigma-deficient. Without the restraining order there is no where for the cigarette-burns. Now understanding depends upon the numbness pencil-lead invokes. Used to enrich mutilation with insemination's sickly glow. The paint-thinner brewed to mudslide, warning-trickles on the shanks that swell and split to reveal sky-varicose. I clip the fringe that made a weak denim of the membrane. Tassels on a concave chest, distracting and denying Mecca. Remade in five-year intervals so we won't be figured out.

COMPOST FOSSIL: Oxygen trafficked through nostril, fogging windows already opaque and ominous. The ghostly half reflections of Earth that make me think maybe I've been to jungles before. Where high tension wires were snakes I could finally outrun. Where I can raise with the sun without the balancing act, since I know the planks are bound for ocean floors. The crows no longer bitten in half, only in flight above ambiance in flames. Like charred currency fluttering from Molotov Cocktail gutted mansions. You lay yourself beneath the black maw the blast made of the gates and columns, fossilized in compost as marble and flesh fused into a flaking sculpture.

HYPNAGOGIC CAREGIVER: Understand. Twice before she wilted. A counterpoint to my habit for gorging on grains teeth scrape off sandpaper. The mercury-precipitation hardens them so they can carve slung cherubs into anatomical bark. Overcast peels itself back. White suns appear like kneecaps crowning the wounds of crouching legs. Sleep-deprived nightcrawlers curling like organs around spearheads, flashing gun-metal dentures. Grafting scalps over grids so some part of us won't be elemental.

BACK OF THE FACE: You've always been the habit. Brandishing IVs, their oily chromium engorged and twisting code into the paw, raising wound-white lines. Silhouette drew a pick-ax where arm merely gripped the rag-doll mutilated in your name. Hushed between canals, the grief that should've been mine now rocks in a chest whose hinges don't so much creak as they do casually moan with the naive indifference of cripples throat-deep in quicksand. At the foot of your bed I clutch factory-bagged feathers, Alkaline transmitting the weight.

DNA SPACKLE: Arrivals are for the forgettable. Seems to me sleep was what killed every last one of you. I'd hang that bastard over sugar and let the ants eat. I hear they take red in a tone that only those left awake will know, but really it's just the pigment beginning to blotch. Pick an insect off the sticks, never knowing age from water-cut-notch. You won't be without alibi or excuse, and I'll be relieved of the burden of under-living. History will provide a service when it has all of us erased.

EVEN THE CRUST WON'T TOUCH: Remind me again what gives compression of ailment as its inversion credence? Love only gave patience the time it takes to transcend into languor. Gloves unravel, the bone-colored nail polish making your hands where the skin ends, flayed in bombshell sphere. Brain-scan outlines hammerhead-blotches, fizzing from the foresight. Mice skeletons collect in pockets of cardboard, where grey drops down into pike for crickets the length of my mouth who walked abdomen-up, dislocating antenna. A corpulent specter exercising passage-rights outdated a lifetime-over, catering to paramedic-tastes, lobotomized into a svengali with enough bronze on his bones to immortalize orphan-heels. The worms that clench when fabric bottoms out are somehow correlated to wired-jaw-morse-code, lending the merit so the real substance is refused.

CARRION DAWN: This made no difference. I've really only relied on whatever was left of a tapeworm scoured from the abdomen of a true terminal. I've heard the expression "explanations are a wasted communica". In the most archaic of asides, once I would have been inclined to agree, be it out of a morbid dependence on events I've taken surgical measures to distort or a real vendetta. The goal was never to assimilate, but to devour and provide time the pink it takes to erase and not the green of a relapse that elongates throat and gate. A roadside transmundane. The middles of night that once rarely bred now feed on carrion-dawns so suns will only have peaks. Whatever I am is to be nothing but a rustle amid more conclusive cacophony.

REMAIN A CRAWL: Reborn with flies on my face. Waters draw dark-continent-dominance on these streets. Burlesque images from a leper colony. I've had nothing but future since then. A tenth generation slave trade anointed by icepick. Mad and naked under the kissing-flags. We listen as their souls crack, chilling indentations in waves that make the hinges hiss. Reducing warmth to rinds...to snaking patches of muscle. She said to destroy, not to brand yourself the command. Too many of you rely on ashes when articulating an end.

WHEN STALKERS INVERT:Anonymity is the peace of a cemetery. Fatalism in negotiations. Bacteria matures into moss, sheathing skyscrapers. Barb-wire mesh constellations across late-night horizons. Noise stabilized into a voice familiar enough to be technicolor. "When did you invent heartache?" the accused quipped. Inaudible rattles echo burn-victim shadows, easing reaching theorists. Shaking in the corner, shellac rustled. A bed of moons on the floor. The Halloween-orange hallways give out from under pike-valleys. Scramble brains while the marrow's premature. Black rabies froth congeals and you still won't call it tar.

CHLORINE GARGOYLE (Title taken from "Wriggle Like a Fucking Eel" by Whitehouse): The hives were neon-white pinholes across the iris. Stomach cribbing sludge outside the vinyl in lines where "renegades" broke in their wings. Where the light blurred contours. Where shadow ruled all the same. It's not up to me whether or not he is drowning. My head just held the water. Respiratory death rattles recall the telluric laments of nursemaids in a manhole; disturbing in the best sense of the term.

VULTURE DUSK: The radiation from the signs looks like an arch-light in the fog. I told myself we will all glisten even if the rain never comes. The sand bags connect us. The holes in our throat open wide enough to consider wingspan...day-fly and then vampire bat, each wearing through lampshades to outrace the burnout. It was a wrist the shovels loosened at the joint from cherry picking dirt-red bullets from garbage dumps. Her world is all the more black knowing that I inhabit its plains. Sewing machines strung together this womb so I can recreate invention with a wire's pinch at the end. I never thought beyond retribution when entertaining assault, but my body always remained the aim.

DIMENSIONLESS MERCURIAL: I have no past worth mentioning. No face to put to scabs that manipulate histories. Existing is voyeurism. In comparison, the stalker is merely passionate, having at them in low-key cannibalism rather than infrequent self-immolation. Leak out of bodies angels tug between plains, dripping from holes their fingerprints burned into my skin. You are not of a sordid time.

THE ROMAN EMPIRE AS INTERPRETED BY A SCHOOL OF GREAT WHITE SHARKS AND A DEAD WHALE:Generations don't name themselves. That's bestowed upon the prior, the bitterness from their own christening-ritual-trauma fresh but forgotten, because otherwise they would relax baby-fat-soaked backhands and merely gesture around their throat until the slash points down the corridors, the clicks of plastic meeting bone like rats rapping toe to the floor of the gallows where shadow hangs himself first so we all think that we're dead but we can live to see the hurt.

THEY'RE DEAD, YOU KNOW: Maybe in another test we won't miscount the spider-eggs, now known only by the thickness of the purple clouds, billowing after the hatchlings' march into the radiator. How will we walk when the venom runs through the crinkles in our brain? How long until our fingers can detail in their own grease? I never thought I'd live to see another violet overcast. Maybe there is more to me than a shy necrophile.

BUILDS:I suppose I woke up for nothing, since I also went to sleep on an empty stomach, mind webbed in the ribs of a neck-securing halo; a shape cast out of lens. Slosh the paste to make my bread, tagging at the index, incision like some tethered braid; an impression on the grime. Gargoyles slur ubiquitous one-liners in a Christian's name. You play with damages that reduced build to wretch....to frame that relies on cables for ascension. Leaving my body for the pockets between muscles the way I abandoned voice in ears of brain, left a warbling grotesque at the bottom of the throat, popping from ash and abyss.

GUIGNOL PIN-UPS: The dark room was built with windows in mind. Nerve-black. Vinegar-rain brings up pink-foam from tender pulps that erupt in a wine-bladder and apple-cores. Don't bother the lock. Residue frames tongue in a scissor-age. Tin sheds crumble like foil pulled off a child's face. I've got the blood of operas to show I am more than screaming. How much more careful can I be? Don't I already bear the guilt of catholic vigilantes? I haven't been young since I learned I deserve to be beaten if their mother is dead. That men in drag are only art if their kills are out of love.

LIQUIDATING PURGATORY: Intent somewhere between mongrel and rictus. Patting thighs as seen through peepholes, mold gathered around the edge where vein submits to iris. An anaemic approaches a biohazard sign. Larva clings to lung leading to question. What moths will come? Will they dream of life beyond the holes their shadows burn into my neck? Marinated salamanders track grease into the folds, convincing us that Heaven's arms outlined figures in ambrosia. Inch up to the door, making words instead of noise. So when the torture-racks find you settled, the apparitions will understand the sentencing.

INSIGHT IS SICKENING: I drove the nail right through my brain. Most of it was reptile I found. Talking naked men down from bell towers cause I'm sick of being upstaged. Amputate with nail-clippers or I will wear the thorns with even greater obnoxia than the bruise violet inner-child you exploit. Hole-punched lungs drain tar only so it can access pore. Carnage captured to from but still no greater than idea. You talk as if to remind me that I'm fascinated. As if your throat is a wormhole where symptom will transgress. We weren't meant for business, yet we are in-immune to analysis. Insisting upon corners to disintegrate grey matter that imposed. Separate in form when we are all just frustrated conversationalists.

KETAMINA: Twelve hours and counting spent tunneling through Vaseline caverns, their meaning inherited rather than innate, but no less obvious. I'll hate it there. Where the rattle-ends make predators of the hands. Smoking under umbrellas so the clouds your lips shape will yellow all skin but your own. We were no heads, just faces with necks, mingling in garbage tourists have blackened with value. The waters blow cellophane bubbles with dolls in utero-pose. The goat-faced parts his carefully oiled mane, being sure the razor won't pierce the orb that rose in the amputated horn's wake. My mid-wife touch execution style.

JESTER AXIS: Certain smells stay with me. Paper mills and their burn-it-down metals. Time rides skin-heavy serpents, the accumulated sheathes weighing them down. They require a hope that only serves to build a symbol's promise, referencing ills with enough romance to make them remedy. Chemical-burns bring the circus out, dismissing escapist-thought in migration times. I've been here every night, with voice and spiral, tails and weeds connected to the same rat-cast. Defeating the purpose with postcards of our "camera shy" poses. To feign the acceptance of affairs when "ghost" wasn't an option is to lay out a prayer rug in hope that their memory wont invite. You're nothing longer than you exist.