Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

god portrayed as a lightpost brigade leaning lazily upwards


the sullivan wrap intrudes upon sacrifice
giving umbrella'd fantasies to gargoyled enemies
plastered against feigned sky turbulences
amid the encroaching wharves in staid purple

the faltered banana over-ripe with homeric odysseys
churning the vagrant alleyways for protuberances inlaid
in paths of majestic indifference winding loosely
in gravity's knots across bouquets of dried viruses

majority rules the quaking oats grown on sorrows soil
impregnated with tomorrows going thru flasks of ninety proof
sidestepping condolences mimicked by over coated pedestals
ruminating nightmares crowned with thistles in bloom

injustice lines up on four legs begging for bones dehydrated
by solstice endings forsaken by the lollipop crowds
delirious for open awareness’s addressing caustic embellishments
on kneepads woven with satanic imagery gone comic

the laffs of one thousand herons wading fortuitously
across swamps like idyllic notes banging remorse codes
processing hydrants of spew across deserts void
encapsulated thru the monotony of lips drooling in fear

the bucked stars infamous in their shiny lies
distort the moribund joy of deaths busy signal
to ears filled with kernels of confusion
rotating in circular fury behind pupils gone blind

the sashes of levered pistols cocked in delight
erect the definition of manhood lost in reefs
buried by tears dropped like turds from glass asses
blown by drifts of snow-clad snakes shimmering in toledo

the macabre melodrama lives for chained sanities
percolating within the anterior landscapes winnowed
from the shaking hysterical rumblings of institutionalized
forebearers basking on moonlight-drenched staccato mattresses


sleeping beneath the rafts overflowing with semen decoys
sputtering the vanities of religiosity gone mad
with hums and drums and crucifixes mainlined with prayers
begging for release from seven light poles fixed on darkness

cartoon embellishments mesmerized by light that never quits
the alien forecast of whether or not ties the chord
singing in the lyrical vastness of eclipsed pretensions
stained with crimson veins bursting from congestion

make believe into statuesque villainy to honor immobility
so the mind doesn't crumble under the chisels pressure
chipping away at the density of space to protrude
its diligence to the massive outlay of stupidity's reign

harp the loan shark mentality across the tightened noose
and vilify the anachronistic trays of voodoo cowboys
riding the serpents birthed by the pretzeled union of
skeeter davis and walt disney naked from the chaste down

booga
booga
booga

tremolo the antelope
the steer is off key
heads up neck stiff
charge the light
brigade
brigade
brigade



cecil

light portrayed on a wood floor in rectangle framing an impenetrable darkness. god speaks in a vienese accent from bare forty watt bulb
childhood's wandered by old men in search of lost children whip sawed by ghostly shadows fleeting acrosss rusting cracked bridges to the big muddy lonesome voices on cb radios flowing in a river of lights from poluted harbors from shore to shore opportunity knocks on deaths door revealing a beat
boogity boogity

In Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity, Richard Rorty argues that Derrida (especially in his book, The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond) purposefully uses words that cannot be defined (e.g. Différance), and uses previously definable words in contexts diverse enough to make understanding impossible, so that the reader will never be able to contextualize Derrida's literary self.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacques_Derrida

That's a refreshing thought

Ol' Jack Derrida... sounds like a good man.

interesting
I liked your post a lot Cecil
verbal overload for my aching brain
ripping away the scales from my mind
I was trying to get into the spirit of it. But I am a slave to meanings.

About twenty seven years ago I stood on a hill east of San Franscico looking west. It reminded me of the title of a book I have never read called Cities of The Red Night

It was around dusk and I-80 was a river of lights going both ways And on the western horizon was a skull cap of red light above the city I could not see. A grinning skull.

Thx, truck... if i'm not mistaken the piece likes you, too.

a grnning skull imitating the smiley sun... both know what makes them happy. now if only...