From the archive: I did sing to you, dreams

I did sing to you, your dreams (long)
As the moon did shine upon us
Come hither, to the grove
Deep inside the big Forrest

I did sing to you, your dreams
I did sing to you, your dreams

You did sleep upon the leaves of autumn
And woke upon springs first rain
The fires of summer did come again!

And thats how we met,
In time again and times that pass
We meet again, and then we part

Four of us will meet again,
Four of us when sleep began

I did sing to you, your dreams
I did sing to you, your dreams

Well meet again and meet to part
Feet will take to the path
March upon the winters ground

And thats how we met,
In time again and times that pass
We meet again, and then we part
and then we part…

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From the Archive: Cuddles

Cuddles are nice, and good for you too
Cuddles thrice, with food in your belly
feels and good as it could
I wish I could cuddle all my life

Cuddles make me feel,
all gooey and good
they change my mood
and hold me to you

Cuddles make me and you so happy
so lets have some cuddles tonight!

Milk hogs

”40” posted the hog, his snout elongated and sniffly

Nursing a cold like a new witch nurse’s a baby familiar

He looked at his accounting books from the milk crate factory

Beeswax slipped slowly down the morning milkshake

Shining yellow wattle light upon the poster on the wall

His old friend’s monkey and fox, and him, and the band they used to play in

Monkey had what? Gone to be a chef at that restaurant, in where? the London grotto?

Fox was Vixen now and made silk scarves and could she still forge the fakes?

Back to it, working, in the old accounting books, no cooking these he thought, taking a sip and trying not to sneeze

Clean now. Could the band still play? After all we were called

Crime’6 D0 Pa7

that was it! 60. The hog typed the answer into the log and decided to take a break.

He would give the old band a call, as soon as this cold passed.

Sniffling and wiping the last of the shake off his bristles, it was snowing again and time to go

Gen Tar Fried

Boiling hissing floating sickly

Made collision tongues simple

Them through flick enimies

Class sections airs become

For its all a war

Car park replication sit

unproductive upper filters eat

Thing Moment past farts

Waits potential apes died

Boiling made them class

Hissing collision through sections

Floating tongues flick airs

Sickly simple enemies become

For it’s all for war

Car unprotective thing waits

Park upper moment potential

Replication filters past apes

Sit eat farts died

So far, soft enough, warmth comes

Pricks of starlight frothing from the formidable sky. Grey clouds smothering the moonshine. Down warmth from the old fur knitting. It’s just soft enough to sleep soundly.

Blue sun rises on frosty plains. I wake and begin the day. Warmth coming and kissing the ground. Softly melting, and bringing a hope for spring.

Lacertae III: Bessemer Cruciballis

Pain. In the darkest places. Seeping, dripping, seeking, eating all it can.

Ice. Falling. Hail from the sky down to the frost covered ground. White, pure, but killing any hopes for spring.

Longing. I’m hearing you speak. Say words at a coffee table. Knowing that you will return to this moment. Knowing this is the moment I will remember in the weeks…

Ducks. Snow. Tamed memories.

Little things I remember. 

Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had. 

Eclipse. Moonshine. 

Water. The lake. Roaring waves. Iceland. Dark smiles.

Juxtaposition, and it’s still a hot coffee I’m drinking. Another morning. I’m here. I can still here you. It doesn’t feel fair. But since when was the goddess fair? She made both the grass and the snake hiding in it. Or just perhaps the precursors. The soup that makes our reality. The memorial service.

The ducks. The lake. The Lacertae.

Playful nothingness

Begin my Chicago travels

punk scene and strong coffee

smoke clouds amoung blue hair

Future my demise, roll diagnosis experience

Peak rice blooming under sunset clouds

Can’t touch one sphere without spreading all the others

Neon man has a hat, slumps in the bar

Running lie, low swings, marksman’s eyes

Little did I mention, xylene chains and planting in the rain

From ghosts, black soap, hotel copies of the tribune and the post

Cuddle heart

Every day my heart smiles

Every place we are together

Cuddle heart

Love to hear your voice

No matter your mood

Love the feel of skin

Especially, nude

This is our place together

Joined by love, angels feathers

We’re in our cuddle heart

I hope we never part

Every day my heart smiles

Every place we are together

Cuddle heart

Love to make you breakfast

Eggs shining as the sun

Love to see you smile

Tea and some bagels too

Love inside our house

Especially, you

This is our hearts together

This is our place together

Joined by love, angels feathers

We’re in our cuddle heart

I hope we never part

Every day my heart smiles

Every place we are together

Cuddle heart

Cloudblades

Cutting edges of the sky. Ishmael flies his pigskin blimp high. Drinking brandy, and some handyman takes the hammer wheel. Antichrist, the redeemer, or is he just a dreamer? Limited to dreams of living rooms?

Boost June of the markets, and harsh republic darkness, we can ensure the commissary looms. Flying over forests of eucalyptus, listing to Rick from The Band sing Holy Cow. Eating some cheese and doing nothing else now, except float along.

Wetlands forming where once were roads, greasy warthogs eating roots in an abandoned carpark. Wet silky grass growing out from this marsh, ghosting building aching from times past. Mikes dropping down the street, potatoes growing under his feet, have you heard the news?

Ishmael continues to deepen their search and steal all that girths, floating again by the sea. Still, there are plastic shells, creatures dying yells, the marks from little wars. No one thinks this is fantastic, the night that seems elastic, and a fortress full of ghosts.

Road number 2 1/2

Flossing the neck lamps.

Tramp built guillotine sat.

Glamour daemons anguished upon their fishing from the lists of dark moon rituals.

Calculator buns, fresh from the oven, ready to eat upon their half of the second street, horns and a coven whom hath been gathered.

Onion, Top Hats, Potato, Coal and Hatred used to summon the Captain of the great flush

He’s a tough nut to crack, even standing overdrawn by the rain next to a tobacconist. Muttering sweet hatred into the street corner, hoping your pity is worth another box of dime store magic.

Ever the half-life, shirt stained by ignoble truth he watched them, and all who come to pass. Daemons pay him little if any attention. Go about their endless quest to hear the fires of hell just a bit longer.

Shagging off the last of the most important smoke of the day, sagging and calving edgy cardboard boxes covered in blankets that keeps just enough of the downpour out. Aqualung is muttered, as he slenderly steps into the Dreamlands.

Trinity illustration

Breeze says me

Best come in three lot

Today, tomorrow, yesterday needs

What from this do you hope to achieve?

Can you describe sixty things you have done in the past that demonstrates this?

Are you a robot?

I’m not, but I am,

the product of but social and physical learning and conditioning within…

Instead they ask

I’m a yes but I’m a no

Strong my human blood flows

Can you describe?

Describe

How

You

Are?

But I’m just one person

One thing

A object but not

Money in the bank bank

Food in my fridge

Dream it learn it be it

it it it IT

Shorts working

Saturday morning car drive

History and my sigh

Feisty gritty remake

Watch it now

Again, binge

Consume

Create

Change?

Allowing the thoughts

I’m allowed to feel bad

It’s a personal thing

Not to block out that thing that was mean

Parking it isn’t the theme

We gain more life from letting it seed

Grow from my sadness

Grow from my pain

Grow in the garden

Enigmas grow again

I’m allowed to feel bad

It’s a personal thing

Not to block out that thing that was mean

Parking it isn’t the theme

We gain more life from letting it seed

Grow from my sadness

Grow from my pain

Grow in the garden

Enigmas grow now again

P’hore

In the darkness, they are waiting

those thoughts

Cycles and rhythms

Tether that has reached its end

Reaper of the sameness

They are full of mindless fury

each day to fight and fight again

For what?

To fight again

This pointless samsara

I am but a performance

Combined of the thousands of deaths

I became the end

They are still waiting

Anticipation for a long war

Rampant growth and angers

I get up and fight again

I cannot be killed

flames lick me

Lava falls upon my shadows

Stars exploding from my depression

Paths close

it will be again that this happens

The purity of that again

I fight against

Which just adds to it

Rock eternal earth

Pebbles in between the toes of trees

Boulders standing aeons beyond memory

Moses gathered on the future sand

Drip all your thoughts of man

Crystalised your minds maps

Silicon only takes short naps

Beech whisper sun and sand

Little creations seek to find caves

Staying among crystals older than any land

The entropy of existing is nothing to a rock

It will always be, and again

Until all the stars are gone

Then begin only then to feel an eternal friend

Snake queen and the devils

Flames of the devils have come among us, first tickling then stabbing at our every pore jarring it future open. Blistering blood floats to the surface bringing with it further heat as if it’s been equally possessed by demonic charge.

—-

Tightly she squeezes, the serpent of winter. Sucking all the heat from the land into her body like a black hole, scaring the landscape with her frosty tendrils, and taking with her the heat. She will lay an egg mid winter and the devils will find it with their heat and incubate it, when it hatches again her daughter will scour the land in her place. Her death and corpse will lead to spring, and be turned to ash in summer. One day though, her body will not die, her daughter will not be born, the devils will not come back, as the frost envelopes the land allowing her to suck all heat forever.

Uncomfortable history as a source, and of its addition to the pancake stack

Our uncomfortable history

Little drips of it come out

From this pancake stack some seem to want to approve of

Just plain pancakes they want and will send it back

But no matter

The chef tried to do their best

Tried to scrape it again

Mix it through twinges of pains

Lest, we forget that the place is not what we know

Replace the chef

Serve the pancakes again

Uncomfortable history first tries to drip

But can’t

The pancakes taste so plain

No one, questions if the source can ever be made again

Snailways

All across my path

Rain giving the land blessed baths

Snailways cross and part

Silken rails, drifting trails

On my way to get the mail

Snailways, from a rain-filled day

I need to be with you

Snailways, it another thing telling me

I need to be with you

Snailways, kneel down an say

I need to be with you

Snailways, from a rain-filled day

I need to be with you

Grit the shimmer

I’ve never been able

The grit and the table

Horse and her stables

Bridge lovers cables

Various embodiments of Hagel

Shimmer ever alongside clouds

Light seems to trip all the mounds

Pending upon fur pound

Very trod vent shaped like hounds

Crime embers bring high fowls

Fights dreamed in cowls

Emery gathered and bound

Cherry pie went, four clouds

Look, on the asphalt a stamp

Adapted that flourishing milk that drips from the succulent box. A unlikely case for a senior caseworker such that begins my appointment with this rocky day. Nourish me, lunch! Bring me my sips of caffeine thoughts! I’m dry from my horse whom came to naught.

Typical upon the municipal, supplication of my heuristic predictiveness, I’m a little apprehensive mystic. Instead other things were going on the sappy worry. Learning about the alien concept and bidding on the mobs feet.

I’m typing my fingers to the bone. Blast and through the morning phones. Grown things grown.

Soft Inter Transience (song)

(intro)

Soft inter transience

Winters cold touches us

Brewing our ambience

 

(chorus)

Halt, above my heaven!

Feel, outside etherial

 

(v1)

Dance all the way to the centre of your mind

Find the inner tribe of your feelings

Just look up to the sky, the moon is sitting high

Find the inner tribe of your feelings

 

(v2)

Perfects just a word, not a place for our kind

Find the inner tribe of your feelings

You look at you, your shelling your cocoon

Find the inner tribe of your feelings

 

(v3)

Buttfly you rise, out from inside

Find the inner tribe of your feelings

Fly up, fly up high

Find the inner tribe of your feelings

Pointillism of pores

I’m sitting on our bed, watching the darkness creep across the street

Little cicadas children hatch in the roots of the trees to crawl up and I start to forestall a night of cream shrieks

out of my clothes, naked and known I wait silently anticipating

titillating

participating

the shown

I want your momentum, your dreamscapes, your flesh against mine

Sheath, shell and reap the kisses and the teeth you touch against mine. Deep inside me, heart beats like the calling, I hear this warm cicada night

Stars bloom my night orchid swoon, engorging like a harvest moon. Cicadas scream as we bloom

Upon my form of lyre, from which I do desire, comes the flanking crops

Up and too, into hear, pain into ecstasy, upon my rear

Purple, your work, draws it’s words

And now, from into your mounds to I give chase, for milk and honey tunes do I need to hear

Faces meet for a repast of lips, it’s a very nice trip, but oh what a trick

I feel your hand below my hip

Little footfall fingers walking across my soft pages, reaching my spine and then down to the other hand playing the next

Often one can feel you break the dam, only to find beavers build it again. Oftentimes I would probably feel anyone but you would fail to break mine so much, that the rupture would be better described as a flooded basement with creaky house attached, but it isn’t possible to be so blasé. I’m flooding everywhere, creaky house pouring like the rain

Down and through this all, my timely means to get to you is but not delayed. For sure as the flood does cease, I am willing it likely to come again and again

Then taste, a good thing inside my mouth, sitting down around a bout, I’m twisted sheets and tongue attached, into caves, crevasses and cracks

No area is to small for my place to drink, lick or eat, it’s all a better meal than ill have this week