Saturday, February 22, 2014

First Time Lad Almost Takes a Fist – By Raw Fuck – Click here for more



The very idea of a cock in my mouth has become banal.

I write this, even, while watching a video of a young man gorging on the cock of another, his buttocks bouncing against the tennis shoes he is still wearing, while wearing nothing else.

The stronger it gets, the softer the nuance.

That’s the proper way.

Wide open, we’re all just waiting.

Gloved, or ungloved, it’s all just objects in an object:  objectifying the thing that we are looking and feeling at.

Fingers like a burnishing, or finishing off a turkey, a whisper of total regard for the feast, while still panting at the prospect of denial; so he denies himself.

Open, gape, he is our unknown.

Our always known.












Sunday, February 16, 2014

FIVE STANZAS (meditating)







STANZA I


The ducks there are did like
How I like them all.
But I will never know a duck
Or how a duck at all.




STANZA II


They may be responsive
But  not in the way you desire:
So many, so many, so many
Things left to discover, to explain.




            STANZA III


In process, in memory,
All things told but not heard once.
No one feels the grape on the toe
Or the opportunity that fosters a
Further one. That which is planned,
Sealed by the stars as an exile once
Dreamed of yet starkly shook by its
Very embrace. Plainly mine, a chance.
As often they speak what which made
Them. All or not at all alike, likely alone.



STANZA IV


I meant to wish to go there along with
All my wishes and wants and whatnots.




STANZA V


It is not easy to grow more un-
Easy, even while practicing the craft
Of a betterment of temperament. The
False things always seem right, as right
As a left-handed letter writer can be.
They will always will the crowd towards
Coupling, a still minor fraction of what we
Always call words. Do you do or do you not
Do, or do you sometimes do and other times
Not do? Not what the could have left to be a
Do or not do? A typical arrangement? A possible
Burden on the done and not done already done,
We speak our cares that carry our worry in our
Sacks like how we like them to be, hidden, yet

Wholly open and available because we are, also, too.







Saturday, February 8, 2014

The Not Talking Tale






A header loop, blasted past the changeable insults of silence; frank fucked and fleeting with each passing wind, the narrower the power the solider the bounce. The old pound of indifference leads one to think such thoughts as to think about nothing, nothing at all. It can be a tough up for cups, still full with our memories, and dripping with contempt. What I mean to say is a sudden foaming, looming large against the reflection of the window. I just want you to know you’re a lovely dancer. That being said, there are foams all over your face and you look like a hyena, laughing at all that stares at your in the face. The fair and enduring structures cannot be held, nor told, to the mass that occupies that seat. A pot of fear makes for a grand ointment. The demands for such saddened cups. Let’s take a moment to mourn:  the puppet’s pulpit. Let’s legitimatize the condiment table. Let’s loosen our perceptions and call a spade a rake. Tubular men tie sponges to the teeth and float away endlessly. This is what we call the stupor of reason.

An inevitable hilt, stuck by the side of the road,

still running.