Definitely on something of a beat poetry-kick lately. I blame Kerouac and My.Red.Abyss. I probably blame Bob Dylan the most, sod Ginsberg – I never thought Howl was anything special anyway.


Budding flowers of asphalt roads birthed from cracks/stretch out impossibly smooth/ancient creature awoken/the limping pace of my motion/ nervous system’s tax/to walk ancient and pristine paths/ignorant living and the dead things’ wrath/see the midway minds of a generation, unbroken/but rather pygmied, with potential never truly awoken.

The shade shapes of dwarfish golems/rooted to their asphyxiation/ bellies and sexual organs swollen/beneath shrivelled heads to match a stature/a 51st state of discounted weekend rapture/expressions lead like Odyssean odes/fire motor neurons on long and languid roads.

Tenebrous sky hanging limp and lank/earth bold and broken/the passing of repeated feet; artist-poets rank/cough; arises dust with step into lungs/stop the journey before it is begun/choke before following foot falls/condemned to grey egregious halls.

Scolding the texture of scabrous earth/naked boots forged from Negro children’s sweat/to a crossroads I came the uterus of my birth/roads wrangle the rolling horizon/ slave-drivers tightening the noose about a siren/a siren a siren of the desert of the coast she must be/for no song is heard in the depths of the mountains or the seas.

Like Paradise the road but no handsome fool to follow/romantic to hunt my shadow like a bloodhound/that I would return to this spot come tomorrow/does Direction matter not to desolation walk on/feet upon the path I have begun/pass a wooden signpost noun scratched away/and traces of finger-blood reflect the night light of day.

A thousand steps or less or more/ nothing has changed but the curve of Terra; splinters up/red-lit papier-mâché cracked earth floor/a smile break out across resisting tendons/life-coloured mountains drag me on/and on I grow with every movement/across this night-baked sultry stream cement.

That distant and desirous dawn/the rapid heat which hangs above the road and wavers/around the form of some guarding titan born/voice blisters hollow the sound of silence/dares to mutter moan of life love violence/Truman’s Norns/not to be ignored.

Oh, how guttural! The sounds in his throat/the howling of wolf gasps of apes/ grand, grievous growling of goats/definite denial of desires/trace my footsteps beneath unfriendly foreign fires/the crossroads I return/bare feet dare to scold mock burn.

Beside dead equestrian sits a child/developed girl implores me sit/beside her eyes of drunken-mild/ hair so witch-wild/a dawn light sun, naked at least/crowded together the haunch of her beast/ignore the rose-petal tattoos on her chest/ coil around the rose-petal buds of her breast.

Hands a waterfall, flickering sensation/of throbbing ice-blood a veneer of flesh/she speaks she speaks in lips lost in translation/tongues speak the same language dance the same dance/silence; we commune of great insipid romance/grunt exerting ourselves/delivery to personal silent hells.

And hold each other in sweat/she holds me like Virgil and I babble like pontificate/the sweetness of her shoulder blade records debts/ her and the titan and the corpse-comfort/and the flickering heat which the horizon distorts/a weakness of my eyes/a post orgasmic shudder which I despise?

How could I not but sleep/beneath an untenebrous sky kicking light loud this smooth-dust-skin-stained girl in a heap/the bones of a mount in my spine/desert breaking apart around us in greedy lines/a child playing squares with his grandmother/ shivers beside the fire beneath her covers.

Ravaged propaganda flutter flickers/catch the wind like a twentieth century poet/the face of scarred paint lines bickers/with our peace and naked contentment/and mocks our horse-flesh tenement/but it makes for such a restful bed/muscle and bone and blood for my restless head.

The sun sets a thousand empires/crackling dawn to crackling dust like mosquitos/catching light reflections from their very own pyres/paper words and images change/the fear and the loathing remain exactly the same/scratch revulsion in the cracked desert sands/the burning asphalt with blackened hands.

A morning we taste horsemeat/sliver slavers of body-cooked muscle/skin toughened against desert rain sand sleet/I leave her stretched skin between her lips/my warmth between her hips/and listen once more to the steady drum beat/crippled, robotic advance beneath breaking sun’s heat.

Vanish gone in the dry bone heat/adieu late dawn/dust bite into my feet meat/distant distance and another giant/turn me back my portable client/with whips of Objectivism/Existentialism/desert-bound spitfire solipsism/a heat-reflected prism prison/with ghosts as those who reign/and memories of myself as chains.

One thought on “On Creation

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