I have schmoozed and now there will be no flirting.

October 9, 2008 at 7:48 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 16 Comments
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Because it is Friday night and it is a small price for you to pay to be silent and not to require reassurance, I will assume I do not need to convince you to trust me and that you will simply allow me something I want. To assert, to claim and to leave the proudest of proclamations that you, exquisite jewel and miracle of desire have given yourself to me, in the arch of your spine, in the presentation of your throat, in your active and insistent absorption of me and it is your desire for this mark that has graced me with this momentary and convulsive divinity.

Reverse psychopomp.

September 19, 2008 at 5:59 pm | Posted in antihaiku, blogging, links, podcast, poetry, prosepoemthingy, tshirt | 22 Comments
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Roll up roll up says the old priest staring into the mirror
and wiping away the teardrop tattoo again,
just another Friday night,
play that reverse

  • psychopomp
  • again,
    exu,

    Ari abandoned,

    August 18, 2008 at 6:27 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 14 Comments
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    Somewhere inside someplace else
    he mumbles, ari abandoned into
    the starry night, just grab it by
    the scruff of the neck, boy,
    but make sure you do it light,

    I told him, I said, you’ll never get one of those things to stop for you. They’re made of light, they’ll be faster than you even going backwards but does he listen. Off chasing horses again. And we are left here, my darling, with this tiny fire contained in the desert at night, said Sunonhead into the emptiness as he struck damp flints and smiled.

    got a rolls royce

    August 5, 2008 at 6:31 pm | Posted in music, prosepoemthingy, writing | 11 Comments
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    ‘cos its good for my voice,
    anyone can write maudlin introspection
    looking into a goddamn mirror, sir ian, he said
    clattering up from his chair and tossing
    kings and pawns and chequered boards across the room,
    play that Amsterdam Song again
    the one in which squalls approached and not a man objected,
    slamming his drink down on the piano in F.
    and leaning in smelling of salt fish, absynthe
    and the last trace of some Egyptian cigarette,
    so close his whiskers brushed my cheek and whispering,
    have you seen the piano player, my dear,
    his gift was only in his hands,
    as he closed the diamond clasp around my throat
    leaned back and smiled
    or has he disappeared,

    So i said

    July 25, 2008 at 7:08 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 13 Comments
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    to him, Terry, mate, you are supposed to be creating a fucking revolution not whispering in the halls of academia. Fuck’s sake, man, get a grip, haha, said F. placing his frothy glass immaculately on the centre of your belly where despite the many tides and storms stays immaculately upright, though tilting, it’s good to be home,

    Haha, I am back, my love, I have a gift, he says, leaning down and kissing your nipple like tasting a strawberry, a new tattoo, it’s a crouching tigger hidden dragon tattoo, schimply schplendiferous looking down at you,

    The Kevin Spacey Eyebrow.

    July 24, 2008 at 6:35 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 10 Comments
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    this time, I swear, didn’t do it
    nuh uh, he says, like some Kevin
    Spacey eyebrow,

    The scar above my left eye, caused by a flying ashtray, is now invisible amongst the laugh lines,

    11.00 a.m. The kids are at school hopefully learning the human, curse you Walt Disney she mumbles and he is happy at work hunting some temporary advantage in a land of fast travelling jewels. His secretary is younger than her but she retains the advantage. She knew his gift such as it was, was only in his hands and she allows him his moustachios because it is cheaper than another Porsche. She still listens to Nina Simone on occasion but it is much rarer these days that she selects track 12, “The Other Woman.” She understands that every art must be tempered with a certain craft and how to make him enjoy the wait and afterwards a wake,

    I’m riding

    July 8, 2008 at 5:40 pm | Posted in antihaiku, prosepoemthingy, writing | 20 Comments
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    a slow horse out of a dead town, Jim. Sun’s always setting somewhere, he says to me, in passing. I am sitting chewing, yep, somewhere you just know there’s a starving mongrel licking itself, old copies of illustrated poetry chapbooks by hiptalking New Yorkers discussing metaphysics through pop culture drift by like spinifex in a spirax notebook while mulitcoloured creatures twitter in their wings waiting their turn, some English manor house with a governess in sleeves and cap then wicked spirit from down the mountain comes, fuck Hemingway says Sir Ian give me Prospero or De Sade sipping his third martini under a parasol, Mamu, tell someone to bring the car, The Pink Cadillac, I feel like riding on the freeway,

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