Combustion And Reconstruction

I have a stalker
Her name is death
She penetrates the outskirt
Of my being
in a dainty way
I’d love to do nice things
For her
But then I awake
To realize she is already dead
And full of nothing
But lies, deceit,
Rows upon Rows
of
Endless aging
And
decomposed catacombs
Don’t listen to her
She has a husband in Hades
His name is Napoleon
With a Napoleon Complex
Down Upon
rows upon rows
Of
descending
Ancient catacombs.
(A lot of rich people down
In the pit of the earth)
Where forlorn
Mansions of Hades
Reside,
Combustion
And reconstruction is essential,
Circumambulating the
The futile wreckage
Which preceded Dante
In his misplaced terrestrial wisdom

PS.
Don’t worry
I see my therapist today,

Selah

what I find in the daytime

                   what I find in the daytime


you can find anything in a city park
in the daytime
when the
abysmal Latino youngsters kick around
soda pop cans next to a city park trashcan
this trashcan is an emasculated
trashcan
the chains wrought
round the metal shaft
speak voluminous
pathos of kinship
but don't fuck my niece
anywhere in the nighttime
this is what I find
about a city park in the daytime
4 PM is good for cocktails
if you're an alcoholic
in the daytime
and the nighttime
this is what I find

if I had one wish
I'd piss on the sun
in the daytime
this is what I find

in the
nighttime
the angel of death frequents my apartment
this is what I find
in the nighttime

Dreaming,
I  hear
her voice calling my
name in the daytime
this is what I find
that
she is pretty
and
she wants to fuck me
in the nightime
this is what I find
but then,
 I can't wake up to go
to school in the morning
to make friends with
sedimentary Fred and
the Fossil Fuel Companions
in the daytime
this is what I find

I'm a ghost in the nighttime
pouring old sentiments
into elementary Keith's
bitters, and
the
daytime Jews
 are just for hangovers
in the nighttime
this is what I find
that,
even the devils gets lonely
in the night time
this is what I find

when I was a child
 in the nightime
I would wonder,
do aliens make dumb statues of themselves too
and then
 bow down to them
like fools?
in the daytime
of my youth this is
what I would find
that
humans are dumb
in the day time and
the nighttime
this is what I
found

The Universe Running Downward (from a bridge at 4 AM in the Winter)

                                                    The Universe Running  Downward

                                                  (from a bridge at 4 AM in the Winter)

                                              Bearing witness to immutable tragedies

                                We've seen Sanskrit engraved upon ancient pyramid walls

                                Biorhythms of baroque intensity

                               coruscating within molecules of our small intestines 

                               as we  try to sleep

                                only this

                                is not a dream but an 

                                                 artificial (humanity), 

                              terrestrial firmament of light and lies,

                               what I'm trying to say is

                                 I know because 

   

                      1)         I've stood from a bridge peering downward 

                                   at 4 am towards the sea,

                                  vicariously overlooking the tragedy of my youth 

                                   The sea remained immutable to the tragedies

                                   peering downward at 4 AM, 

                                   our past sorrows perpetuate

                                   the immutable sea of human desire.

                                  

                                   I loved a woman 

                                  

                                   I never loved a woman  

                             

                                Looking outward over the city lights 

                                 (in all their complexity) 

                               at 4 am in the wintertime,  

                           I saw an indecisive  seagull towering over the sea,

                         indifferently wavering,

                           I was that  seagull once 

                           perennially oscillating,

                           towering,

                           condescending my soul to the sea 

                          ambiguous 

                          people and traffic lights

                          wrought my nerves to the brink 

                         of oblivion

                  if I let them, while

                          working an abysmal

                          graveyard shift 

                          enduring lies and

                          deceit, preoccupying my time, the

  pride of life reverberated within the

                           ancient nocturnal city 

                         at 4 AM coming down 

                         from methamphetamine 

                         watching Forensic Files

                         under the city lights,

                         I saw nothing once and

                         bared false witness to the 

                        nothing twice 

                        serving 

                         demonic childhood ideals of

                        falsehood  and avarice,

                        these Ancient misunderstood 

                       women 

                       permeate my subconscious 

                       while I'm trying to sleep at 4 AM 

                      under the sea of the nocturnal city lights,

                      closer and older now,

                     the universe  running downward

                      upon a

                      rowhome in South Philadelphia

                         toward the rural city outskirt

                     the sea of nocturnal city lights, 

                      remain immutable at 4 AM in the winter. 

                      see me in my bedroom then

                       while I was trying to sleep.

                       shouting upward from tenement dooryards to a  2nd story window 

                  

                        Failing to sleep during the day,

                   because the ancient women will find me dreaming and

                castrate my fears

                with their primordial shears of innocence

                  drenched 

                   with blood  

                  the swaddling cloth embracing

                  urban sink faucets 

           I've pondered these faucets from

                     other peoples sofas in the city

                  awaking to daily news of deaths and overdoses,

                  pocketchange tsunamis

                  hidden within 

                 the inverted gaudy loveseat

                 of  human time,

                   is a lie but real

                  at the same time

                    I used to drink red wine in the wintertime by myself

                              cursing the ancient women,

                            they only wanted me to view myself

                            as they did,

                            to be like-minded

                             only 

                             I do not love them 

                             nor want to be like-minded

                            at 4AM

 gazing downward

                 over nocturnal city lights 

                          fabricating the immutable tragedy

                             of time

                          as it bashes our skulls inward, 

                           our spirits outward

                          toward the immutable sea of penitence

                       

                    I was never above the sea,

                        I only thought I was

                        that is what the ancient women were trying to tell me.

                                  Selah

  

arboreal winter

           prostrate
           on my face again
           vulnerable to blanch unforgiving elements
           scattered snow and
           lethargic Winter skeletons
           dance amid sullen isolated oak
           authentic tranquil seasons
           procure an ancient cryptic vernacular
           yet 
           my heart remains
           an obsolete divisive galaxy
           watch it dissipate
           across a whitened terrestrial landscape 
           peer through stolen earthly data
           to
           get a rare glitch on youthful intimacies
           i have forgotten
           reference obscure pantheistic calendars
           to create
           a kind of
           filial artificial anecdote
           I am used to
           then
           latently depart
           as a
           dreamlike apparition
           betwixt naked treetops
           ascending 
           into an ancient celestial abyss
           dead, dear and stoic
           my love will
           remains
             

she and her

                  She      
                         
                            a pale face configured beauty,
                             supine she lay
                       
                               (soon to arise)
                               
                                 from a queen size mattress
                                  frizzy sable hair
                                  atop her aching skull
                                     while
                              outside a conduit development
                               neighborhood terriers
                                yapped in disbelief
                                 "those terrible dimwit dogs must be
                                    leased to elderly children"
                                   she said,
                                        her migraine
                                  channeled neonatal
                                         traces of light                
                                throughout transient
                                residential windows
                         microwave instant coffee
                               dissembled embryonic
                                   reflections of
                                     her youth
                                     when 
                                 kaleidoscopic rays
                                    echoed
                               daytime truths throughout
                                     transient
                                residential
                                     windows
                                     of her mother's youth
                                 
                                               She            
                                       
                                dug bedtime grains
                                from menopausal retinas
                                once,
                                long ago
                                blanched grains of sand
                             dispersed along deserted beaches
                              
                            a suggestion for you "the reader,
                              teacher and helper shall retain:
                       
                              "her mother killed two
                               knitting solemnly each
                              single twain of hope
                              shed celestial light
                             where she stood
                             as a pedagogic dinosaur
                             forever before the catholic church
                             terrestrial breasts heaving
                             above
                             ecclesiastical staircases
                             inevitably ascending heavenward
                              below february skylines
                              a brilliant two-sided
                            motherly conflagration
                            procured a paragraph 
                             of eternal scripture"
                        
                          'twas a season
                              her dulled wrists
                                  bleeding
                                   drawn apart
                                 to sullen evening,
                               
                                  "I've seen families
                                    torn apart"
                                 
                                her last breath sneered
                                resounding throughout chapel vestibules
                                    a second adolescent visage
                                   swaddled the back of her skull
                                          one terminal voice
                                     she couldn't separate herself
                                    from
                                  was the one of a child
                                                 a devil
                                   plastered to the back of her skull
                           
                                     I do not believe she'll hear my story
                                    
                                        the child's last dribble without
                                             any remorse
                                             my filth
                                               she understood
                                                all sin
                                               she understands
                                                  we all die of suffocation
                                                    below sallow windswept
                                                    paintings
                                                   of dead families
                                             
                                         
                                                   
                        
                 

County Blues: within these walls

County Blues: within these walls:                                                           Time does not have four sides                          never did and never will ...

Leslie Ann

                     Ancoats, North West England 
                              Christmas Day 1964

              
                              Dawn elapsed through downstairs curtains of the Downey household unto Christmas. Overlooking whitened residential streets, a..m. hours malingered to pallid morning "the industrial revolution changed all of it"-  as Daddy says over evening tea and papers, recalling a time before the outlined streets pressed onto fruition.
                             Mummy aligned our tree annually in tinsel, lolly, red & green ornaments, only this year
                             as to my tenth birthday; there would be a brand new sewing machine swaddled in wrapping paper with a note: Happy Christmas Leslie Ann!!!  
                                  
                                   "Innocence is wasted on the youthful" Ian Brady December 27 1964

                                   "He was very persuasive, if he told me the earth were flat or the moon to consist of swiss cheese,  I'd surely of believed him" Myra Hindle January 1982

                                  Ten year old Leslie Ann Downey was lured from an Ancoats Fairground, Boxing Day 1964, (day after Christmas).  Brady and Hindley spotted the young girl idling by a ride. The couple jumbled boxes outside the doors of Hindley's minivan, cunningly baiting Downey into assisting Hindley with the boxes.

                                   Something was wrong 
                                   differently this time
                                   Jesus, I know now- 
                                   a heart ripped from my beating chest
                                   still-bleeding crimson & scarlet through 
                                   endless ages of 
                                   mummy's blemished upholstery
                                     
                                   God wouldn't allow me another day
                                   or night 
                                   for that matter.
                                   Mummy expected me home before eight o clock
                                   to teach how to use 
                                   me new sewing machine
                                   daddy would have me a new one 

                                  but something was wrong
                                  differently that time
                                   I mean 
                                  the nice lady and man 
                                  weren't what I expected 
                                  to be
                                  they tied my hands 
                                  behind me back and
                                  stuffed a scarf down my neck
                                  and I
                                  told them I need to see Mummy
                                  and swore to the Bible
                                  though
                                  now
                                  I know it was never enough
                                  my brothers would become men 
                                  God knows I'd never 
                                  see my mummy again
                                  to make clothes for me dolls
                                  with my new sewing machine.       
  
                         

                       Seasons began for some
                       ending for others 
                      autumnal rain pounded
                      that dreary winter
                      on Saddleworth Moor  
                       Lesley Anne Downey's Bones deteriorated
                      in her shallow grave
                      The twisted
                      always get more twisted  
                      
                                                           
                                                                       never untwisting