Flailing Summit

Nausea Flats

My voice has been sucked dry of an arterial prayer, and I can only hope the divine looming threads us with string of mad dances.  Yet, uncertainty raises its mask, thus I must send my dreams of providence and fluctuating light through the fluttering markings of verse, chorus, and bare-bone script.  Subjugated to the silver shadow of past life are the thousands words which reduce jade-tree pillars to wads of ticks.  As each dense arachnid column etches its brevity onto the amber foundation it rests, a crumbling wind smelts the creature-column into a discharge of precious metals and human hair.  I have been to told to peer inward, yet all I can fathom is sweltering organs and paper-foder. 

Rêve d’un Retour

A grand gift-giving, everyone is falling over each other’s shoulders with soft laughter. Picture me a come-home apostle, and my tales will be pillows of dust and trinkets.

I, the Clay (Parts 1-5)

*This is apart of an ongoing prose-poetry piece in progress. It has begun to alleviate a haunted presence and commemorate a memory.  

I

The train has made its way, and Paris pushes us outward like dribbles of spit.  It seems as though the sky has grown since I last invested my gestures towards it.  Last night I was told to expand more.  Indeed, I have spend much time ascending and putting together the pieces of my grandfathers’ faces.  Thus, since hurling myself into an infinite farm of riddles, it has come to my attention that I am being picked apart like a damp clay.  Kneaded by a tanned woman ontop of a light-blue table, I am beginning to take even shapes as I am torn, molded, and light-loved by heaven-sent work.  The woman I see, not picking but pulling as I say, she wears a white dress with only simple green rhythmic embroidery around the cuffs which drape her wrists.  Her gown is almost without a stain, except for the cavernous and grey markings of sweat where her armpits peel from the fabric.  That hair, how dark and full, it alludes to the woman being carved of an aging marble or of a fading fresco.  I,  the clay, am choking and burping bubbles of what a leap of mind could not say while shredded and hung  across the table and cold floor. A burning song of souls is quickly garnering all inward musings, and now I no longer need to produce a thought since I am envelopped by all generations and the halo of dream-forms.  I do not preconceive my movements, with the grace of every sculpting finger I am struck with magnetized pulls and the strings of hypnotizing forces who are not known by name.  Dreams and the unwashed state of immediate afternoon falsity have melted into an analgamation of pure-spsace and hexagonal wires.  Yet we all dance in the same atmosphere which is more aking to a radical fever vision than a waiting-room cough.  Every moment has been preceded, and this will be the only truth.  From there forth,  a cosmic breach has warmed and nearly burned the bouty of transience.  The undone silence of the galatic-bubble is the reason for our prayers.  Since the first of our race broke the film between question and the sum-of-it-all, ever since this being chose to let their wounds fester in the sun so they may say it was the Earth’s doing though it was in fact the fault of the star’s; since these heavy moments men and women pray.  The unhindered call to alleviate the burden of one planet shakes me.  In the face of the woman of the fresco,  a face akin to my hertiage and fire-perfumed sensibility, she pets my mud-head as it quakes with the movement of distant life.  As the tide of the neighboring sea recedes, she undresses and bathes herself in moonlight.  The attraction of such a glowing collection of metal and mineral painted her breasts and waists with brimming beams which signaled the complete nature of the uncorruptable galaxies.  Her nude self was bestowed upon the shore as a salvaged gleam,  much like a single orange agate in a riverbed.   Without starved desire,  I fix my long and swelling stare.  If only I could be sculpted and formed into the human body I once sweated in so lovingly.  Evening pierce of a woman, she cannot sculpt me but only slap me onto the wall or carve parallel lines onto circular slabs of my self.  I cannot return to the human long-body, it is her doing yet with divine purpose.  She chooses to be the embodement of the embrace and bless herself with a totality of movement, thus the force grows into a frightfully crystalized magnitude of the unsayable and feeling.  My gaze explodes once more, and it no longer remains a gaze but an ever-succumbing entropic discourse.  The woman-of-the-phantasms, this lucid untouched creature of some fresco or marble block, evades the hollow straits where the erotic often finds itself dry and blushing.  In her twilight phase, my fond molder wears not her cotton but a thin veil of spinning comet tails and dark irises.  Sitting on a sandstone wall between her open-door thin-pane window home and the shoreline, she curls a single piece of hair seven times to the south and then three times to the West.  I am dumbstruck by the shape of her breasts as she completes her vigil.  She does not need to construct a prayer, she performs the ceremony to salvage the ruins of every withered energy.  In her direction,  a hum draws the cloak of of dawn over the somber night.  Through the hushed kithcen I watch the woman dince until she falls onto the hard terrace.  She sleeps to dream-songs that the clay will never hear.

II

Not long after when the triangles fold open with flowers is when she awoke.  Salt-water against her toes soothingly pushed her eyelids open, and if I were to have a mouth I would sigh or scream at the deep beauty that I witnessed.  It was then I realized she had crawled into the realm wherein dream and the lamp-of-day are both running with force and vibrations that are one-in-the-same.  I too am of the same world and what I know now haunts me with a pure, chaotic glow.  She gently lifts herself off the shore, presenting herself to the glory of slow sunlight.  This sunlight is so quick in its nature that all is molten when revered from inside its beams.  It is of no surprise that days dressed in sunlight only vibrate and roll open slowly;  when in an element of such great speed the rest of the realm is slow to move.  The woman feels her cheeks with a gratitude towards their softness and potency.  Her toes curl, and she fixes her eyes towards the home as the fractal-chorus sings a melody with the beloved table on which I lay.  Pure-light, with all its hand-holding and flowers of prism-shifts, is drying me and every so often I am in need of even just a few drops of stale water.  The grace of the galaxy;  to have flooded our planet out of pity for constantly shreding to pieces our own skin.  Earth woven tattoos strip my skeletal stripes in the body I have in mind.  Two obtuse, flat feet cracking with imploded sand.  A pair of legs who clap with wonder, like two hellish gunshots aimed at a sleeping sky.  These legs lead into a body which swoons itself with the likes of dust and pusling striations.  Mixed blood of holodgrams and lions’ manes keeps the heart beating so the parallel hands may raise themselves palms-out for the world to read their engraved lines.  The open-windows are blooming as the palms each emit a beam that bull-rushes down the road, doubtless to the East.  If these were again to be my fleshen palms, the supple woman will melt, freeze into a choir of squares, then lay where she stood as a series of beige circles.  A bone-breaking shrill cry will be uttered as she freezes into squares, a mosaic of her undone face.  The clay screams from the inside!

III

A hush and slight creak of distant Acacia branches lightly brushes the neck of dusk.  There lays a wanderer in the distant space-time of dunes and grass, thin shirt wrapped around the eyes so sand may not encrust his weighted lids.  The doomed purple sunset feasts on the corneas, and the wanderer writhes and kicks in hope of pushing back the stare of the moon.  No avail, naturally.  Hugged by wreaths of wind-howls,  the wanderer turns his head to peer past the miniscule dune-valley where he is sprawled tight.  Here, he may observe that the stars are not flat-pasted symbols, but he may see that them for the rope-walking bursted pieces of space they truly are.  On the beach, distant lights of ships, salt mines, and light-houses appear ominous and beyond the day-light scarred realm.  The scorching wind tortures the wanderer, but the flickering balls of far-off radiance enshrine him in the ready-to-burst continium.  He does not know;  the traveller will have his hand taken in his dreams then squeezed until his eyes bulge with swallowed pain.  He will wake to find himself flailing and tripping on his own feet towards the sea; wind cries.  When greats gusts spread sand around those in the dunes, all far-off flat prayers travel, and silent-becomings touch all bundled-backs.

IV

Tell me, marble-tan cheeks, must I rest here while drowning in the embrace, yet knowing that your disposition is in suspsended hang-time with the stars?  I wondered this, as in the highest position of the sun’s arc I was folded into seven magnificent hexagons.  The woman’s eyes are closed, not out of fatigue but to see the plan for my sun-high design.  For each moon phase and position of our close star, therein contains a series of forms and shapes for me to be sculpted.  She must shut her pupils in blue-darkness while folding, and if she is to tear then she must perch her on her shoulder until her eyes softly open with hazel trellaces.  Upon the height of such a firey molten core, my design is that of a sweltering mosaic.  The clay dampens with the round impression of such twirling cheek-spells, each push of the muscles signals the bursted range of rhombus fields.  The high-star, ripe moon ceremony which I undergo is of the most sublime yet ecstatic motions.  In such strides, I can almost see a fingernail coming to shape or the inside of forgotten youthful hard-body thighs.  The woman weeps and the clay takes shape as a somber phallus-like figure and this I know is as close I shall see the lady-of-the-spectral fresco come to petting my head amidst flowering white linens.  Her tears are like doors who flutter in the dimmed wind; a constant barrage against the senses leaving one to shove their ears full of exhaustible thoughts.  No ears for the clay, exhaustible thoughts are null.  The clay is crushed flat like a sand-dollar onto the sea-scape table, the shape of the phallus now a sickening idea which had brought the lady too near the ultra-erotic moist grasp of seeds and sighs.  Thoroughly fashioned I am, into a map of asteroid projections and the waning voices of far-off flat landscapes.  The lush bosom of the dream-flight woman is the spectacle as I become the fine caligraphy and sketches of an ancient code.  She remains the last vestige of a realm drenched in mirrored anagrams.  It pains the clay to be pushed into the lines of such symbols and to only feel them, to be cloaked in their aura, but to never decipher and utter these hallow syntax trails.  Ascend once more, now three times masked over the encyclopedia of dormant and at once vibrating ethereal edifices.  Bed-sheets wave to the woman, I recede to being the enigmatic map.

V

Walking along the abandoned road of iron in the southern reaches of demuzzled warmth oftens leads one to painfully recollect an ancestor who roamed and traded a millenia ago in a bread-basket of spirits.  The face of this ancestor cannot be recalled, but their is a faint image of a white garment and a skin pungent with the perfumed stink of lemon and leather. The stench is from another epoch, yet when the clay was once flesh it could sweat that the stink would momentarily pull through his dried epidermis.  Heaping morcels of frustration are brought about when attempting to recall a long preceding era that we feel to be at once a part of us;  it is not unlike attempting to bring about memories of a once-off childhood friend or the first kick of feet out of the womb.  As the clay rests as the enigmatic map, the peeled-pain woman puts a piece of green-marble at the base of a mezmerizing triangular cut.  Immediatly,  this gesture unveils itself as a precious ceremony and sign; it marks a small field where one killing will again alleviate the burden’s of the world brought on by an empire of fat-men.  The woman, with a broken fingernail, etches phantasmic hieroglyphis that I once remembered to be the most pure form of cardinal directions.  I admired myself, the map, and as I began to decipher the flat-cryptic code engraved on me, again I am shoved into a ball and made cracked and dry with a single breath of a woman.

-T.A. Coyote

In Arles, the Camargue region.  All is dusty and whirring.  More writing to come when I have time to find internet and sit-down.  Bonne courage, tout le monde. 

The Groan of Passing Phrases

To spin the wheel and grind my words into dust; the caustic vision that cries a sonnet to sleep.  I cannot recall why a writer chooses to sit and utter phrases, dribbling like piss for the sake of keeping dirty and to lisp until the lips are desiccated.  It is probable that the aching urge to return to sleep prevails, and the writer cannot relieve the binding tensions of spacial force.  Or rather, a hundred silver eyes stare in anticipation of a page to sublimate.  The reason for ugly strain, however, is most likely invested in the latter. I prefer let dead cities and hungry landscapes beat me bloody and tan until my bare bones and scars are etching hieroglyphs into the sand, or until I howl for my mercy towards the humid wind. This in turn does not make me a writer, but a bleeding effigy being covered with bandages of ritual.  I often find that visions milk my fingers until a paper-shaven vapor perfumes the noxious air. Other times, quivering ink finds its way onto a notebook soaked in fish organs and onyx.  In the dearth of early evening, bells ring for the haunted juxtaposition of pensive speculations and cruel shrieks of dissolved faces.  Where there are the pillows of breasts, the spectacle of heart-beart rest wherein the nipple brushes the nose, a jarring sensitivity to veins and ribs breaks the viscous layer of mitigated leaps and feeble forms.  Invisible passages of white eyes, the chorus of decaying stones, stench of beggars, and hum of horns allude to a hot-tempation swimming in the flight beyond my own salt-laden skin and birds’ beaks.  This looming flight hovers over language and slithers into paralyzing spectrums, rendering me armless  

Breach of Formlessness

Dreams of plump and viscous acts, notably twirling my spinal chord in three-point motion amidst a crowd, are succumbing to their image as burning gems. The long haul begins among the silent space of golden coordinates. A hundred-thousand radiant boxes and their lines split the days into fractals, and we can vaguely sense that the day is no longer a day. Rather, a codex. A binary sector of divine geometry is the overseer of all our dreams, and I love when the power fails and the night is truly dim, static-less. It is in these whispered shadows of person-pockets where we all find one another in our slumbers, undisturbed by radio static and the violence underlying white-noise. Stars quiver and moan while we walk the other path, the one which is beyond the lucid waking state. In the space of culminating breaths and wandering crystal serpents, there is an unsung love that puts me onto my knees. I am forced to yell for my providence at what I do not know; screaming to the carpet or maybe the sky. The hands of the planetary-man are scarring the back of my calves as I howl phantasmic notions. Nothing excites transmutation like a human growling on the tethered dirt. So here it is, a scent-bathed fever that calls to mind an old drum whose tanned hide is soaked with lightning. The flash of the quiet unity cradles all who place their hands on the shoulders beyond sleep.