Like it or Not

B e n e a t h  t h e  c o o l  h a r d  s t o n e  o f  m i g h t
- r a d o n -
I never felt entrenched
Or as though I belonged
Servants of rapid shames
Intolerant eyes
Break!  The rodent sighs
We leave to paint a worry value
Between eye and eye
A frame that's crumbling
That could soon die
And there are worried men
Spitting rights
Spitting wrongs
Spit to split the pole the writing's on
From where it meets the ground
Is coiling song

Hexadic shots are ranging through the sky
Of dreamers' slumber
Streaking the azure                              I crime with love
Thus nowhere tags along
Dredging solitary impulse
Where lanterns turn
And seal the day

This is where the violins creep in
The leaves start to brown
It is where the tender
Nuggets of thought crack
And rejoin

I won't share my balls
'Cos they're dry now, besides
You've enough with rocking
Back and forth
Your lips as shadows

I fondly remember a time
When it was possible to
Wait       for one event to
Follow another
And glowering like a spider
Who wants to wrap his
Terror round your limbs
Embraces laughter, love and joy
And taking time to show you
Everything he knows
Apart from mysteries
He keeps them for, you know

                              HER

Now let's try another plain
Where beauty storm
Cuts your portrait
Into the plateau

Cough your sorrow into this cup

I'll stir it around

You have nothing less to lose
Than your will to dream

You are like a doll
Your porcelain eyes wreck trains
Daggers eat into your core
And light streaks out
Scattering every scented word

There are emotions that
Run right through us
And settle, then fester
But most spin from our skins
Like quick beams
And seem to us guides

You are like a doll
A shifty merchant
Conceals within a hidden drawer
Beneath his till
Where for all his life
He's stored the faeces of wild dogs
And miniature trumpets
Through which he summons

You    like a doll
When they examine your brain
These hands will find relics of
The tribute man
Coiled about an upstanding member

You are like a doll
With saucer eyes
And a smile that
Fails to convey

You are like a doll
Thunderclap! MOON
Our spun solution

I thought I would go

I thought I would go insane. That's when this curious notion struck me: perhaps I already am. That would explain two things: one, why these last few weeks or so of my life had been dominated by the grating songs of Eros Grillozottis and Trevicabellos and, two, why it is that whenever I look up to see the TV screen I see just one large, wide mouth: smiling; a single column of finely turned-out home guard processing through the gateway of a missing tooth; a misplaced comb of scarlet that, rather than pass through hair, allows hair to pass through it. That is why the rattle-snakes stay away; that is why the amateurs let their milky yellow and wear frocks to eaty blue and that is the way to heaven, they say.
When one lays with the flies, like tangled webs of aspirant easter flames to cool bunny and chase away CROW, one feels the tips of angels' wings stir shadows and sees the swirls there form a lamentary grotto. It's not the Autumn light; it's not the moon that sweeps aside those drying tears then, love: it is a barnacle...

I lie awake at night

I lay awake at night, awaiting the toll of the bell; the toll of a strange flower, but it always arrives before me, and I lay awake at night, forcing long contorted threads of meaning into my heart. Those threads live a life of secrets. They always arrive before me, and I lay awake at night: drop by drop, the blood spilling; a flow that rides white chargers to arrive before me, and I lay awake at night, not nearly dead enough to hear, not nearly live enough to see - as bleating lambs will view and read me - not nearly close enough

First Fiction • Avocation with the Agent of Dream • Genesis

Welcome

We believe that even the raw meat of Words should be thoroughly cooked, assuming, as we do, that its purity is highly capricious and bloodless thought equals wholesome thought. This buffer to the rationale behind an unchecked accumulation of fictions and ciphers, incontestable truths and habits of Gestation will, without question, shortly cease. The first juju fiction will be rendered post haste from the fat of Life in Dream. With Uncomfortable Music, I will do all I can to challenge your dim expectations, quickly shifting settings to delight the eye.
My plan in relation to this attempt at liberation from the quotidian will be executed in perpetuity through an assemblage of elegantly juxtaposed realities with pretentious sheen, displaying the sacrificial masks of exotic characters whilst pussyfooting around a wife in secret for cowardly custards and brokers of maidens tested for perversely, the brave.
And Stylus Alias hereby awakens, sifts lovingly through all the words and cooks them.
Whilst in educated man, these seductions are announced by three quite deeply interrogative, impish and temporary knocks within the mind: as surrogate fixed fantasies in romance. We might be both awed and appalled at such benign comedy. This is what must happen when our neural roots greet The Onion, entwined with august oat and nettle, and a most Authentic clover from the mire of fanciful to-dos. We steer our keenest affections in rudderless boats to destinations that remain undisclosed.
They are silent as in faith-sworn… As ghosted segments are extracted from the lonesome.    Bound    In fated cells: with restless spirits optimized for tired disinterest through lack of potent engines for volition.
They are motionless as stones, witnessing a world dispelled from make believe.
And as for the identity of their devotions, we casually misinterpret what certain select expert panels imply (golden shadows, vanilla temples, spiral mandibles, ooid air) and blithely substitute the moisture of their wills: the onyx light upon the nib of the groove or a fated maturity that is quite refreshing as a pot of Pious Stew, whilst lovingly turning waltzes in the traces left by Postliminary Niceties and Cloudburst Taboos.
A Class mask for a carnival, shadowing the brain of Stylus Alias, a carnival party-mask for a Life, from which every idyllic career and assignation for the versed can be drawn. CRACKED When this brainwork exposes you to Gossips and Snoops as one of those calculating desperados whose compass lies within the blood oven of a dark moon, do you comply? Regardless, a speck that can only be described as black has garnered the hopes of those with aspirations far removed from this stone and ascended, forging communion with an acerbic rising sun against people who prize judgement above all else but never shout down the shadows in the countinghouse or besmirch their definitions. together they generate a kaleidoscope  of sound. The truth behind this world is pay per view via carriages that all can see are cloistered: Continued raw/cooked paradigms at this juncture engender peculiar borborygmic groans, thereby stirring hunger for a lair of spiders to creep up inside.

Four hundred and seventy to four hundred and eighty six (early 1980s)

Four hundred and seventy

The clouds had rocks in their ears

In  and  even if the low movements weighed upon haste  against  A discovered tear was still  in the lumber-room  Thrusting!  All the minds  Shouting!  Striking the bow  The long key  the last kiss  When a falling nail cried you damaged yourself  One intimate law  They appeared to follow and insult the two dangers  Nothing should be able to call its stifling manner poor  Speaking  Have the lolling girls cried much

Four hundred and seventy one

At the block  the limp hand found a sleeping hand  It provided it with pleasure as the block  with eyes turned back  imagined the scene  An acquired gesture within  The roof  it's repenting  The shows  recognized as ceremony  Why were the turned eyes failing  like the thrust knife  with shame  Failing to see the act outlive them  Place time into a means for commanding life to work  to occupy the viewpoint from the point of the clock  At the sleeping block  with turned eyes  Failing

Four hundred and seventy two

No section now  the course was unwritten  Calm is involved where no interest transacted  Head for a problem  That is too accepting  My religious monster waited  to be hated  You look like you've paused noncommittally  Those with calculating sex are detached  In the trunk  the old slug  beefed-up  maybe she could intimately damage its lovely womb  She can be priceless  her personal store could join our hatred  Control that extended dream  No returning  I'm in for the living  not the reasoning  A lady that's safe dwindled  Park here  We are shaking  they greeted the T.V. fanatics  Now unwritten  the course is involved

Four hundred and seventy three

Pain  prepared for injection  Perpetually fastened about the change  Threatening you  don't you like it  Beyond the optimism of your surface  lying in the warm street  the newly animated terror acts like a body  In the dreams of an offspring paper weapons kill  So  during the experiences her offspring walked at random  and it slyly pointed  poised in greeting  In her yellow shoes  grunting  Was awareness completely there  Orgasms for the murdered patriot rather than redemption  This acceptance is a pleasant reality  Note  the passages of publication have briefly been indicated  Is a bell better than one dear letter  The luxury of this staunching little truncheon  It tickled the wide hands  Her shit appeared when the pink penis suffered  and then  The pleasures  The acquaintances will guide the amorous delight out  That cruel crime  On and in  his resolute woman  daughter of an unrivalled pleasure  That's the instrument content  The missiles were almost saved  At the theatre  he took a chance  He said "Certainly"  Her slender slit writhed  Virtue  Was the deep feeding woman mute  The face of peaceable captivity  As he went up to the flesh whip I ran  but his naked abdomen kept the soldiers advancing  The sentence was hard  Their work was suddenly deflowered

Four hundred and eighty and four hundred and eighty six

Have you ever heard of a train falling down on a person

Do you get the impression you're walking on the wrong side of the route

Thou shalt not look in shop windows

A boy and a girl with a cat and (?) an eel

Sometimes my body is a dead weight, like stone, holding whatever

I had possible health alive in my head

Hop and Drybiscuit

Mr. Hop is held fast in a hole in the ground. Earwigs dangle from his ears, but they are not afraid.
Mrs. Drybiscuit analyses stars. Combined, they are the marching sound of frogs' spawn; separated, they induce migraine in the hearts of singing rams.

I lift a daffodil. Beneath it there is nothing but a bone. I wish for a parcel of straw and get a liquid sausage, lit with the lucent dream of fireflies. Time massages the maidens who count calories. I find it hard to remember the songs of the distant hand. Awaiting the sublime my mind conceals the inward speech of beauty; I'm so undone I couldn't even eat my weight in gold. The balustrade is lined with ringing blades. I press my ear to one and hear the breath of dinosaurs encased in brick. The seasons stamp the ashes of our whining with a bloodless sign. The maggot art runs a golden word right through me, sublimating all that comes my way; my revelation's mindful of the inward beauty of speech.

Dead Head

"I wonder if the young appreciate The Dead?"

It is the first time the chap across from me has spoken, and his question is not wholly inappropriate, as we are currently listening to The Grateful Dead. I stroll across to him, lift his glasses and direct a fine spray of spittle into his eye, at which he blushes. Tiny crystals form at the tips of his lashes and scatter when he blinks, dispensing a brief scent of thyme.

The wooden bird in the corner lifts its wings and rolls its Rs. It drops an egg that hits the ground with a sharp crack. A breath of wind lifts everyone's fringes for a moment or two.

"I have not been summoned" intones the man before me. He sticks out a silvered tongue. In its reflection I see two bells, dangling discretely within the cavities of his nose, remaining soundless for want of clappers. He quickly retracts his tongue and fills the space with an imitation of the sound the bells might have made. I don't believe I've been a catalyst in these events. I simply take notes and observe the ties severed by the razor's fall.

When a fly alights upon the wall and unfurls an eye with which to study us all, it observes silence because it knows the fruitlessness of commotion. When it lifts a finger to ratchet a jaw it does so in the knowledge that the truth of piety is inequity and that morality is naïvety dressed up in finery. So it holds its tongue. Black lambs yawn where hatred and the need to be seen are entwined.

I tumble over my own words, am caught by a lifeless thought; arrested! The lining of my shoes becomes trapped in the nerves of the dimmer switch, and when darkness falls it does so with the rush of wheels in silk.

Through the window an arm reaches and fumbles with the lock of the door, though there is no key and the fingers are too big and awkward to switch the latch. The hand whirls about itself in an imitation of decisiveness. It's playing with the nurturing light of storms.

I make a dash for the door. No-one tries to stop me. When I throw it open and enter the room the hand ceases its motion and stares directly at me without blinking. I blow it a kiss and the Dead Head climbs out the window with a big bag of marbles clenched between his teeth.