kagablog

The Creature Woman.

Her sun was physically a cube of magic at its spirit. An Isis factor by name that conjured an oddity of minds with silvery streaks and print rings spun about her rock loin. Like earth’s sister, with an ant-colony off Saturn’s moons, rocky breasts heaving fumes of plant exhalations banded in clouds. Could the poet regret a cause of riddled will? Never… for it hadn’t been by urges to avenge his untimely loss of a womb-donor that first codified love, but solely courage in gazing into another of beauty’s faces. Perhaps he could never bring quit the quest for patricide; or the strangling of the woman-man dug into him.
To stare at the many faces of love, she said, after ingesting minions of posthumous intelligence from which wisdom could have been cleaved: is not love-hunger which behooves senses with axioms of infatuations and a torturing need for permanence in attachments, but an effort to find oneself through those eyes.’ She spoke of love unhindered by cages affiliated with persuasion’s bosom. It might be a journey devised from fury against loss but all fugitive pain should first know a dismissal ordained by time.
She was not of swanky maids initiated nightly by force armored phalluses of brain pimps posing learned, those that merely peel their walks to ogling glances – demeanors conned for buttock-ransom battered for mansions.
She was too proud, which noosed me towards her madness – an enclosure with sensible abstracts she bore for thoughts. She was with mine intact, fleshly minded and clothed in slouch rags, the pace, skirted by sorrow of her age – denim youth in a figure of salty gazes.
We walked her towards the station that afternoon in April – at the platform – there, no friends, just lovers who know love for its motions – a gulf for departures’ entry into desert of emotions’ beckoning. How they’d met weighed by notions of probable lightness against oblique mediations on that frozen hour… time preserved for their sail saturated with chewed-up feelings.
Both plagued by rubbles of inner-junk, fetishes and totems for charm when traversing lakes of love’s dream, we were snarling disobedience at this novel dance into black wills of negation.
Refusing severance, she hugged, bedded upon shafts of my void’s chance – wishing for ingratiation, persecuted by memorial connections to eternity…ours. In crystal reclining shadows of night’s approach, we brace and cry. Then’ with midget strides brisked towards metal exits…his discarding method of a soldier to war takes toll; she waving surrender to the moment’s sour acceptance of a stone heart devouring its hopes.
It was well in that dirt museum bided, markings of departure in collaged sweet stains, and those who were to stay behind in the grit of a purple mist city retreated.
He was an over-ripe corpse arrested in this mutating vault, bile terror rasping and love celebrating his dejection. The poet sugar-boned goes homeward, a fathomless destination for those who failed to leave. Head sunken, he swallows scents of hungry eyes, lean men with heavy goggles celebrating the dirty catwalk tales – the cowardly kind, who can’t bear the swell of Bree Street’s violence. Tunes baked puddles with their sound sewer hums; all to shelters of rage.
The poet decides home a sarcophagus bred for avoidance; he tilts his views towards a place of rhymes, session-orgies on lyric scuffles looking for other skeletal masks adulterated.
At the venue he will find only demonic attentiveness sprawled across calcium-chest scaffoldings, breast-less in de-sensed rude clasps on tits after punch-lines would touch only spongy sags. For this play he lumbered forward, for his fears and grief…for a cleared atmosphere without physical healing. A lulled apocryphal black surfing the sun into a sack of metal and hunched streets – soon the crackling freeze would pack with dizzy commuters into convents of automobile vigils.

Blind windows laced dreams plastered on dead mural-sex-shops pose braving blizzard traffic with blindness. Snout of night’s breathing demon seeking out the deranged to torture with orgasmic musicals – he cries foul, night planned his fate with a grin.

Numbly and stunted by despair streaking from his palms, he faces an invisible stroll down slant curves of the plaza glistening with dead pictures.
Salt-sore wail of the wind’s music soaring in the maze of water colored masonries, muddled humming bonnets to the quite of an alley cat’s starless slumber. Silent wax carnivores leap over iced-tears on tarmac, over squatting walls coroneted by blood of statues – stone men who watch their paws ponderously. A drunkard-fucked-asleep girl tumbles in hold of a bandaged fool calling at filaments aligning catwalks to reveal her demise in a silent language.
Huddled and leaning in chatter slipping from her fried gut are slurs directed at her assailants…all masculinity who ordained hatred for wombs of their making.

Soon, some juveniles speed up the tar’s roll – intolerant of those who choose to drown in sleep with the city’s exhaust-pipes’ operas – some jolted awake every seven minutes of sleep, either by bored police louts or whorey art pimps starved for nicotine in the mouth of Satan’s town. A bandit poet’s heart dragging blind sewers of theatre avenues with other camouflaged beat commuters; he will face the blue of dusk he swears… night’s blisters he will lick.
He wished to turn his soul automaton unto headlights showing the back of his head – her – that life night risen in time for his soul-split.
So much was yet in dying; this he basked with crippled talk of one who believes not their own lies, stripped of all belief in temptations.
He chases a brief turn, bends with edges of ant city avenues – glass panes derelict with a fowl image they reflected. A hideous monstrosity glows in the mirror together with the brigade of other cowered souls ebbing towards haste’s concerns. Nudged aside with slurry contempt filled with commands of passer-by’s flurry… hurricanes were strewn along with what was left of the tottering skeleton; the poet’s mirth at life’s dream looming on a contorted face wistfully.
Mourners and other adjuncts to religiosity’s instincts found disgust a suited response – yes – rightly bestowed this sopped felon gnashed by jaws of traps laid in joy’s range. He dared look again into the mirror-wall; a twin-soul aging seconds adrift in stale mood he dares carry further. Boiling other incantations unto his crippled birth; he names his-self a ghost predestined a gown of earth’s dung. He decrees that vinegar in his lung will subside within the coffin of exposures.
The poet decides, yes; to go forth and bear the brunt of eyes; ant-city grinding its towers’ furnaces on windows and doors. Lures of boredom sent him after bridges, stalking Wanderer’s Mothers lapping the spectacle of a son who could be their own. Whistle-marked within whines outliving silence’s ears, he needed to find a friend.
Eyes itching, puss-laced tongue over blood-ash teeth salivates a lick on chapped lips. The poet swallows crusts with other inner mouth bites running a scabby nail over bloated ear’s relentless buzz – still, framed windows on machine coffins cast an audience of tattered eyes of melanin terror poses coping with purgatory’s clime.

How the whole world seemed pained to a man celebrating sores? How he could disbelieve everything else – that boy buying an egg for his pocket; roasting nuts and cosmetic echoes of thick shoes kissed by June’s land? How we fuddled our misgivings for rituals of our twisted morale?
How we die each day, without trying… the slight of rage at confusion of our times?