Wednesday, April 27, 2011

warriors of radness


cadmium red

Oh I have a craving for gelatin health
the slimy goop of human vitality
for human is what I am
and what I am is a hungry man
when I can taste the blood I'll know
my lips will be smacking and my tongue lolling
if the breeze is right and the sun is ripe
happiness may even plunge into my bones
and expose my pours for what they are
factories of love's most powerful enzyme
think of the smell of it all
a pheromone to call my own
to entrap the nostrils of pretty young girls
and older lusty women
and women in the prime of their life
not too old and not too young
an aroma to tame them all
that is the blood of blood of bloods
of champions in escrow waiting for the match
hunters stalking dandelions on a green hill in march
can you who is so deadly realize that pleasure?
have you tasted spunk and felt a hunger
a hunger so malevolent you craved the jelly of any living thing?
can you who is so peaceful know such pain?
be your flavour boys or toys or ox or lady
children of the earth of your own clay hands
have you drunk the juice of orifices?
I want to hunt for that embryonic city
I wish to dwell in some licentious caves
wet as the night you were born and more brilliant
more full of life
where veins of ichor gild the igneous walls
I want to make the creepy foam that blankets the waves
like jelly fish and octopus and a silent asian mistress
I've got a colour for you
one so dark and true
full of breath and squirming
undulating with a heartbeat of its own
I've got a shade that will irk you
make your skin crawl and your spine long for emancipation
I know the hue that will make you drip drip drip
Ah but I'm sure you remember the spectrum of hate
and the black nails of godhead
and the blue blisters of loneliness
Ah but I know you have seen a pink pigment
where the mohawk have stalked your dreams
I know you have seen painted faces
and glinting weapons and heard cries and known thunder
Oh I am sure you've felt a deep fever
detected the chance of something more
and I have a dye for you
one that lurks between dancing boulders
that can be noticed between their smash
but you must let your head be pierced
and let Oscotarach remove your brain
a cloven skull and two eyes that are senseless
two feet that move along forever
hands that thumb and pull at flesh, any flesh
I am going, oh I am going
and you may come along
I am going where the houses are painted red
and the children stand erect as nipples
where the streets are soft and blue as veins
and there is a fountain that is shaped like a navel
I am going where the treasures are true
and the taste lasts long on the tongue
where there are four and twenty bodies
and a lesson in every one

- s. sparing

palms out


my father is awake with heart
burn the trees and fields of tiger
lilies line the casket of my long lost
love strings the air with pink construction
paper and plastic and rubber
bullets twitter in the sky like red
robins peppering the ground for earth
worms sleep in the skull of our great grand
father to the bride who wears a white wedding
gown of silver stars that are homeward
bound to the pillars of hell in greek
tragedy has no home but in your jaw
bone white and naked of the flesh

you and I

you and I

we are here

did you know

we are here

- s. sparling

baby... this one's for you

Honey? Wake up.

of every poison dripping from the night sky
I can see in the mirror of those same green stars
that your eyes are the cunts of witches
your smile is the scar of excision

and in this same universe of weakness
I have nothing but a love for you that is pure
so pure as to kill with the whisper of heaven
a line that is drawn to separate hell
from the clay pots of human organs

but I am a golden cord
and I dangle down the ranks of knives
to a pool in a humble abyss
where I can touch your dress
and shiver forever

if you want to get your soul back...
if you can remember it

s. sparling

if you aint pretty

Monday, April 25, 2011

Ascent of Mount Carmel

On a dark night, Kindled in love with yearnings
-- oh, happy chance! --
I went forth without being observed,
My house being now at rest.
In darkness and secure,
By the secret ladder, disguised
-- oh, happy chance! --
In darkness and in concealment,
My house being now at rest.

In the happy night,
In secret, when none saw me,
Nor I beheld aught,
Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart.
This light guided me
More surely than the light of noonday,
To the place where he (well I knew who!) was awaiting me
-- A place where none appeared.

Oh, night that guided me,
Oh, night more lovely than the dawn,
Oh, night that joined Beloved with lover,
Lover transformed in the Beloved!
Upon my flowery breast,
Kept wholly for himself alone,
There he stayed sleeping, and I caressed him,
And the fanning of the cedars made a breeze.

The breeze blew from the turret
As I parted his locks;
With his gentle hand he wounded my neck
And caused all my senses to be suspended.
I remained, lost in oblivion;
My face I reclined on the Beloved.
All ceased and I abandoned myself,
Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies.

 - St. John of the Cross

une morte

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Discalced Carmelites

"I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it.."

St. Teresa of Avila

sometime in the wet noon

reach out and touch me

Thursday, April 21, 2011

white boys and black music

"oh a memo from an old hipster man. what was that fashion, shit. I remember it was anything goes, from the ages of modern man. but it had to be crazy, it couldn't be a replica outfit, it had to be shifted. or, angleurized, some sort of hyper-realistic perspective shift, man. it had to be better and best and really sort of mad. I guess in a lot of ways that madness became very factory and everyone bought a piece of it, but uniqueness is always appreciated and that sort of self-indulgent/harmless madness is fashionable in any circle at any time. But if it wasn't crazy enough (and that is why it couldn't be an exact replica but had to be skewed), and I mean to say, if it broke convention but didn't break it enough then it was fucking lame man, or even gay as the dudes would say. fucking gay. fucking lame ass gayness. ah old hipters, OLD HIPSTERS, fucking the hipsters in general. What happened to the days of just being a cool whitey, a honkey who loved hot jazzzzz. But you know, I suppose, even then it had that pseudo connotation. A fakeness inherent in its properties. A hipster, originally, was a cool white guy who was into hot jazz. What was a black guy who was into hot jazz? Well he was just a black guy. Jazz and blues are the negro music, and so any negro owns it. It's a part of the negro culture, the black culture. A black man was supposed to love hot jazz and heavy blues, it was a part of who he was as a man, as a black man. So then a hipster, or a white guy who was into that jazz... well it wasn't his culture, but man did he sure love it. He loved it and wanted to own it as much as the black man owned it, but he could not. So then what is a white guy who is into hot jazz, man? That makes him some sort of facsimile of the real deal. A pseudo black man. So you see, hipster has been a longing and a failure to be the real deal from the very start. That isn't to say that we all wanna be black. But some of us are real, and the rest of us just try to take what they can."

- from the future

Friday, April 8, 2011


Fat Sally


the rattle of the yak bone chimes 12 o'clock in the evening 

the castafiore (the chaste flower) blooms upon the hour 
knee deep in a hurricane with red eyes off yonder somewhere 
to the east and the pleasures of a simulated empire 

and she trudges through the spice fields and universal aids 
marking her territory with musk and perfume from scent glands that sleep between her legs that are castoffs of bamboo temples in a jungle near saigon 

she tightrope walks on stilts made of ivory fastened with gold 
stripped from the tusks of mastodons that raped women in universal nightmares - cocks posable and deadly as the russel viper - moist 

minutes shrink by hasted by coca leaves and magic mushrooms 
spirals of colour tangle together before the eyes of mysterious union 
she hallucinates and her visions are the work of some dark poison 
fathers of time study her body and tell the world how to grow 

and over the stroke of the dawn the heart palpitations of the devote stop 
they dissolve into wet green grass that stains her thighs the same 
when she goes home her rump will be covered in dirt and she will have lost her panties and some plants and animals will have pollinated her and left 
saplings to prey upon her body, making succulent fruits develop inside 
then when arms and legs sprout like the heads of eyes on a potato 
and some merciless drum howls from a stone dais reading the sun 
nurturing the small facts of life that have no sense of smell 
but know that the time is ripe and the leaves are turning gold to brown 
then the fear of enclosed spaces unsheathes itself like a phallus 
where the pink head of embarrassment cleaves young people in two 
there shall be imprints left on the soft flesh of internal walls 
purple stains tattooing the empty sides of pickled limbs 

sometime a light will seizure into existence 
extinguishing everything else 
there will be a smack of tears 
a horrible cry 
and some cessation of the fear 
that none of us can remember 
and clastafiore shall be chaste no more 
as the time becomes one o'clock

Thursday, April 7, 2011