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Their ceremonial life would end with each world destruction.

WORDS GET THE BEST OF ME|

When the axe came into the forest the trees said “Look, the handle, it’s one of us…”

(not my words, but it’s what I’m thinking right now)

death grows digital cameras
awaiting a puff of moon
dust is no spectacle but
could be a success
with many happy hours
in and out of bed
the sacristan’s latent
prints an eye chart
for the afterlife

death grows digital cameras
awaiting a puff of moon
dust is no spectacle but
could be a success with
executed offenders the
easiest money you’ll ever
make with many happy hours
in and out of bed the
killer’s latent prints
an eye chart for the afterlife

|COMPLETE COVERAGE FROM
OUR CORRESPONDENTS

death grows digital cameras
awaiting
a puff of neon dust
(an eye chart
for the afterlife

“block roads with corpses”

fisted smiles will see us through the journey.

“We’re just dolls!” yelled the dolls.

nimble and quick, with knives drawn but love in our eyes…

prayers to the
god within you

those words get the
best of everybody

and arise from none.

WHAT IN THEE FUCK, where’s everyone at? Heroes and villains, thee word. word. the word is your boss

“words that could have moved mountains”

slowly but surely, everything t’is amorphous and uncertain right now, but it will take shape, of this I’m sure.

just like

“building steam with a grain of salt…”

perhaps, it begins and ends with a respect for words. and the arguments had around a kitchen table and the last dregs of a bottle of red wine.

Because every time we use these words, we either invest them with, or divest them of, meaning… and its a hard choice we have to make…

aglow with hope in our wearied eyes and fists clenched in our pockets… moving forward into the belly of the beast.

johnny said it in the beginning.
1:1 – ex aequo et bono.
fuck that shit, i say.
0:0 – “That we are all ready worderers.”

worders wonders & some sentence prances across the metro LED and as if I could understand it – I’ll smile (not the communacative we’re all interdependent commuters) that wane inner wit smile – no one’s impressed yet. trite

trite is the smiley message of hope on my coffee can.

words are the same no matter where they’re printed.

the only thing that changes is where we read them.

if we’re 70% + water than the arctic is a cemetary

where the sun goes about so much tomfoolery

game? someone. please press play.

they keep asking for more, more, more. gnashing teeth and hurried transactions amongst gray funeral days.

but in my dreams you’re all still there, sitting around a breakfast table, and it is nice and warm and kind, and as I wake I keep asking for more, more, more….

all she had was a dagger against the pouring rain

I’m enveloped by so many scattered walls of paper and ink, bone and blood pushed outside

i’m sorry i’m sorry isimply dontsea Yknot i’m sorry

oh la la la oh la la la
oh la la la oh la la la
la
la
la

tra la la
and on
and on

PLANTING FOSSILS

at least i can say i was there when you died.

i hadn’t felt a tear yet, or if i had it’d been so-long. since forgotten. a kindergarten outrage, fled.

i’ve hidden under a pine since.

I went to church and sat on a chair
waiting patiently for a new word to explode

I C Ice T
be the plungee not the plunger

the DNA inside it
the mutations
the surprises around the corner

spirals
virus and descent
madness
not the end
continuation
and happiness around the bend
i smile
one way or another
this will end

I was covered in slugs and wet from the rain

shake like a dog and see what sky is left.

points in muscle mark the early hours, the sleep, the next-day apple — outputting energy, not power.

the dead are left alive

or as dust on fingertips, left stained money love handles on his ass.
smoked jim carroll’s last will
left more finger prints on the wall
dreamed nyshitty in another city

“have an edifying day”
I am blowing you…a kiss.
I wanna be that someone you used…to know.
I don’t wannna cry, but it’s so easy
doves and hawks
I wannnna share soft crosses*
bone crushing waves of The Luna Sea.

so damned dramatic, these ashes. lustrum in the dustbin.

it is still a heavy history.

this smoldering penance is a relief.

frazzled azure waters only come across me as electric.

fences dare me to piss on them.

it’s never been shocking, my pissing on the passing.

(feel free to fuck with punctation.) before/after.
my gift to an editor. is…… hmmmm.
time and erosion.
ore and the panner.
ever seen ‘pale rider’?
fuck do i love that film.
“nothin beats a good piece of hickory” or something to that effect. emphasized by ‘hoosiers’ another movie i’ll always stop to watch. (god bless sunday t.v. movies, preacher.)
blow the fuck out of it? or sift?
hammer at the vein? or at the boulder?
and will she come around the mountain when she comes?
when she comes will she ride six white horses?

Yo no lo he hecho.

heaven is holding on and I want more & more & more from you, out of me, from everyone…

this can’t be it.

resistance is beautiful

in deed not in fashion
not any
is beauty – not my stupid mistakes not my preservation of it
not even forgetting

forever along the path of no energy.

operating in the interval
between being & beacon
is a con

nothing signals
as strong
as it seems

http://glia.ca/misc/dustball_orange_test-7_MainConcept%20AVC-AAC_HI.mp4

except giving the finger to a mirror.

My eye – fingered in the mirror
retrained by knuckles; stars burst
forever along the path of no energy.
fucker, lying again –
I’ve never felt more tired
going to bed – useless,
mirrored on the inside,
repeating to infinity.

a flock of feathers fanning out a forest fire
all seeing eye in the house
of the architect whose thoughts imersed in monstrous obsurdity
representing the long and lost

reconstructs it over top of itself again,
with the same dissatisfying result.

It begins with respect for a word. The arguments had dregs. The last bottle of red wine. Kevin sits at tables.

Because every time we invest, we use or divest, meaning… it’s a hard choice we have to make…

i’m simply sorry Ydont seigh

this is it

It? that IT was……
something to remember, when we’re 80 it’ll be a moment to carress. pet and favour like a child that’s done well. chirp and preen around it. oh! can you believe this was the fruit of my loins? my loin!
my.
even though they had nothing to do with it but fucking.

I became something from that gasp. something. anyways.

a planned implosion. last call.

Again.

That’s all you get.
The best laid plans

eone gone,
eone else.

they
were
here
first.

they
will
leave
last.

so you will not know it
as hard as you try
keep trying to see
them off

Starved on a meal of sutures, we wrote the lexicon of decay.

Hemispheres form in a heavy fringe across the brow, housing species of half-truths wholly confrontational.

in an obsidian benediction
on the borderline
covered in magazine collage
faces with the hopped-up
ghost horses through
the abandoned Wal-Mart that
smells like the sobriety
of skeletons on that
night the Okie pulled pistol
because it was none of
our god damned business
if he was fucking an Indian

Phoo! It is the tao whose brow is of furrowed obsidian! Sternly, squarely in the confrontational hemispheres.
Holy hopped up horsemen Batman,
take an apocalyptic swing;
fat plastic bat that wal-mart
whacked benediction stinking of God breath
rebreathing.

Picking sutures from teeth half false
half bitten, half chewed remington.

Shit – so impatient.
Fuck it all right up.

A green fix should last
a

long

time.

Or is it blue?
Burroughs
none of our goddamned business
if he was fucking a hot pepper in Mexico.
The point is the type – how many point?
The point?
Lost it in translation.
I think he liked Clark-Novas,
and how did he get involved in this anyhow?
Remington.
Smells like the drunkenness of skeletons
on that night I wanted to pull
a gattling gun typewriter from my waistband
and the brand name was the only way,
because of my impatience.

There is a situation in the soft machine aisle.
Follow the signs to avoid a confusion.
Create an illusion to aid in obfuscation.
If in time, it doesn’t rhyme,
I am reminded that my metrics are screwed as well.

“time and erosion
ore and the panner
ever seen (the) pale rider?”

white rider gold rushing
Okie pulled the pistol
and fucked the Indians
steel horse ridden hard
buffalo jumped
new worlds to inherit.

Then sit at battered tables and desks
battering battered typwriters and gin
(No – make it whiskey)
make it more meaningful
make it more beautiful

wondering how we got to
buying metaphor from Wal-Mart
reflecting on strip malls
in the new world.

Because of the Genocide.
A stranger’s borrowed words
misbegotten

their demands are seductive
their language indiscreet
but in seeing what I’ve left myself with here
these fragments and traces of broken homes
i don’t really see what else I can offer

aside from all these bitter words, twisted towards (to mean) hope

open the window finally – the snow left and goddamn it never really seems like
any kind of winter any godddamn more

I’m carrying winter with me, in my fragile brittle bones. But this ain’t about me…

..or about soap, or the hair cut that will win the vote. It’s just another sullen song

about the green fix

keeping it real:

The girl I walk by at the reception desk every wednesday and thursday afternoon makes my heart flutter and my knees weak. Quite literally, and each time a little bit more and more. I barely made it to the elevator today…

And yet, I’ve only ever exchanged a brief “salut, ça va?” with her, too shy to utter another word before rushing past. What is this? I mean, seriously, this makes no sense to me. How can I fall in love so quickly, so often, so uselessly?

To keep emotions supple, to be prepared, open. Sometimes it happens.

“Simple Gifts” was written by Elder Joseph while he was at the Shaker community in Alfred, Maine in 1848. These are the lyrics to his one-verse song:

‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free,
‘Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
When true simplicity is gain’d,
To bow and to bend we shan’t be asham’d,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come round right.

Several Shaker manuscripts indicate that this is a “Dancing Song” or a “Quick Dance.”

My mum used to sing that song to me. I had no idea it was a Shaker song or how she knew it (she thinks it came from Sharon, Lois & Bram).

Makes me think of this Guthrie song Shawn used to play:

I Ain’t Got No Home in This World Anymore
(Woody Guthrie)

I ain’t got no home, I’m just a-ramblin’ round
I’m just a wandrin’ worker, I roam from town to town.
The police make it hard wherever I may go
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.

My brothers and my sisters are stranded on this road
A hot and dusty road that a million feet done trod;
Rich man took my home and drove me from my door
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.

Was a-farmin’ on the share, and always I was poor
My crops I laid into the banker’s store;
My wife took down and died upon the cabin floor
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.

Now as I look round, it’s mighty plain to see
The world is such a great and a funny place to be;
The gamblin’ man is rich and the workin’ man is poor
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.

75 starlings fell from the sky//The birds had suffered broken beaks//All but five were dead + had to be put to sleep

“The mystery about what happened to the birds is just as puzzling as what caused the deaths of thousands of crows, pigeons, wattles and honeyeaters which fell out of the sky in Esperance, Western Australia in 2007. A few weeks later, dozens of grackles, sparrows and pigeons also dropped dead on the other side of the world in Austin, Texas.”

“During the early morning hours of a day in November 1896, a deluge of dead birds fell from a clear sky above Baton Rouge, Louisiana. They fell in such numbers that contemporary accounts say that they “cluttered the streets of the city”. The birds included wild ducks, catbirds, woodpeckers and many birds of strange plumage, some of them “resembling canaries”. The birds were all dead and fell in heaps throughout the city.”

PERMISSION SLIP

birds in a cemetery
are actual messengers

rumors of a
classical form
of immortality
refuse to die
a technique
rooted solely in
the beefy torque
of these
Jovian moons
& harnessed by
a constant rate
of sinking
into the cracked
& drippy void
proof would really
be something
we’re here
just open the hatch
& take off
your suit

we are the ones we’ve been waiting for.

and we’ve yet to arrive

LAST TRUCK STOP FOR MILES

A black sausage
broke the yolk,

a rocket stuck
in the moon’s eye,

passing over
the star-flecked counter.

LAST TRUCK STOP FOR MILES

sucking your
black sausage

passing over
the broken yolk

of the moon when
the hand-held

plastic counter
pops its spring

and that last
nut explodes like

stars under the
semi truck as it

passes before
KIND OF BLUE

ejects like a
rocket of cold rain

Spur of the moment life encounters… this is what I think makes life interesting and worth living!

S.O.S
hope
make some jokes.

“our way to fall”
bright light and a soft breeze at the café
a subdued urgency
because we’re on our way…

BLUE’S BLUES

I.

night in the thicket
star-abandoned dark
the air turned a colour
sweat tempered skin
texture of finest hair

II.

when it was over
the yoke cleaned back
into a shell uncracked
a smooth clean smell
the eyes opened

III.

too dark she said
reached a hand to feel
what it was if her dreams
skin had been correct
in their estimation

IV.

don’t light your cigars
gentleman by the fire
for I in error
have been born
blue by a white father

granny girls
i can spot them a mile away
especially when i’m hungry
greetings my intellectual giants
been had money
she likes to sleep in black heat
free wheeler man
did all my best dreaming on her breast
i kicked a hole in the wall
blamed it on a bad man

we meet
in the space
in between

gathering words
in the space
in between

which I normally sit in
alone

personal injury.) wobbly walk
rolling of the eyes|

The wood-framed house against
the soft foliage, the warm dirt
road,

…no funciona bien.
__________________________________
NIGHT FOOD

“’tis the raylics of ould decency,
the hat me fahther wor-r-re”

friendly fires [un]exist.
creates blood stories.
breaking corpses.
flags [un]suspended.
just shut up for a second
and let’s meet
in the yesterday.

IF IT
IS
IT IS
ISN’T
IT

pass the blood sausage
all the stars have rocketed off into a tremulous dawn
leaving a vast throat filmed with mercurochrome
and the raw ache of stories

the fires have furled their flags into silence
and we lapse there
wet young denuded deities
lapping amniocentesis

the tremble and treble,
it sounds,
and i kiss everything that is blue.

too soon
thickened paint globs
just beneath the top layer
that hardened too soon
a blemish on a painting – unfinished
adding texture
subtracting the rest

-Matthew Raymond Diomataris