failedascetic.blogspot.com
FAILED ASCETIC: January 2010
http://failedascetic.blogspot.com/2010_01_01_archive.html
I feel sorry for the butterflies. When I turn off the light,. Up ahead, piles of blue gather and form, the Niagara Escarpment,. My eyes gently wander downwards and to the right, yes, stripes of white race ahead of a truck. A cork is popped open in my ear and in flows a tide of stimulation. The white paper cross in an SUV,. True Patriot Love - reads a Tim Horton's sign,. Subject to ignorance, suffering and the domination of death, and inclined to sin,. So read on,. Macabre faces that rotate and. Seen Enou...
failedascetic.blogspot.com
FAILED ASCETIC: When Alone
http://failedascetic.blogspot.com/2010/02/when-alone.html
When I close my door and the room opens up, exactly like I left it: the living room bare and uninviting the kitchen, appliances and all. oh yes! I forgot to dump the coffee grinds, they are still waiting for me, patiently, to slide them on into the orange polyethylene, one more stop on the way to the graveyard, and then they will return to their vital elements, yes! I am the mediator, negotiating their passage. Deep sighs, abound. Yes. Well it was the summer of course - that is when fairs happen - and we...
failedascetic.blogspot.com
FAILED ASCETIC: Abort
http://failedascetic.blogspot.com/2010/03/abort.html
Foetal death forced my hand. March 21, 2010 at 5:04 PM. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Tied to our Bedpost.
failedascetic.blogspot.com
FAILED ASCETIC: Late Janaury
http://failedascetic.blogspot.com/2010/02/late-janaury.html
Slow down river, you're moving too fast. I see you still. Naked branches and boughs. Like the eyes of that Flaubertian heroine. Muddied by the rain. Cracked up into white life rafts. And woefully black at. In and on the surface. We are the same. You quail and quiver. Dear trees, friends, love of mine. Still, stay still. February 18, 2010 at 2:00 AM. Seems like OK Computers Tourist meets Robert Frost. Slooooooow dooooown, man. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom).
failedascetic.blogspot.com
FAILED ASCETIC: Tied to our Bedpost
http://failedascetic.blogspot.com/2010/03/tied-to-our-bedpost.html
Tied to our Bedpost. One o'clock and the walls whirr and hum into full swing - mad fighting voices rise up next door, reaching a boiling point, woman carries on yelling. You become what you worship", speaks the ant as it scales up the mound, past the mushrooms feeding patiently on detritus. Heavyweight crumb on its shoulder, up, up the mount. There's food for all. Pesach is upon us, and we must slaughter the image of what we have become,. You bled so much. Sheep, tied to the bedpost. Typewriter in tow,.
failedascetic.blogspot.com
FAILED ASCETIC: -azine/-idol/-idone
http://failedascetic.blogspot.com/2010/02/supermarket-in-london.html
You're stuck in the stinker. Wind hisses, one foot in the door. No alcoves here,. They are warded off;. Reality ends with your sunday mass,. But we've always been. You've struck and spent. Photos, recitals, sub-conscious literal mind sounds. You spoke of cotton candy clouds. But all I see are shaken. Despair revs up,. Wheels and drumsticks spinning. Us, in the animal soup of time. Celluloid and all is all. Where are we going, ? March 19, 2010 at 11:07 PM. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom).
failedascetic.blogspot.com
FAILED ASCETIC: March 2010
http://failedascetic.blogspot.com/2010_03_01_archive.html
Foetal death forced my hand. Tied to our Bedpost. One o'clock and the walls whirr and hum into full swing - mad fighting voices rise up next door, reaching a boiling point, woman carries on yelling. You become what you worship", speaks the ant as it scales up the mound, past the mushrooms feeding patiently on detritus. Heavyweight crumb on its shoulder, up, up the mount. There's food for all. Pesach is upon us, and we must slaughter the image of what we have become,. Typewriter in tow,. This is my story.
failedascetic.blogspot.com
FAILED ASCETIC: February 2010
http://failedascetic.blogspot.com/2010_02_01_archive.html
You're stuck in the stinker. Wind hisses, one foot in the door. No alcoves here,. They are warded off;. Reality ends with your sunday mass,. But we've always been. You've struck and spent. Photos, recitals, sub-conscious literal mind sounds. You spoke of cotton candy clouds. But all I see are shaken. Despair revs up,. Wheels and drumsticks spinning. Us, in the animal soup of time. Celluloid and all is all. Where are we going, ? I am the mediator, negotiating their passage. Deep sighs, abound. Yes. I was ...
