Happy 2016, all.
The following is a novelette I wrote last year.
Muse as you like on this thread; you are merely whetting your own scrawl on the pall of my own muses.
I submit thus to you haha
Blame /lit/'s draconian link filters for my links:
-For the main book, type "Serayite" onto Google and hit the Smashwords link.
-For a commentary that explains a lot of the word choices I made and themes I touch on in the work, search "commentary to serayite" into Google and hit the Smashwords link.
~Thanks for your viewership, Ghazy
the Curious Frottage ‘twixt the Langue and the Parole
Published by Ghazy Loon at Smashwords ([email protected])
To my soon-expir’d Teenage,
With its perverted Hope and its seminal Destiny,
to Columbia Intrinsic with her divers representations,
and to Maria Mondragon
Table of Contents
Book I: Return Flight
Book II: Malinche’s Seray
Book III: Pardes & Passerines
Book IV: Prime & Patricia
Book VI: Masochist’s Meiosis
Book VII: Matriarch of Ur
Book VIII: Wandering the Peninsula
Book IX: Balustrades of Purgatory
Book XI: Performer’s Premiere
…Thus shall exist the boy in himself,
and shall this motive suffice to satiate his sum…
So unfolds the sacred Soliloquy,
the Forefront of epic Vantage…
His ink spatter'd Quell bewails
its timeless Incontinence,
almost sucks the Purpose
from its own blackened Nib
to avoid pinning one Paragraph,
for its sooty Tip resting frozen Pigment
proves itself too obtuse
to penetrate the harlequin Parchment
only a Soul can tangiate,
too blunt to define
the angstrom Edges
of the child's holy Monad,
not so cursive
as to capture the all-one-seething-Noise
by its Contours
on conscience's Cartography;
tediously dissolved into Phonetics,
whipped to Charms by ascending ox Goads,
stored to Smolders by Phylacteries of four-prong'd Fire
'til he reminisces naked over his Destruction,
only to be teleported Sublime to Entities unfathomable…
inhabit a remote Cortex reassembl’d…
Book I (Part 1)
My position was falling low over the Southern sky.Pockets of calm had caressed the underwings of my airplane lulling the wings nod off in routine supplication, subjecting the silver craft to rigorous turbulence. Ten or so more units of pressure to break the stress treatment welded onto her joints, then we all go into free fall, one in acceleration, young and old, the corpulent and emaciated as the feather and the brick...
My innards swelled with another surge in aerodynamics… I was up again.That was the only deep sleep I could attain in my current position,that sleep in which the serotonin causes your own senses to roll a rapid-eyed freefall of their own…
I guess my emotions and my sense of self-preservation still hadn't contrived yet. I lifted my head off of the back of the other seat. There is no space for adjustment at all against the dusty periwinkle of an economy class seat... It had gained its grout with the attainment of miles of domestic sky, maybe some foundation from the wispy crags of a former menopausal episode.
One whose eyes reflected such upholstery had been sighted… easy as living in that time, a long-lost Acquaintance had appeared on my way home there. She sat afront me with sated maturity already emblazoned on her jaded face... Had I minced a hello, she'd have released a demure relapse of our Education, for she had never seen me in such clothing before, or had even remembered in turn of any of my recent decisions that wound me up in her scenario...
As the other two of her Triumvirate weighing in lead me A to B to C,
my countenance felt obligated to melt cast lead type once more...
Two had talked of greener transactions on the glucose vignettes of their
so forward-oriented minds
immolating in their compulsory expenditure
as their last responsible action...
Their bright glimmer, their perennial gurgle,
product of a previous flight exhumed,
from a time when my current role was as relished
as the murky-sweetened streams
had abounded in their own autotrophoic Dream...
My head could only fear pressure that should have ruptured my homeostasis
while tinnitus restimulated brisk in my ears
by the incessant jet of comforting air in-vessel.
The tense trill of the digital riffs had shorn my memory
from the scene to a damned shrill meadow, released through the surge
of every metal-forg’d blade that only came on a cognitive lapse…
they rippled serene on a long-consumed artificial wind…
I was going deaf to the fixtures on board my experience,
and my equipment was deteriorating to steely irrelevance
'til I might right myself in my reality again...
Book I (Part 2)
I had an aisle seat to everyone elses' stupor,
and no induction on my part
could possibly change this community
'til I colluded toward the jet set
with their inheritance to me,
God forbid I tamper with the continuity already in movement…
My faux mead verberated according to the turbulence in its shallow plastic holder.
I had left the wafty Mediterranean toward the humid Backwater
potent in the churning of my spoiling sense of rue,
and had slipped over the sparse Chaparral toward the privet here
that quailed at emulating exile's sun-baked flora on its captive plateau.
The length of the road from state's center to my home remained a long spike
etched into the most vehement regression
throughout the possibility of my travel over them for all my time.
From its hills made of iron,
my will to stand the ride had become steel in the mute apprehension
of setting into my loamy options.
had slowed to a stride into my former abode,
devalued by stucco as it was.
All the animals remained,
the muzzles of my stags all the sager from their tenure just outside the fence;
Muffling the thrall, a conure strutted forth to meet my appearance,
pupils oscillating along her radial lashes
An atonal chorus had resounded and hushed on the return of the second Straggler.
“So, you've come back to see your Mother again!”
I opened the door to my room and saw my looming shadow
over the homey comforter,
and all the other creature accouterments left for the next perspective buyer.
Not even the noon sun could snap me out of the relatively eternal Weekend.
My stay would be long and mired on this mattress
to shirk the repetition from my true cubicle on the Coast...
A Tabby's den it had been when its previous Orphan,
now doubly so, had laid her head on my pillow.
He had stayed an ashen gray.
Animals were all that lived in this place now, save my Mother;
young Wander still beckoned…
My Mother had wished me a peaceful night,
and every timber fibre in the hardwood floors seemed a thread
of some plushly wrought chantilly comforter displayed so unruffled
'tween the veneer of the magazines in my bathroom…
face timbre'd crisp by the pall of an amber scented candle
The noisy shot yearned for the more sultry
woven heavier through its straining pores...
My waft home had been the publicized version
of the retrospective revisit,
where I was expected to look upon my land of fare
in a condescending way aloof from the base Past
I shared by the endemic Cretins;
I now had to embark on my true relay back home
by grazing the institutions that had refined
my sense of purpose in the first place on my trajectory.
It was now a question of execution.
My former house was built on a rim,
my former school in its valley.
When the jubilation of my kindred masses would swell many a baited moon,
for feted pitches trivial
one's extra giddy chants would spill over its bowl onto our rim
to send my own eager sweat running back down its cracked curvature.
Book I (Part 3)
After a dense wander, my pocketed Cell felt warm.
I even checked my home screen in domicile fashion to marvel at
the carefree plasma numbers purring the most outrageous digits
against my refined sense of time management…
I came to the Alma Mater at her forlorn hour.
True to previous rumors,
its edifice sit demolished for defied expansion,
a fence around the very inviting wings.
Going about the corridors excited my overactive extrapolation,
imagining the grody lids on the ways peeled back and exposed
in the high-beam lights still on throughout the night
at extortional cost to my state,
beholden to the whims of whoever skulks the site
but to me at any rate…
Nothing quelled quadrilateral deflection from said power more
than the acoustic bricking 'long the honing trapezium
'twas my old midwife, a former Auditorium;
it was being condemned that very day…
Near her tennis court's creme clay,
there lay a porcelain pisser meant to drain its Palladian parody;
Let’s masturbate in Memory…
'Twas unripen'd Hope with the towel 'round her torso
my refugee was the denizen of an oblivious underworld
She had avoided life's consummation
while harboring mutual joy
for the boy,
Four cosmic revolutions shy a score;
I had dropped my Reservoir under the Bridge of Trysts before…
My ubiquitous Creme fell a pirouette non sequitur into the rusting Sluice!
Book II (Part 1)
Book II: Malinche's Seray
My leave had proven to be an indicative sham.
As before, any such revelation from the past
had degenerated into a debasement of my Freedoms...
One wadden length of unraveling hour before
slight to procure illicit velvet gaud hard promised…
I had greeted the bouncer as an old friend…
I parroted the Savior arms-wide as he found me
bereft a weapon against what was inside.
The cash register tended the elbow of the lustering hallway,
almost lost in the black paint.
I disdained from the typical floor I found; however,
there I was.
Serayites had opened up the noble harem for olde hire,
'cept these tantalii scorned the male Sucessor to their tradition,
gyrating as they were on their poles distorted by mine own aversion;
from the burnished swatch of skin my wanton conscience
so selected, I surmised:
The mestizo is mine.
Her face's Image widened shakily from my hasty steps toward her,
one of quetzal Temples, all beady-glint and wide within...
This lesson was more appropriate than I expected tonight.
I want to have a private party.
She clasped my hand with her own sooty digits to lead me over there.
The scene grew a microcosm from inside
the plush cubicle I had known at some dream back.
Her ravens'-tendrils made shards of the meekly ultraviolet awn,
transsecting each glowering projection from
the fuzzy disco ball and its own singed source,
proportions morphing by
its leery orbit and her positioning…
"You know how to do this, right?"
I knew when to initiate an educational experience… might I strip naked in your presence?
"No, dear, that's unlawful here."
Not on the other coast, it isn't. You see, I'm the most blasé of adventurers, I go for half a grand there…
Her thighs well-defined from gravity-defying ritual consumed
my thigh surly from wandering other austere hills.
The gold glitter in her thong strained mute and murky
'gainst its polyester. There would be a thud of foundation'd flesh
for a minute to define the session,
then it would dissipate into a hint of leaden cellulite.
This motion was being executed in the neighboring felten stalls
Exponential in the sowing of their stolid Kernels.
The rings fastened to the valves of her perfumed Providence
tasted sweet yet peppery amidst such refuse
not a single retraction spritzed from her toilette fuses
whipping lushly jingling from ear to my ear
as she bared her chest to my noble head…
Crow's feet rifted the recesses of those pliable dimples
to salve me of her saded diligence with every morose wile.
Book II (Part 2)
As is customary in such agreements, the vitality of the Performer
assaults her audience not as a single episode of redemption
for her true tribal-tat lover that inebriated in a nearby town,
but rather like a ginger lichen
creep’d upon her dumb smooth slab,
where each juvenile of the latex'd audience
is regaled with an ever more passive, commensal stroke of her beholding…
Every garish volley took on the breadth of her body;
the very lily-din of the stereo infested his fine Tunnels of perception
through their threadbare velvet carpets,
once purveying thoughtful gales
wrought a herringbone trail anew through his frayed latticework…
I scraped these feigns with the air of an aloof connoisseur
'gainst the syndicated movements of the other side of humanity.
my passages were already ruminat'd with her body as whole…
her glittery basidiocarp now snaked,
isolated from her lucrative apparatus…
…I must burn through my instars
to ride this strange canker 'round my body,
O, was the time nigh for this…
"What kind of molly are you on?!"
My mycelia smothered their own host…
…Miswoven lobe's spattering
'twas intimated latex firmament 'twixt the skins
permeating rayonnant microstitch a finger by itself, it's a…
each fine hyphae embolden as dirty words
the given now be, *beholden*, switched, slurren…
"I want some, whatever it is…"
"Of course, if you want a therapist, come sit in my lap later; I shall be here."
Yet Malinche was not now ready for her Lord
though I had wanted for so long in meeting the mother of a race,
her fellow Serayites lay fanning their salary
while Hope spilt emulates her estranged Sister in desperation…
they both proved wanting to me...
Book III (Part 1)
The shuttle had ignored me,
transfixed in glint, blinded by visceral Photon;
I missed already that verdant Third so opposite,
to content myself with its western improvement...
A drought had been long afflicted upon this green Gash…
The State had spent such a basking time in the sun,
such a brilliant scrub unto the faulted earth
to issue forth off her imperfect edifices a cyclical abrasion,
reflect the formerly flaxen fiber in its every minute undulation
impressed by the shade of the withered feral grain,
to have made whatever on surrounding hill hereby
a rueful chafe scattered,
a cry came from a most supplanted countryside…
Olde 'merican Pardes had biddeth
'mong the sprawls of her ornate Ur!
from public billboard
her vaunted epitaph:
of the biggest urban sprawl in the world;
'gainst the sickest slothen pall in the settled sur;
within carrion for the warden's jessed condor;
for the pessimist minstrel in the moor…
Her orchard clad in concrete
Was its actual wald,
Makes her blush in over-orb's equal autumn
through the vigorous oaks
and sends forth its sloven understory along the
inconvenient grassy margins,
and evaporated her need of brackish breasts…
Her urban lovers beneath, by whom she's lightly ashen
ravished by concrete skyscrapers those children erect for her,
exposed by the staccato Spectrum they emit
to hide her writhing soil'd face
amongst their vascular,
Whole groves of her sierra breadth they had staved off
by those peals of fluorescent light
which were anchored in the wild grating
of their myriliths' shadows
as had the fears of their eastern Fathers…
The Bay with her riparian arms had embraced the brunt of my dreams…
From the crimp of her radius
I found a southbound vein
in the single carriageway,
drawing gawking stares along each side
of her upturned palm
through either sheer mandible,
permeating the vitality of her vessels
that do grime her own bowel,
her vessels be her revelers exhausted
spent oils and rainbow rain
from their amorphous amber Sayara…
To the lowland of gritty produce,
I pared the living cases of greenery
from their herbaceous hearts,
with my earthy Iris
its shear constriction,
groping the petals of each fleshy ventricle
rent from the twice-removed Kemet…
All the threatening tongues unfurled
round this Peninsula, the most chiclet cosmopolitan tongues
my chosen hub concerned itself with…
I bid welcome to the west point of her melded Rhombus;
more occidental elements of its Ordum
had hewn a Cell for me…
Book III (Part 2)
Her tetrarch Butterfly flitted o’er the sliver of our Era,
its compound eyes scanning out the fate of his supposed Predators,
then escapes me through the fog;
the ambiguity of its depthless gaze casts a confusion over spent days,
its disparate Teeth suck the Sea asunder;
its Washboard was waiting for the deluge
its delicate Ridge fed me in the rump of the land
its Juice made me thank its sources
these first pleased my Proboscis…
Yet 'twas not pastorals of the Glade,
but the legions of Calafia
that gushed fertile as the Amazons,
only their spandex contours can I truly siphon
from a superficial chagrin…
Those Serayites are truly the She-Successors
I seeketh thee, O 'merican Pardes,
as cover for Hope's looming ambush!
I am speaking a new language;
my tongue, from my eavesdroppings none too changed
lets me consume no Color…
My soul, to my tongue all fructose-tang'd
unfronded the all-sensory-connect'd
and then paid the toll in the course of that organ's savoring
from the Knoll I behold,
that upon which I swore Parole's oath
so greatly extolled:
The omni-vaunt scorning of the Parole
lets not an orange Oriole gorge from his citrus Petiole
atime his pileated Era,
but fumes a Jay from its promontory scrub
face black from trite contact
with toilers' superfluous graphite,
shoulder blades sharp to cull Words' worn and black,
haunch thick to swoop its Body blue,
a Fire rages luminous in their bristling lairs,
both cannot agree on the method of its Fruits' ingestion 'til
both accept it snipped and rancid…
Those blazed wings must fill out as fingers now
to make my plucking nigh,
for my designs be not smoothed over by these eyes
like those of my Nectar-fed contemporaries;
they must be processed farcically
in their mutual dialogue,
a comedy relayed instead of
an clip choppily streamed.
One Loathsome transforms to a precious Many
through whose Medium I cast an ever greater inquiry,
their salutations are exchanged with ever greater cynicism;
In even the wafty aspirants' vaunted transcendence,
the force of their contraction crops them lamentations
that used to issue forth from the very crooks of its symbol,
even in ancient aspiration,
from the deliberations of its distant Langue unmov'd;
Its world is crude
its energy is crude and vulcan
the very names of its sacred letters ablative
and quickly communicative
the Parole remains supreme!
for all my impish choice,
I ogle its snaking Bay!
I agree to its seasome Ravages!
The paradigm to record every feat
is a semantic chart of action I keep ahold…
its columns are a line of blinds!
moving in timely sines to entice me,
each slat of paper Division
exposed the birdseye Vista behind it,
and every zephyr interwove our gradual rows
this Grid maps the Fledgling put…
The Taurine Tang has shouldered through,
my 'buds unfurled a bivouac for its tenure,
my heart murmurs that I hyper may speak from within it…
Book IV (Part 1)
Let me tell you about an Orchard's conscious transformation into a Vineyard:
What low-lying coast had come into being
from across that rocky jut;
I had reached it on a fickle day
on the morning bus;
the original artisans of these parts,
themselves a fairer succession to the sooty Stragglers
who remained the stoic Serfs to their savage nature
as their Brothers became adorned as green eagles just across the border,
their sects both abandoned their firm Fruits here
that had been confined to the stormy fuschias
which had convalesced from their feted fertility
through the fringeland who was acting such a vain diorama:
The washed-up weed all scraggled and warmly saturated in its rancid basking,
the sand ground coarse from the latter,
the deceptively pacific spray which had splayed nieve gulf men's vessels
on his foolish desire to be embraced by them for one instant…
once all coalescing in their unique estuary
now being admired like a lavender-frock'd model forever idle
as an underestimated watercolor
now hanged by a nail upon the drafts of her own similar galleries;
The snaking of the vines
floored on the ground are interpreted as robust
as the flowering of the most lusty sequoias through their turbid medium;
on my ant's scamper up every daunting grain that makes the Seaboard
see clear down her big South;
from this evidence, I had supposed they had no other aim in life
only her invested Revelers remained 'tween the photolithic dales
in favor of yielding more fermented thyme
hidden in the confines of the valley
sober Weeds swill their tart Zinfandel...
So the sugars stratified on the underside of the Teat,
their fleshy lymph had thickened,
and degenerated the well-intention'd seed!
Adorned in such ermine, I stroked it...
it had graced even the humble adobe of its streets,
but who had attracted the tarnished of palate
in addition to the by-product of olde Palatinate?
‘Twas argyll pastels of sewn Spirit that brittled their outer skin,
that had consumed the poison and petrified its fleshiness
into tessalatory scaling on their delicate Organ...
O, to be a parasite on their confused hospitality!
Going down for the first time,
I saw the Vineyard of God on the murky sea
when I first came to this place
I wanted Old Man Prime's Bride as an ideal,
not as the smattered individual I had truly laid eyes on,
for my own, even going to the bar for a dry slake from his Chalice,
except that I knew this man’s taste meant other Sours as well...
I nestled myself inside the silty shoulder of the shore
so ceramic like a salt-and-pepper Clavicle
so prone to each tame tide;
buried in its cold sediments,
I watched the surfers etch along what little arching tolerance
those aborted surges could provide,
the lines of their lives
unaware of it in the joy of their novice;
not a care to each dousing wave
leeching the my form's grave covering
of any Oil...
Book IV (Part 2)
On her enigmatic walk alone
she passed in awe of the testimony,
she passed by with a simple statement
on whose elastic I stumbled after her...
Upon asking about the rest of the shore
she suggested a cloister to the remote north instead;
obstructed by her carnelian Ring,
she stroked my hand as she indicated
the sluggish motion to shake it
and bid me farewell…
Such is the dilemma from hitched Patricia;
I grasp her still-unruffled Grace
with which she chides the Spurner of the Grapes,
the Adultery in my mind forms my homage
with which she scorns the Serayites fallen from her…
…electrons have moved around the cortex; they've goaded their master awake into his own again, and he finds himself awake, beheld through a window to a floor of maple and of hickory, sweet and virginal as Cumberland unfound…
To what tune has he woken now?
It's the leaves, once still;
now synthesizing federal their solar sugars
through their brazen collectors…
as an eddie passes its whirling tendrils though the canopy,
they teach each other the art of painting,
just one continuous stroke on the sky,
and it throws the gust into a somersault by its eager dynamic,
falling with a disruptive rustle
on the open grave below,
dead brethren chiming despite achromatic cells
an organic whisper, chiding all those
that possess locomotion not to fall prey
to the victims of regal process
and waft with their stimulant away
to an unseen clearing…
An ocular diversion heralds the way!
There surely is a panorama projecting from inside:
More and more dead loom over the surface
and disintegrate before his eyes;
the decomposition sheds glinting
the glossy jackets that excite
the movement of his limbs towards auspice,
the locus of his five senses to focus…
Book VI (Part 1)
It's my turn to set a trap thread:
Does my own orgasm,
torpid in whacked plash so torrid,
deferential and fallopian storm encased in quicksilver inlay, that
spent libertine libido which alone sluices male and female
over and under my vitruvian center,
does it balm my palmy flagellate?
the silver burnish'd skin softens so,
the Forger of Men
has already poured his Flux...
Where was the joy in its every cell?
shen it be, isn't this?!
something soaring it feels,
a blasting cap sent forth
on a crusty Filament from the leathery Membrane;
my petty Sentiment must have finally manifested Itself:
Specialization and Functionality
in reverent twain,
Mysticism and Wantoness
to rend that twin Ego,
generate this protognosis
into an integrated ecstasy,
my gametes' Gamekeeper will survive me by Meiosis…
It's the face that windows its own lifer,
the cheeks' curvature that composes the planks of my prison's Portico
warped on their intended culture,
to the unengender'd, unblush'd soul,
those trim patios weather the same dust as whitewashed sluts
cheeks slather'd rougest…
In baroque Limoges bluest,
dapple my soul the same veneer as its smart Doldrums!
court the empathy from my own nerve endings
it freckles the face and determines the shape of Man's cortical Cladding;
Its Skin stands out nicely, for his shadow is applied in tasteful slate,
we must invite some guests for a stargazing party…
Indigo lids broadcast whole new constellations;
stars up here aren't static but conglog
then hallucen 'round the humour-cosmos,
rinded by those few millimeters of skin.
Their deprivation eventually gives,
to pool cue or reality the traumatic same!
I a culture without root
am fated to a harlequin-spun Yarn,
for the slightest hope of a perpetuating Reflector
or to at least embroider the mob of sleek designer cotton…
A supple body grafts to the root of the fruit,
making my thread the weft of a quilted tapestry without frame,
Androgeny, may it tangle mistletoe
to glint the scalpels' descending draw
with emasculating lick through my soul's home
to supple my missent loins,
not let my feet pace the milky ground!
I am now a Saint in a selfie snap,
like me, like me…
Let's overexpose that turbid face
not by a loom's generosity
but nowadays a saturating slider;
may your Camera instill Fecundity serendipesque,
let’s de-definate the true-how Arabesques,
let’s re-saturate the cut-out Odalisques,
let’s initiate those tag-now Burlesques…
All I this tapestry can do is tarp the arches of His various insitutions…
My wilted patterns bleed into my vacuousness
or unravel from dancing to the rhythm…
Color is only eggshell deep, amplitude deep
its inverse veins chiaroscuro in host's li;
Color sees its substance's surface scourges
that cherished Man I cradle in my collarbone before I grow older…
Don't bother me, I will gain mass when I feel His pleasure
I prefer to be sallow and andro
for at least this one moment…
Book VI (Part 2)
… "I masticated the spare shock of satin from the unraveling edge of my choker ribbon, once brilliant arc of iridescence under any ambiance, spit saturated and naughty mashed after it scoured the groove of my enamel for the slightest hint of yellowing with such a fineness of friction"…
My fanned hand glided sheer across the wheel's Leather
on my Steed's journey
upon the positive Arc,
up the phalanx of the fable'd dowager,
past her orchids, orchards, anything,
along the ridge of her pollex eerily flex'd
till the tufted terrace by musty lace…
I had reached the Buzzer of the city
the tip of her thumb…
Perhaps in glinting keratin
resplends the slow-blown windows mostmodern…
"Come Attend the Munch"
I read bashfully the pseudo-Garamond
after a few apprehensive passes…
Their cordial Deceptor
served me my first sobering Coffee;
its bitter Germ found reflective solace in my taste
for my maiden savoring,
sitting amongst the Damned so kitschy,
Like a Bitch some cage'd woman itches…
the backroom Congress convened
for a new orientation…
“They had constructed a Fortress for themselves,
expecting the great Citadel and its corresponding pornography;”
Skip the explanation, Corpulent Escort;
impudence to impudence is the only true escape…
your ostentatious Armory lay frivolous
in the underwake of theaters and expensive valets!
Tie me to the nearest hobby horse
in this sparse dungeon,
I must be bent over the frame with hands and legs tied,
permission for your girlfriend,
for a spanking is now in order,
*scratching of my back in fashion*,
a coo of halitosis she shudders
stroking my behind with relish and shrinking my scrotum
our perverted old witness is excited
to marvel upon our travails…
The grimy Door hath passed to the servant of its aperture
quadruple Lecherarchs emblazoning the panels of its frame:
an Anoxic, dangle-dried
upon xyr suspended cats' cradle
a Subfemme, bedlam-tied
with her natal contractions vibrat’d to paralysis
a Threesome, specialized
between the maids and their master
a Masochist, sodomized
in hir fit of strapped wantoness...
“SUBSPACE, they call it, when you're done with your abuse…”
The old whip-lady kept me company on the musty couch as I recovered…
for my normal powers of reasoning
were eloping with Etruscan silva,
like opium or dopamine…
I could feel her reluctance
to remain with such a kid,
…a birthday was being celebrated today…
"Happy birthday to the old Chief and his two Pretties!"
I lay immobile in reverie ‘neath their settee:
Olde Dom Janus,
Assented the occasion with a heave of plumbous chest hair;
Wan young Janis
Splayed her succinous mons rightest him,
legs splayed in communal familiarity;
give his master's nipple a lick on his left,
cherry red knickers on his naked body;
Book VI (Part 3)
Yet there was hardly a Fornix to the entire damned establishment…
Where is the evidence
in this descending inversion of time
for all my quailing experiences?
‘Twas period of regression into Youth
for an Opus was forming in my Time,
its Name in mind...
Temples and City Nights
were open for the weekend
I was clubbin' on the authority's floor
where all their rooms synonymous with each other...
"No one in this block of concrete seems to have seen the purity of light;
all was red, blue, green, black.
Our whole student body, here to mojo at least one night.
No one dancing with lovers, just grinding on these downcast women.
You must move to the center of the throng to see the real tendencies of humanity.
No need to communicate, because your feeble conversation gets trampled
by the steel waves of the subwoofers.
Just talk with your body; however, I had nothing prepared to say."
the 'Kind knows the way…
To the center of that gridded triangle
grated by the seedy streets of the City
to the budless pagoda
with the trademark blacklight graffiti in its basement...
Ventilating on its crowded terraces,
Nepotism strifes my most hedonistic Times,
so when wildly kicking the air supine
in the middle of the formed line,
they actually attempted to intimidate me!
Shame, we would all get kicked out late in the Morning...
What a Foreigner amongst the Twerkers!
Somewhere between the cycling Songs,
they called me Magic,
those who refused me first called me now midchorus...
"Never have hands lit up as when they detect
God’s true dyed sculpture beneath their grimy dermis.
Curve below, delicate bone flexing upwards.
It’s not too bad for mine one far below, but it is quite a bashful fellow
when something happens to contact through denim with it.
No need for mysterious mestizos, their friends, their sex, tonight at all;
just this one kindred spirit, with me for as long as the despicable rhythm
kept her alive…"
Ahtziri came to me
My six-petaled cornflower queen!
The garrote-thin fringe on her sleeves
parroted maizesilk powder’d qirmiz;
with every intimation we beframed more the Door
that rends the genres' Corridor…
Even her peyote proved unnecessary...
She was alone another Shorty paying my way Back…
"All that neon shied away from our journey forward. Tension made our car plane through the passing lines, past the incoherent mass, to a more desirable stretch of Enigma..."
This long hair is not mine, yet it whips the air equine-fine…
Broke the Wineglass to free the Drink
as I jumped on its pompous dining-Table,
after the overnight Return at four in the morning;
Perchance Patricia plays couth the piano inside her Hotel;
I shall cowtow to you Serayites no more,
for Ahtziri’s Queen will be my cornflower-eye'd Means...
Book VII (Part 1)
In the commencement of my life's Prime,
I can already see deceleration
as a vivification of End's acceleration,
the warmth of their orange pigments
at the immuring of the sodium Orb,
like the lull of the cake-fed Vagrant
plushed the adobe walls of the City’s defunct customshouse,
such cush snuff which daub the burners of the forbidden…
May some purer stuff fuel me home…
The first flight's return relapsed my memory's nighttime;
I must return a leeward aileron trailing the interface of a wing
near uncamber'd in the station of reaping,
pure in light upon the separating edge jaws
flashing similar orange in warning to the
in vain guise as a pulsar on a fixed path
sailing in the tradestream of the cumulonimbus floor,
indigo firmament, under the rind of the fixed stars
whose inlaid illumination is provided by the lowly skylines and fateful crossroads
provide a vain attempt just glimps'd to format the life of the bedazzled yonder
from nether of the braves' land;
for if one foot recedes back to the cloudy,
we will again hurtle to our doom…
"It's not what is going on about you, its whats inside you that wants to come out…"
"Rouse, rouse… whither we repose from our pillow?
Under the consequential auspices of the patergeist,
whom instills the future in you, whom you won't have met yet
in your sequence till your fruit will have become tepid from the pleasure of its falling…
you shall go with him round the stolid block,
seeing the remnant of your reflection against the buzzing
of the violet streetlamps on the wan window
at utter still of the developing morning…
he has a mission for you that he won't initiate from his self…
the means seems to infuse through you slowly
as he hails the shady doorman in under the slate vault,
the bowels of the artificial world… In we go, all us dwellers,
into the walls saffron from the dust of saffron,
so noble a pigment, yet wantonly forgotten
in its slipshod application
for our eagerness to perform such ashen shames in its angles…
from the thin oak door came my client,
to which I asked her hire to blow me...
What modesty, cracked my guides with beckonance…
inside her Quarter I went, under the zari Canopy.
The unpracticed dance of the ages commencing all around the ruffling rectangle,
for which the moment of climax arrived with the rifting of the loincloths
from her thighs to the great Delta,
a granite chisel'd yoni propped perfectly atip my engorged plume…
a most unwelcoming grind…"
I see a stubborn Wadi in the east
withstanding the throes of the desert,
whose Delta recedes from my psyche
like the Tiger from her basin;
O Matriarch of Ur, misconstrued ursa,
lead me by my hand into the great East;
I will squeeze back wholly
as your green Orientalist,
and excavate your Quarters of leisure…
Book VII (Part 2)
We were all fiddling with our precious-washed rings excitedly;
The bigger of us had cited
the bite of your wistful riding crop
As I had;
Clasp me by my little finger at least to your Powder Room…
Your physiognomy rivets me…
Unwroughtable luminaries so tawny, they irrigated
what has grown and what is to bear There...
Your rapacious face fram’d with
dense locks that curl your sins inside of them,
down to your very shoulders;
zaftig figure, robust countenance…
Each pious wrinkle weighting it paints an iconic sigil;
Our discourse matters not, for it is broken…
I remember not your quotations,
we must speak in proper terms now,
since we are approaching the Archetype
we have so consciously striven toward…
"…your world is not new but novel nonetheless that I peer into…"
How I submit to the throes of trivial puberty!
Let's repose to Urb-!
*a finger to my lips*
"DO shirk from the utterance of such an act of establishment;
We mustn't mention the name of that modern place
but keep the City from where sands’ father first eroded
vague and placid in pronunciation,
who built it to remain a bitter mystery."
Come to my Nation, O myrrh-ting'd missal…
Embody the fuming Mistress in whom my nation drowns immersed,
represent Her increasing mystery,
you’re Columbia Intrinsic’s seer…
Culture of your Bowels is mixed with your bloody Waters,
putrifies the Curd from your exhumed monstrosities,
permeating those which nourished of your monasteries;
located far too away to ever want repatriation,
all your Patriarchs are already disgraced,
their winged Beasts jackhammered in high definition,
Your dammed vessels be the avenues of your conquerors,
for their bitterness of their byproducts shall run through…
Stagnant to curdle’d hurdle your eras immemorial…
I pine in the storied basking of her lost Pines
for the highest active fire of her Land,
Yet to my chagrin,
she scorns those dense trappings of my own dear Mazandaran…
"Fine, says I, but what from your sand?"
Book VIII (Part 1)
Such a somber countenance…
we were in our former foothills now
the torturing plain longer again to the sallow waters
the disturbances of the moon that much more distant in
the wood where I tried my last cashed greenery;
When I got up to receive her…
Such a young being in my scheme,
she was leaning on my borrowed car,
looking down her unlaced bust after the act,
her cheekbones caught the bounds of my perception...
the only supports that sifted me from her chasms,
all before she looked up and bid me adieu forever,
a scorned part of myself teetering the precipice of this quivering being,
skated her wispy lashes…
I clutched with mine own
the tail of one in vain,
as dashing myself in despair
upon odious vein of pathos,
the strings' edges seemed nary any metallic filament;
they seemed as a sliver of obsidian, a
beer neck slide whose subtle contours
swelled with momentous lava flow,
reuniting with its glass strummers;
glass was made to interface upon
runny silicates with germanium cell phones
computer chips and nanotube cylinders seceding once more…
to fit over the pervasive finger of the new lone piper,
asphyxiated face aped the Orphic gape,
entreating all amorphous conduits work together
in their minute respective circuitries to make,
and ride light the dark corneas;
every time her lids did *blink*,
they bucked me off her into a sober future…
"'How thin is a linear lifeline?'
can it be physical,
made of cratered asphalt
I wonder tonight
on this magnificent balls thirty-nine
County Road 1108;
all the numbers odd from east westward,
all trajectories toward conjecturable,
the nucleus of the vistas via leeward;
I finally stop running away into the night
to savor a gaze toward the beckoning lurch;
guardians asleep sans vigilance,
for murderous lethargy scattered their clairvoyant optic over
In the form of flashing radio towers
(they're flashing now)
staccato tungstens oscillating through purple space,
though never attaining the blazing azure
of their metaphorical progenitor transfixing my fabric
that could only be the poseur of Argus…
Alert! Another staccato?!
Look both ways to no
animate illusion (all is dark after all)…
I yearn vacuum-mute for some wandering vehicle to intercept me,
of whose Seratonin deficients inside
would erode my Melatonin defense
into an act smooth as the Road ridden;
Oh fuck me, you swarthy passenger!
Don't even change seats, for I desire a frontal view
to the orgy turn'd leathery burgundy;
Jolt my iridescent 'Cock
'til the white lens' silhouettes
rattle feebly 'round my starless retinas
like silver coins jingle
in the tip jar of a ragass panhandler…
Lofty cedar tops envelop the wanderluster like an obscure manger…"
Book VIII (Part 2)
Its Beacon shone all the brighter at the edge of the Town,
the sand dunes taut as a tendon
yet nipping vacant Produce stalls miles away...
bonfires rashed along the coast,
not to indicate any warnings,
but to be instead,
and to carry on the novelty of the sunset
family by day, couples by night
both refrain from the harrowing Cataract
I finally navigate…
Tread this Teat by dopplerlight
to ply its sustenance!
Tonight was time to wander, not to dance,
no time to grind for lovers,
no time to coddle previous exploits,
verily it was time to wander!
The homeless man told me
heading due opposite the temperate Pardes
was barely pardon to his desert-made metropolis;
that southbound offers his million-beloved's warning
that whoever roots the dunes should sense
some skull-cracking fun at leaden Expense…
The Lighthouse indicating my Quadrant showed me
an image of stepped enlightenment
by its fresnel Lens:
that errant starboard pleasure Yacht,
is a slender gentrifying Assassin instead,
busy condemning the common Crafts leeward;
after the two top corners I rounded the other side
to the allowance of their gated guard
keeping vigil over bud's center…
The Forest composed the Center of the Square
where the mountain lions haunted Her mansions;
perhaps a paring of the residents' former daring
still soured any prospect of their sharing…
As I cast deviant shadows in their windows
and stalked the especially dark bend,
I wanted my Land!
How I still want my deciduous Land!
Woe, I must sleep on its Sand,
or write obscenities in the well trimmed bunkers
just atop the ridge in Prime's Vineyard; no,
I must slumber on His beach till early morning…
the Scrub Jay at the station is hangover silent
and being scolded for his vociferous Trebles…
I watch all the migrants in the morrow…
Farewell to all delusion!
It's such sorrow to rethink Vagrancy's virtues…
I come to realize I squared the Circle instead;
in trying to kiss its Quadrature I flit around capricious,
I had been found wanting of its Demarcation;
I then left the Peninsula almost an island…
I must abandon the skete for a Nation;
the balls-out Fool found it edged a cliff to the dissolving Sea…
He is in trouble now too!
My compartment was rapped upon at last,
my presence requested!
In the center of the square
I opened my dorm's door to several doors deep,
dense and negligent of pile in its leached carpets,
thank God for the level nature of this splinter,
for if it was turn'd skyward on its side
Hall's stuffy stave of heaven would drown
slow blanching me
with squalor in its staccato scatter,
I playing eye games with the others
that I may not connect with
'till I finally sit understanding
into the eyes of my rectors;
I was in great trouble!
The office of your superiors
tell me to recall these events
in the company of my peers!
I cannot speak clear…
"Why must you speak in riddle?
Put an end to this detached nonsense
you are not nonchalant,
and put your subject first. Remember:"
OURS IS THE PAROLE,
SHE BEARS NO OTHER LANGUID CREOLE.
My, how the Parole is potent on my position that night
for it was given freely from the mouth of my chosen companion
I knew its nature now
for it I am ordered to keep futile guard
in the plush foyer of Purgatory,
edge of the boundaries of
hurtling rashly into A Wall…
Me and my Mate sit in the crook of life's stairway…
a stratified gallery of balustrades splits
ten minutes till Midnight;
fluorescent light's enlightenment is my only stimulant at that time
from the diffracting canthus of my hornrims,
those impossible distorted stories mock that I cannot master them,
that entire suites of emanations in them I cannot keep
from my surreal forefront;
like clumsy leather feet tripping over those trivial flights,
I might try to remaster the original image...
Just look not too lofty or you’ll smolder in the red penthouses
lest you climb those long lengths to places unknown,
for the confusion of Color will rouse you traveling to the next verse...
I must be a Courier for every major Dolor now
but all their Floors are threadbare and black!
For the Forest outside the dusty Door is the new Game my Mate is playing:
"Parallax of Passerines" for any known System,
where the pedantic Sparrows morph their beaks to consume
on Edge of the wood with her Vireos,
the Juncos' heads sway with the perilous grass,
groundward do the Nuthatches upend their spritely movement,
warblers are where the Hunter only knows,
while the untimely mask of the Yellowthroat
droops drama-wasted on the cement…
"Are you sure you want to stay in this place?"
my Mate asks...
"You! Who are you to terminate my function by combustible alchemy?
I carry the spatial tidings of space-time circular:
The 'Kind feasts friendly and unseen, leaving only its eclectic colonnade of legs
to proliferate from its shade the crumbs of their communion
'till you raged in rhythm to the humorous pitter-patter,
rancid from their secondhand puddles formed in their sultry ecstasy,
their conjectured hands prayed high in lofty exposure,
permeable eyes as one to the server'd cloud they nourish from...
Is its last eclipse marked your day to finally fill
the empty tableaux you paced under intimidated?
Its expert surface would surely scream redefined once seized,
this platform on which you stand, in stationary stone,
its terra tiles crass crockery to hold Cronian lust reaped,
the gritty grout between them imperial canals of molten wrath,
a grid engorged with sanguine parameters fast-clotting
about the turn'd anemic weaklings…
These dripping products must indeed be your quenching drink..."
Book XI (Part 1)
Ascent from the Limousine!
I am the future, I am the Apparition; I am the Extrapolation!
I am a Performer at heart,
forever destined for the stentor-drone;
he could not dance with another but himself
and the Witness of Providence…
Go away in darkness, tend to Pardes!
for I need Her untouched tresses this premiere night,
or at worst to transfigure a Peasantess lesser;
Homeward to the true Catskill wood!
I cannot recall the road theatre-ward through the unrelenting pitch
which is drenched with extant fog from my ominous foreknowledge...
This is my Piece that I have prepared,
in the bower of my Discontentment,
in the hovel of my Resentment;
as is contrary to the laurels of victory,
I must leave my glinting Car to be ultimately decided;
at least I dressed my Faith on a mane-endowing scarf…
This red carpet stretches out for my own Feet,
this is how it found its way to an unlikely Threshold;
Malinche opens theater’s door for me…
"Who be the woman who's split but silent?
Be you the woman of foreign spirits,
the daughter of agave
envision'd by her calling culture
to whip the skipping circle 'round,
for whom the cabrons shuffled harder
with every liquid administration,
for whom they reel'd broken 'til true dawn
with every drop of blue Jalisco blood taken,
Or be you the shirking saint toward passions below,
the altair of all aloof,
to whom beauty retreads your namesake grey seas in vain,
though whom in pearly premonition a score of silly shepherds covets?
Come regardless, mysterious reveler,
abscond with another to aft chambers,
places no gold-vested guard could clear:
vivid vicinities for consummation of flailing crescendo,
vexing memories which appease deviant throes…"
Her inevitable narcolegacy follows...
I am now between my Door and the Crowd!
As I have taken over their place as the object of desire,
the cinema picture repeats on the screen:
Ghazy Loon watching himself watching himself without End,
Panning out without End,
upon that foyer-shaped Thread into static Reality:
*Destiny's brother emerges and shoots,
this is what my present has become at last,
an eluding limit between perpetual picture from the past
and the coming bullet from Destiny's brother!*
Book XI (Part 2)
"Go on, render your futile expression free to spatter
by powdery middleman;
those flaming particles shall blanch
at the contact of my will,
they shall expel your missile seven times faster
to account for the oddity of its destination,
out of their own fear for absolution,
for it shall be no longer a frenzied romp with the
mechanized reaper, but rather
the ray from a waning star
glowering impotent in infamy,
spanning the fatal distance toward my enlightenment;
it shall ring true
in the guise of a berserker,
grazing my flesh,
spreading its brawny petals
through my corporeal cavity,
by your violent adieu,
but as the bullet continues
its physical circuit,
as it tests the tantalizing asymptote,
my atom will spiral towards the infinite,
newly alive from the resolve of
the converging vessel,
ever sacrosanct through infinitesimal proximity,
through the axes of adolescent death
and of the accommodating prophet
until you beg for my function's termination, my nectar…"
Finished 7:54 PM, March 28, 2015
By Ghazy Loon
The practice of taqaandan (also taghaandan) also puts men at risk of penile fracture. Taqaandan, which comes from a Kurdish word meaning "to click," involves bending the top part of the erect penis while holding the lower part of the shaft in place, until a click is heard and felt. Taqaandan is said to be painless and has been compared to cracking one's knuckles, but the practice of taqaandan has led to an increase in the prevalence of penile fractures in western Iran. Taqaandan may be performed to achieve detumescence.
That's what I was looking for. This should explain it.