Celadon: Issue 2

I've just finished the second issue of Celadon! Feel really excited with how these characters are taking over my Soul and all. Contact me if you'd like to purchase a copy, they're six dollars before shipping. I hope you can spare! Here's a preview of the issue itself.

Vicious

This strange Wideness towards light, then Coughs meet.

Inbred new places stop out the sides of what I touch. 

Sky is no father, Luke mimes. My hand on his nipple, 

places his allmist mouth on my raw palm. Cymbals luff.  

Lystic, look at these legs: soilless flesh yet unnatural  

on end; goosebump red, pink, felt dragged in. Skin white 

windowed in paddles of saturn-velvet: uncanny, stem liquid 

chants. Kayak wakes, patches of tongue serrated mallow. 

Cedrus, myrcene. No one stands outside.

We can’t hang out in the fingerflecks anymore.

You’ve nooned your sigh, gave up the black gate of Animal.

Now that’s what I call liberty: blow me, then call in Evening.  

In nudeless scrawl. My lids trickle each crownkiss 

destined for salt to column their calm belt of whisper. 

Humility between this fingernail’s cracked tulips. After today,

Luke can look crazy in the light thinking of his blood

not color nor cane nor loud turns of marble in strangled milk.

I look at his Eyes. Blinks caught in rhythmic pillars’ pestilent dew.  

I look at his rising flavors and the green flames of an Ariel

in ghostlike symmetry with the residue of Saturday; alone in roads. 

The Thousand-Eyed Pelican of Atlantis

Gone colors, itchy with shoreline. Some dream gurgles towards the surface, tattooed with Frenzy's thickink. Who exhales naked violet, then worn patches. Spikes, a vacant yellow, a candle forgotten by Dawn. Carpenter new alones, like an atlas limping out the skull of Poseidon. Has this the echo flavor, this child. 

Slobbery sargasso won another back here.

Rose, then broken. Some boy slit with fresh mile,

serene chest, dirty questions. Mako in his gums. 

Call this hostage residue, lengthen evening. Acne roe scattered side black coral, his eyes inverted oysters. Did he ever sleep, I ask myself. Dial tone scraped across the anemone prophet-sage, Athenated porepools. Teeth knives, soft pumice pupils. Albino baleen sprouts from back, bald otherwise but for this growth. 

None splinters eels red, sore expires. Bright now. 

Livid to his side, imitating Gills of Paradise, his wrinkles. 

Walking prism, never mask of Breath, bobbing muscle. 

And now with his neck soothed down my Pale Beak. Towards the parapets of Ivory, children in saliva-sabledresses of diatoms and nettle. I'm not here to outdo the helpless, just my eyes abound in verdigris, prize Pink the science of the Storm. Figures in landscape, spasm bath salts and sluice, no more edges. Pearling lives. 

Abandoned to hope, skin-flicker of moist gravity. 

To find even him ravined in scatter Face, orphan scars 

trailing from his neck like sacrament. I trace what I can where. 

Into each of these mornings another poured, another round I trickle. Another cabbage-plumed beast fondled by the rabid Cancers. Can never pluck off barnacle for its Spiral binds the Soul. Never quench Mautumn Sun for it throbs from their Heart. Never calm these Elements yet myself alembic the Terror. I practice my own blood. 

Celadon: first issue

I just finished work on the first issue of Celadon. While it doesn't make total sense yet, bear with me as there are still many issues to come. If you'd like a copy just e-mail me at : ms08j@my.fsu.edu.

They're 6 dollars before shipping and handling or if you want the actual pdf, I'll give it to you gratis. 

Hope you like it. 

All Hail my Child Celadon.

Thor's Day, the 1498957th of Ouroborosber

You’re listening to the Wyrm. Abandon all to the Wyrm. 

Scattered reports have come in on the recent development in the S.C.U.B.A. (Semiotics Cauterized Under Bibliofrothing Aardvarks) sector of the rising disintegration Swarmblue fury, rising pepperminted shin confetti and sashimi-blushed faces of those massacred in the Shinto-Dianetic Initiative. While unknown relations persist  between the growing Honda Elemental threat, we have a schematic for the Environment-Wherever-Pylon which intercepts enough of the Sound to get our ‘knees into our feet’ as the popular slogan has it. The President of the Omloch Republic of America is preparing to speak out against these simper-bolted turmoils later this week in a press conference scheduled on the azimuth of every third cuticle in the World. 

You’re listening to the Wyrm, the only news team that gargles into the very cerebellum of our Day. 

Now, over to our plateau-pored princess, Our Lady of the Teratoma, with her weekly Cultural/Media Crunch:

Thank you, Gossamer Smith. 

You know, friends, there’s a limit where the scriptures give out, where they translucent into that aftertaste of laughter and all you can do is chew up splinters of the words you came to trust. But all us on the hearing end gets a spank of wasted syllabland, disfigured geometry once praised for its scintillated curvature called Word. 

But shit, bitch those days are done. 

I DP (I’m phallossoming this time of month)a 12-year-old moloch vestigial-Colossus every morning in place of orange juice and imitate the wind through all his cuneiform-seared cavities. The effect: 3 parts granite Compari, two parts bliss. 

Look, notice the way ridges swell at my approach. They call it a sickness and yeah I’m a student of the Taxonomy of the Cough, but at least I retain sweet vistas. We all became this way for a sifted backlash of revenue I call “Baby Bordello Gen-Fix” because the chemical melee prawned all of Greater Kindergarten into a ripe jambalaya of kid bone and kid fucky-flesh.

No one seems to remember a time before these Carapace Memoirs became a go-to popular feed, but for less than a fiber fifty off the quai you could channel your aura’s mp3 chakra-clones into several Salamander-like tissue probes.
Dance the night back into the dermis of the Diplidocus. 

Times apparently change? But really this is just a loophole gambit back to Word right? 

In the wake of the re-terrorist @Now-herds, the city mesh did not function swimmingly. People fell in and out of existence like pinball bacteria in a luminous, luminous gangrene. Eventually, the youth siphoned itself into a question-mark-like coil and bonscorched the facelands into a monument unparalleled in grandeur and oxidation. 

Vitamins then took such a resilient stance against production, sick of millenia spent in aid and foundation. Their mineral efficiency diminished into a rich armada of opposite blisters like mach-guns' backwards suck, a slippery antithesis to their familiar ballistic. 

Of course, at this point, everything that might even slightly resemble the attributes of a mother compounded into a Vegas type fluorescent pentagon of sun that ravaged the prairies in leviathanical thrust and cap, stun and surge. Mothers had finally got the upper hand on childrenated distance, but of course this distorted the suffocating image of infant blasting it through barrier on barrier of skin and alba, reaching up a scythy-vesicled form of offspring: the Vowel, and how ecstatic we all were upon that encounter. 

As you know, I could not let these passages go unintruded so I gaussed up a beacon-shiva and tore every gilded appendage from the respective horizons of the mass and threw a light dinner consisting of radish-arugula-staple-pig salad and the wine of a fossilized eunuch of torture unknown to this genetic miasma. Only the celebrities most anthrax-scattered were accepted and the ghosts of my two uncles who consistently ate sections of each others Lymphatic Vessels through their nights during the third phase of the fifth American civil war. 

Tired with the battalion of my mostly carnivorous HDTV, I lie in the milky wilderness of the Petroleum of the Endless, which naturally shot up everywhere to compete with the nano wipeout of the Saga Theme Empire. 

How many people must be mutilated bed-bath-and-beyond method before my voice has Words like I met them again?

(at this point a millennium carbides all noise to sigh)

I take the seconds in stride and quietly salute you from somewhere deep in my continent of arms. 

Worry not, my friends, for Our Lady has just begun. 
As I’m sure all the misttoos on your thousand-rented bloodmark indicates, I deserve the World. 

Nothing confronts my medusa-rifled banshee streaming: suck on the lullfrills top like all the 24/7 river-mouths finally found a little crotch, snap, and poppa they can call home. 

Sincerely from out the Shining Cysts,

Our Lady of the Teratoma

You’re listening to the Wyrm.

Cyborganic Antelope on Jejeunal Branches of the Gaza Crater in the recent 'Mirror of the Moon' campaign have taken the left nodule of Orlando hostage. Currently negotiations seem to be centered around the absolute admittance of the entire Neo-Serengeti Expansionists into the Albionic Citadel Pulp on the up-and-coming Creek District of our sister planet Venus. More on this as it develops.

Abandon all to the Wyrm.   

drawings

These were all drawings I did for the awesome, radical zine Please, You Will Sodomize Me?!?

Animal Man

how your digestive mirrors mutilated me to sentaur
I sacred the convex prophecy a second (a pale beat)
then dog-ear those precious clones of me, strangled
waves of ness-nest speaking closes, rosegrout teethes

and wrist-herd grammars tightly, coldly seething
dark organs, anvil plumage. iridescent voices merge
in the tendons and folds producing flock of keelveins.
heartvest scrapes sky, blood clouds fumble their throat

swarming aqueducts go blind; organelles rinse statues
of silent faces: a forceful blend. coral-fat aorta spells
shade cerebral, tersely pumping vocables. more distance,
always more stunted on horizon and augury swanland

compass the marble hurricanes in my tropics, dead atlas
of my fistrange. knuckles melted slowly fall away,
until my clench resembles a red dune, a broken forest.
I love you in the strange canyon of my youngest mouth

your voyage through my autopsy pollinating soft genocide.
you should lay down your heads, hydrate skull corsage
on rain-membered velvet and spider-gilled petals, watch
my dickfield rising gently over arches of our rippled spine