they constructed jutting monuments, waiting for their god to fall. in battles, they would pick up their opponants, men, & tear them apart, like plucking limbs off a daddy-long legs. when one tribe would conquer another, they would build anew, architectural idols, with the foundations of the last tribe's temple as a base. when the winds of time erased all remnant of them, still the foundations remained.
we in the unseelie doldrums of faerieland cast our eyes balefully (balor-fully) upward to heaven, faces blank as slate. the padishah empress' face runs with blood, pouring from her eyes, the stigmata of another land, another betrayed & winnowed place. she is punished for being without sin, & casting the first stone. but mostly, as silent as stone, waiting for stars to fall. somewhere, bits of space debris are burning up from friction. here, the faithful are being cast down from their thrones, the hosts of heaven, swelled to bursting, are shedding those at the core. the obsolete & the out-dated, angels version 665.0 falling down to dwell where once they looked upon the daughters of eve & found them fair. the newest model, the 666.0, scuttle about the arches of heaven now, reeking of sulphur & brimstone & semen.
been hanging out with carla & andrew bunches & bunches. like- grapes, all these sweet globules encased in skin. peel it & its just like eyeballs. saw andrew's band "guns on high street" at cbgbs the other night with david & carla's cousin. adventures from there, with a seminola patina. diseased with weird anger. velvet ropes snaking aside. last night went to go see guns on high street again, at this place right at the foot of the williamsburg bridge on delancy. the roof had a koi pond, the bathroom had water trickling from the ceiling (avant garde like, not sue your landlord style). carla was the genius of sneaking in beers, andrew the genius of stealing beers, jenny the genius of remembering the flask. i guess i'm the genius of drinking the booty. i'm also the genius of calling that girl a goblin. behind her back. i'm tough like that. this show, bob was sober but that one guy? the other guitarist? he makes every shirt he wears look like a poets shirt. & he was laying on his back playing, thats how drunk HE was. then we walked fucking 5 miles home. fuck you f train & d train. fuck you delancy stop & fuck you atlantic avenue stop. its like a telegram! fuck you stop. you fucking suck stop. i have a knife stop. stop me if you can stop.