THE ARC, THE WRIST AND TREMELO FIRST VERSE [for this first verse, let “i” = the sound of bird feathers touching eachother]I go outside. It’s nighttime and the sky’s throwing lightbulbs and little needles and everything outside’s full of small moons. I pick up a dead flower from next to some crumpled paper bags and empty cigarette butts. It blushes and next we have VERSE TWO: Death is a small, dark, warm room folded into needlehead packets pinned up to the backwalls of our pupils and here’s the THIRD VERSE. it’s the verb for using your voice to make tons of little alligators that run up and down the walls really really fast this is the FOURTH VERSE. please listen carefully to this one. PEELING THE WRISTS
FROM AN ARMFUL OF BRANCHES CATALYZES THE NAUSEATED OSCILLATIONS. THIS CYCLE SPANS 586 PACKETS. THE ARC OF THE CYCLE SPRAWLS OUT OVER MY WALLSWHEN I HOLD A GLASS OF WATER TO THE LAMPBULB . . .
Dirt water holding hands. Baby-dappled sunlight hits; spackles ramshackle walls. The stairs go up like a pile of spilled xylophone keys.They just keep going up.
Gooty comes through running scales like crazy, spilling skeleton keys that’ll get stuck in my head and lick my axons and dendrites electricity licks like a handful of crowds waving their handfuls of cigarette ashes around, bouncing up and down in their stadium seating, cheering as they watch Gooty breaknecking across the field to the abandoned house in the middle of it.
From in here they sound like the howling winds. I don’t know what to do. I’m too stoned. I feel like if I move at all the walls might collapse and then the wind’ll come pouring in and drown me. My breath is too loud. It sounds like handfuls of people saying “S”. I look down. My hands are full of people. My name is Skin’s Full of People. My mouth is smiling against its will, opening up and saying something . I can’t hear it over the TV static hiss so I climb the xylophone stairs. I climb up out of a pocketful of half-smoked cigarettes, brush myself off, grab two handfuls ash and take my seat in the stands. I see myself down in the field, standing on top of the abandoned house. I see myself tilt my head back, open my mouth and let out a flock of birds, then collapse. . . .
snaky coyote sister taught us mitosis took the hammer broke the magic marker. flamepaint splatter maps synaptic paths. magic dancing marker stores a thousand summers in the tip of an eyelash dna rearranging in the space between a glance joyous drunken festivals of microscopic galaxies colliding, mating, creating, destroying. the air between us is pregnant with revolutions a chaos of a thousand orchestras blasting magic vulture marker’s singing wings rain down tiny trumpets a wordless hypersex exegesis droplets of hi-thin brass splatter-paint synaptic maps. i run around vomiting glossolalia with a mouthful of glitter and broken glass and porcelain sinks two-tone sidestepping the binary death-sentence. magic gnome marker rewrites genetic syntax i wanna call it“bacteria magic”. . . .
a house that crumbles every night into daffodils // moths sprouting from the ball point of a bic // a carpetful of heavy cream // a bruised nylon juicebox // a faceless portrait in a book without rooms // seven.hundred.thousand.pomeranians // the first night you can ever remember // a puff of smoke with raindrops falling through it // a deranged vocal modality // a dog sighing in the next room // wetness on a toilet seat // fingers touching hair // silverware touching teeth // blueprints for the first four planets // a baby laughing in a car going by outside // misanthropic love poems tucked between stacked-up tiles // passionate excuses // lilacs in an air-compressor // diagonally-folded water with the corners cut off // 5gallon buckets full of science, chewing, curvature, horchata and crowfeathers // the brightness of a wet bar of soap // tactile dynamics // mustard // wordlesness // internal swelling // talkshows // gravity // decay Cassidy Rios Kane writes poems to deal with stuff he almost understands but totally doesn’t, OR: writes poetry to describe how surreal/intricately visceral those little daily things can be. he’s been doing it off and on for ten years, mostly for no audience cause ppl don’t really fuck with poetry much these days. influences/interests include: coyotes, gnomes, interspecies theory, vulture/raven/crow(n), salvia divinorum, ereshkigal/choronzon and all those fine-ass moments. you know the ones https://www.instagram.com/lvrkwvrk/ https://soundcloud.com/kshpshr