galileo
Jan 9, 2002, 09:53 AM
JOCKLOAD
What a strange illusion it is
to suppose that beauty is goodness.
- Leo Tolstoy
he feels a strange fluid
skimming all over him
as he sees them
crowding before those glossy pages
their bodies all white and silky
cramming his senses
he could feel the lushness of their brawn
the sables patching their trunks
the dangling and stiffness
of their luscious...
he could feel all of them
rubbing his skin
the piquant scent of their
virility ramming his nostrils
o so encroaching
he is shaking losing grip of his real world
drenching him by this volume of virtual flesh
soon he will be plucked-out
from the drift of this whirlpool
of fictive sex
still wet and purring
where beauty lies most
in the raunchiest of them all
TACTILITY OF KUKOOK
Kukook doesn't really exist. Kukook is just the embodiment
of people's carnal desires...bits and pieces of man's
most erotic fantasies put together...
- a text message from Kukook
My heartbeat pronounces something strange
In the core of my being -
A touch of your spreading self
Lifts me to superfluities of meanings.
My mind takes flight, holds a mirage
Of my most longing embodiment of you:
Fleshly inflaming breath that commands
The senses to peak wild.
Wander the tongue and do the trick!
Nibble what is fleshy, pulpy and firm.
I am your true sheath that coils
In the muscles of your delight
Whenever fluids of desire
Run the estuary of conjoining flesh.
FACES
I cannot contain them all -
countless faces gliding in,
long-missed friends that had FORTIFIED me.
I can only hold a handful of them -
faces whose attack are atomic,
striking vehemently in my nerves.
They have nothing to exult now,
nothing elegance one may pine for,
except for faces
that keep one going and dying.
DEATH OF AN ANGEL
..their bodies fill a crumbling room with light...
- Allen Tate
The angel is clinically dead.
The short calculating years of his existence
Had come to an END.
He was choked to death by every breath
That puffed out from the mouths
Of his self-annointed gods; his flesh is no longer there.
All of his structure had gone silvery dust;
Blown to the horizon by the blast of this silly season.
His flows which were once maieutic and imposing,
Wings that were marabou as smooth as silky sheets -
All gone because of his gods' grounded minutiae.
From the aerial site of his agonized viewing,
The angel is watching them do their inanities.
He would rather keep his own macabre way of striking back
As deep in the recesses of his soul, he has been longing
To strike those keys again and make his marabou wings flap
That would engender panic to all his contemporaries.
In the realm where he wrestles with,
He knows that the end is just the beginning.
Spirits do commune and the scent that is spreading through
Pronounces that a new god is bound to set foot in the corporeal world.
Only true gods can tell. And when the time comes,
He is sure that those filthy gods will bow their heads in shudder
To honor the glistening light that they nver had.
In the meantime, here is a BLACK ROSE for you
Coming from a clinically dead angel.
LET ME RE-BIRTH
I'll take this for real,
perhaps to keep me cool;
this unreluctantly crafted scene
where my tattered soul,
my very mundane spirit re-births.
One blink, I see myself:
soft, subtle, over smooth
arms of a tender mom.
Sweet smiles, moonshine touch;
my world has suddenly exploded:
soul, free-wheelingly floating,
falling, like a gossamer
in an early autumn morning.
Coarse veins, lines and grey strands -
all completely wiped out.
I'm completely new, spotless,
never more pricked by time's
tricky choking hands.
*****
What a strange illusion it is
to suppose that beauty is goodness.
- Leo Tolstoy
he feels a strange fluid
skimming all over him
as he sees them
crowding before those glossy pages
their bodies all white and silky
cramming his senses
he could feel the lushness of their brawn
the sables patching their trunks
the dangling and stiffness
of their luscious...
he could feel all of them
rubbing his skin
the piquant scent of their
virility ramming his nostrils
o so encroaching
he is shaking losing grip of his real world
drenching him by this volume of virtual flesh
soon he will be plucked-out
from the drift of this whirlpool
of fictive sex
still wet and purring
where beauty lies most
in the raunchiest of them all
TACTILITY OF KUKOOK
Kukook doesn't really exist. Kukook is just the embodiment
of people's carnal desires...bits and pieces of man's
most erotic fantasies put together...
- a text message from Kukook
My heartbeat pronounces something strange
In the core of my being -
A touch of your spreading self
Lifts me to superfluities of meanings.
My mind takes flight, holds a mirage
Of my most longing embodiment of you:
Fleshly inflaming breath that commands
The senses to peak wild.
Wander the tongue and do the trick!
Nibble what is fleshy, pulpy and firm.
I am your true sheath that coils
In the muscles of your delight
Whenever fluids of desire
Run the estuary of conjoining flesh.
FACES
I cannot contain them all -
countless faces gliding in,
long-missed friends that had FORTIFIED me.
I can only hold a handful of them -
faces whose attack are atomic,
striking vehemently in my nerves.
They have nothing to exult now,
nothing elegance one may pine for,
except for faces
that keep one going and dying.
DEATH OF AN ANGEL
..their bodies fill a crumbling room with light...
- Allen Tate
The angel is clinically dead.
The short calculating years of his existence
Had come to an END.
He was choked to death by every breath
That puffed out from the mouths
Of his self-annointed gods; his flesh is no longer there.
All of his structure had gone silvery dust;
Blown to the horizon by the blast of this silly season.
His flows which were once maieutic and imposing,
Wings that were marabou as smooth as silky sheets -
All gone because of his gods' grounded minutiae.
From the aerial site of his agonized viewing,
The angel is watching them do their inanities.
He would rather keep his own macabre way of striking back
As deep in the recesses of his soul, he has been longing
To strike those keys again and make his marabou wings flap
That would engender panic to all his contemporaries.
In the realm where he wrestles with,
He knows that the end is just the beginning.
Spirits do commune and the scent that is spreading through
Pronounces that a new god is bound to set foot in the corporeal world.
Only true gods can tell. And when the time comes,
He is sure that those filthy gods will bow their heads in shudder
To honor the glistening light that they nver had.
In the meantime, here is a BLACK ROSE for you
Coming from a clinically dead angel.
LET ME RE-BIRTH
I'll take this for real,
perhaps to keep me cool;
this unreluctantly crafted scene
where my tattered soul,
my very mundane spirit re-births.
One blink, I see myself:
soft, subtle, over smooth
arms of a tender mom.
Sweet smiles, moonshine touch;
my world has suddenly exploded:
soul, free-wheelingly floating,
falling, like a gossamer
in an early autumn morning.
Coarse veins, lines and grey strands -
all completely wiped out.
I'm completely new, spotless,
never more pricked by time's
tricky choking hands.
*****