Monday, May 13, 2002

charlie don't surf reality: part 7. jamie rocks

jamie rocks her sister from frontier to frontier, eye to eye, breast to breast, snickers in synch on the reverb, webcams flashing in strobe on the tivo, subliminal digital messages shadowing the horizontal interplay of reruns, reruns, reruns, all family dramas, affairs of the couch, rooted in upscale dreams of unlimited credit and spotlights of flesh.

jamie rocks undressed but never naked, her voice pitched a half-octave above, her eyes misty in the bon jovi fog that sprays the surf and moistens the pitch, that spirits the will and glistens the delivery, that buries the living and unwakens the dead, as her sister slips through the mizzle of unfocused affection in search of a wave ...
charlie don't surf reality: part 6. simone

“Do I have blood on my underwear?”
“Does the moon secrete oranges from the Sea of Equality?”
“Does a negative transference resolve itself under black light?”
“Do light fingers shop in shady shops?
“Do danger workers get dancer pay?”
“Does milk bone swell when pregnant?”
“Does my ass shine like phosphorous brazilian wax?”
“Do sidewalks ever run?”
“Do women ever laugh at the jokes of waiters?”
“Does the sight of my eyes turn on poets more than painters?”
“Does the site of my I turn on poetry more than pain?”
“Do you know the way to Tangurey?”
“Do you wish my lips were a darker shade of leather?”
“Does this song remind you of him?”
“Does this bruise remind you of her?”
“Do you wish you were the blood on my underwear?”
“Do you really?”

Tuesday, May 07, 2002

charlie don't surf reality: part 5. holly

the story is a typical romantic intrigue of paranoid proportions that begins here, with her, somewhere in FLA, and a code transmitted by the tap shoes of a 12-year-old ingenue in a musical rendition of “benny, fetch your lighter.” in the audience, fingers snap and necks crack. she dances like a pawn on the 50-yard line of a board divided into six proverbs, only five previously disclosed, the sixth waiting for the mouth of a love child to cry its name.

the song meanders, en passant, through the early stages of rhythmic cryptography. her feet tire at the inclusion of footnotes, subscripts, formulaic equations that tell of age, hair colour, cup size, and the temporal confines of the human condition. her eyes grow weary as the shoes tighten their grip. she reaches through camouflage for relief, for her identity card, unsure suddenly of her rank, her position, her place in the game.

not a game for children, she thinks. as the houselights dim, and the sirens wail unheeded in the distance ...
charlie don't surf reality: part 4. m. david

Hornbuckle blue. In confederate gray. The late night gel diffuses the harshness of what’s at hand. The late evening semiotics turn soft, as signifiers melt into puddles of afterwards and signifieds hold out for better offers.

Hornbuckle, tonight’s ambiguous semantics loosen your strings and threaten the chords, but your glare sharpens the acoustics and softens the sound. Around you, the surf surfs, in swirling interpretative waves that defy exegesis.

Hornbuckle, the morning mist fades over a cracking earth, and the godless sun strikes down on the soft boys beneath. Raise your axe and chop into the sky as the bells of noon peel bloody and tuneless.
charlie don't surf reality: part 3. melpomene w.

picking up pieces of sustained deferment. eyes raging, blindered. farther from home than the city blocks of cinder pulverized through the will to pulver.

the dusts of september no match for the ashes of may.
charlie don't surf reality: part 2. the mayor ....

I am not the man for you, am not the pigeon that hunts for crumbs beneath your chair. I am not the fixture, the comforter, the smile that sends little children into apoplectic seizures. I am not the man who barks, who flings, who waits by the curb for uptown buses to send puddles my way. I am not the man who dies, who leaves, who holds onto the best until something better comes along. I am not the man who sinks beneath benches, who massages the backsides of chic geeks dressed in hello kitty wear. I am not the syncophant, the hierophant, the elephant that blind philosophers poke and prod with epistemological jouissance. I am not the man who votes, who counts, who cries when the lottery is fixed, who vents when ill winds blow, who cracks under the face of the pipe, who peeps when he comes or comes when he peeps. I am not the man who lies about the length, the strength, the width, of my argumentation. I am not the man who falls when he fails or leaps when he concludes. I am not the man who makes love with rocks, with branches, with tall buildings designed for superheroes. I am not the man who gives up to give in, who takes the hands of young goggled women to finger their palms, who sleeps on sheets in which others have shit. I am not the man hypnotized by breasts, deregulated by labia, cast adrift by lacanian lack. I am not the man who washes behind the ears of sanctity, who fucks without a license, who colours inside the lines of hymn books, pamphlets, political tracts, sandwich boards and panty liners. I am not the man who sneaks to the bathroom, who flies in the face of danger, who plays his cards as the deck is shuffled. I am not the man who eats carrot cake, who barfs sushi, who greases his nipples with frozen yogurt and honey. I am not the man with led zepplin tattoos on my instep, with ozzy's phone number glued to my underwear, with the beatles' birthdays programmed into my visor.

I am not this man.

But I could be, given enough time and money ...

charlie don't surf reality: part 1. girlbomb ...

Girlbomb triggers at an ironic distance, the distance from the eye of the storm to the 1001 eyelashes tearing the beautiful scene to shreds. Her smile is a true mirror that fascinates, but remains unrecognizable, the image too calm to be contextualized amidst the projectile invectives and the swallowed conceits.

Girlbomb's selfless deprecation polishes the floor on which the waxen glances of others slip past. Even those
glances she'd rather hold, if only momentarily, stripping away their off-colour veneer to disclose the warm tones within.

Girlbomb's eyes sing, without a face, without a chorus, without the resounding din of carnival cries and talk-show lament. She waits for a criss-cross of traded glances to spark a final call and response. A spark that will both fuse and defuse the Girlbomb.