THIS MAD DESIRE::POETRY

All of these prose-poems are written by Mac Attack. Accept no substitutes. You can't sell these poems -good luck selling poems anyway!- without permission but you're more than welcome to read them and adore them! These are NOT lyrics.

if i kiss you and the wind whips through my library and the books fall off the shelves and the words fall off the pages and clank on the floor and splinter into cold consonants and oblong vowels and if i should collapse to the floor and discover that the letters scurry to the door leaving empty pages and should my thoughts follow and if i should be left only with tangible obects and should these start to mean moe to me than those words, should reality sing without thought, without fear, with abandon and should i see you open your head just a little and all the un-tuned notes you had sung fall to the floor and crawl after the letters to escape...

should those notes follow those letters..
and should my heart begin to throb...
and should my skin begin to tingle..
and should my hair stand on end..

1. we are all things and all people
it was as easy as they said it would be. i closed my eyes and felt myself slide in all directions of space and time. one second i was in paris at a café drinking the night with my skin; simultaneously i was adrift on a raft to the west of japan, exploring the pacific with my elongated toes, tickling fish, rubbing tentacles with initiated octopi.

for my next experiment, i brought with me my possessions. my books soaked into the sea and their sentences floated to the surface free of syntax and stability. in this new watery text i felt myself merge with the author, her tongue slithering like sex through my soul. i opened my mouth to cry and felt stars sink into my panic and tranquility. we combed the ocean floor for clues as to how to fish the poetry from our books. this took one thoughtless glance and up we were adrift on clouds, marvelling at the new wings we could sleep on.

spreading into the world was as easy as (everything is all right everything is) closing my eyes.

2. we are all one
time scattered like light into the murky depths of my imagination. i was an only child in my head and so i invented playthings –machines of my psyche. outsourcing my self, multiplying my personalities, i became more self-sufficient, better able to sustain my growth into the next fis(i)cal year. the free enterprise of my personal economy left me with change and the equity to expire.

3. except for her
my love moves through the window, graceless and old, pondering the pavement, spreading her arms (now graceful and bold) she catches flying cats and purrs like the whirring of electricities and imaginations.
the time for wanting is upon us.

love is a ghost slowly solidifying, being born again. it lived before, it was murdered, it waits in the shadows to be (re)discovered.. it beckons with silence, with patience.. will it be seen? (wondering and hoping and wishing) love is a prayer behind my lips that i recite when your legs beguile my wits.. in praise of a violent god that shakes me, makes me shiver as it finds resurrection in the slow, soft connection of our achingly (dripping down your) bodies entwined by love, lassoed by some outlaw love, held at gunpoint by an impatient now love that wills to wish again.

love is a wish that swims through rivers. its eyes are fish and it feels the violent kicks, the sinking nothing. cocktail dramas erupt and don’t you know that love wants up? it wants to possess, to be possessed, to be the only thing that could come between us.

the stars were going mad, all swirly-eyed and popcorn for brains, butter dripping from their ears. and three cheers for the director who conquered the armoured egos of a thousand (self) righteous “artistes”.. the slow dim realization that they were pawns made them ever so jealous, darling. ever–so–jealous.. it wasn’t long before one of them decided to form a union, art by democracy! all of the director’s ideas had to be credited to the union. fine…

except that the director was sleeping with the producer and the producer wanted nothing but the best for her director.. but you know how directors are.. i mean, really darling, all out for the glory of appearing on entertainment tonight or in entertainment weekly. they’re no better than the actors.. ain’t none of these movie types appearing in art weekly darling. not a one! the actors thought they were revolutionary but they just hadn’t caught up with their own fictions yet.

i’ve been thinking about ways to make sunshine into solid gold that could be switched back and forth between gold currency and

the dream city, drunken and bruised, loped over its shadow. whenever the shadow tried to move the sun to accommodate its maliciously symmetrical growth, the city would slide and crush its malignant double.. the sad truth
(and i’m very sick of the word “truth”)
is that having such a dim clone is sheer insanity. the city grows mad with jealousy. why should this shadow thing gain such an easy existence? not when the dream city has laboured so –the architects of trust feel ripped off, shamed. the evil twin has committed a forgery..

the malaise is the primary reason why the citizenry of the dream city opted to make their city mobile.. to keep the evil twin of shadowy reproduction at bay, to leave no xerox trace, to be self-sufficient, to not have the moral plague of shadow to steal its glory.

and so, in this dream city, there is no night. caught under the sun all day, the citizens never sleep.. always they must be working to move everything around. purity is difficult to maintain. the constant cleaning, the constant moving of buildings one inch to the west, one inch to the west.. uprooting parks and rivers.. even those who were trained in the arts and non-labouring professions have been made to give up their vocations –not without some highly understandable embitterment.. the cost of freedom is an enormous undertaking. in fact, the only thing that keeps the tension bearable is the unimaginable promise that the next move will be the final one, the escape from the shadows, the final divorce from the evil twin.

through wild cities race the children of god. they will overtake the cities, make them slither back.. the snake cities –the charming children.. the buildings will rise (some say “loom”) and dance (some say “quake”) and women will fall (some say “leap”) from the building-tops only to snap their necks on the silent streets.. the men all cry out in unison: “why must so many immaculate conceptions create such travesty?”

the trouble is that each of these women felt unfathomably deceived. if honesty were not so lacking in the sinister and corrupt cities and times into which they had been born, they may have been more forgiving of the fact that their immaculate child of god was not the second coming but one of many such second comings. jesus christ was so ..so singular unlike these multiple messiahs.. divine repetition (some even thought “indifference”).. one can easily understand how this would diminish (some would say “devastate”) the pride and self-worth of these women who had imagined themselves to be the mothers of a new god –an utter fiction, a complete fraud.

“why did he do this?” the men wondered as they picked up their women. the children continued to laugh and dance with delight. the city would soon be theirs to rule.. in time, the men would become completely entrance by these children, swooning at their every word, servile to the end..

I'll be disappointed. What are you going to do? Don't answer all at once. Consider your options carefully because your life is a game of chess and if you make the wrong move, you could lose your Queen and if you lose your Queen, then you lose your power and if you lose your power, you lose your defences and if you lose your defences, then you may lose your life. And Knights are weaker than Queens and nights are weaker than queens.

Oh how the seeds of dysfunction cause the trees to twist and my hair falls out and my brain leaks out and my eyes close and all the water tears out and my flesh falls off and my bones crack and soon I am dust scattered to the wind. When my soul leans forward, it feels like it is looking at a powerful mirror that improves its image. Again it starts. A little mumbled comment while walking up the stairs—the lonesome, "I was just asking you a favour but you are probably too busy lurking in the shadows, humming not singing a short, repetitive phrase. A short, repetitive phrase and how it longs for a woman to caress it, to make it feel loved again, to make it feel whole, to make it sing again, to take me there. Insight and power; it used to take me here. Now it is like being skinned alive. It used to feel triumphant. And now?” But my soul hurts, quietly cowers take me down all broken in a corner wishing everything were alleyways.

Make it tremble with anticipation as it swallows pain and spits joy. How it longs for a gentle 'I've always loved you. I loved you before we ever met. I loved you when I was five years old’ and I hope that sweetness is about what happens when dread and contagion mix, that is infection and fear form a mixture and make sweet virulence. A benevolent pathogen and kill the “And off with his head”, the hateful destruction of the weak. Brains have leaked out anyway. Put like a tumbling flower through that dress.

If it takes “Who can tell if I'll be disappointed?”, and then your tongue jettisoning out of your scrambled head and the impending fear of uncertain anguish, then it may be the right thing to do.

Leave your old body behind. Pick love and embrace the kissing miracle up another. Bodies ("i've got you under my—”) deep in the heart of (take me) where its bones still soul still claims ownership of its skin.

In my secret dreams

In my secret dreams, you walk through the door as though you live here. Armed with good intentions and love, you disarm me. Your smile arrests me.
Even when you are not with me, this happens. Every night.

In your secret captivity, I twist and turn and watch my life fall apart. My line of credit disappears, my hair recedes, my heart stops.
Especially when you are here with me, this happens. Every day.

Love fails, intelligence fails, insults fail, threats fail, anger fails. Everything fails to stop it. It repeats with mechanical precision. History crushes us both.
Even when you are not here with me, this happens. In every way with every fight.

I opened my heart to a bird song. Its breath was even beautiful, but all birds can panic and songs can turn to shrieks and the fragile flutter of wings can be lethal when let loose inside. Outside, it may flee, may find direction, may find calm, may sing again.
But I still wait to see you crash through my window as though you can forgive fear.

!the love bank , the love government, the love laws, the love institutions, the love doctors, the love saxophones, the love melodies, the love potions, the love cafeterias, the love revolutions, the love new york, the love and holy eternity, the love breath on my neck, the love visionaries, the love abyss, the love forgiveness, the love supernatural suffering and kindness.