tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32806078423069929582024-03-18T19:56:56.421-07:00Twinkling ParallaxPoems, prose, short fiction, and other rubbish.Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comBlogger271125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-16816176095696483772010-05-12T02:08:00.000-07:002010-05-12T02:09:17.347-07:00I've disabled commentsEvery single post on the blog got spammed. I'm probably not updating anymore, either.<br /><br />Thanks.Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-33384185725442206242010-05-03T22:48:00.001-07:002010-05-03T22:48:23.793-07:00Louie the GrifterLouie is a con man<br /> who always<br /> tries to have<br /> his way<br /><br />Sleeping at the terminal for Phoenix, Arizona<br /> casing rental homes in the new subdivision<br />Watching for an ambulance or a U-Haul van<br /> taking down the numbers from a bathroom wall<br /><br />"There ain't no shame in knowing things," Lou once said<br /> as he was taping gauze onto his chin<br />"And theft is simply actin' on your knowledge"<br /><br />He's a greasy son of a bitch with a ten-foot shadow<br /> living off of rotten fruit from the market square<br />Louie, the crooked martyr, with love for whiskey and rye<br /><br />Screaming in a parking lot in Memphis, Tennessee<br /> crying in the lobby of a vacant hotel<br />Bleeding in the stairway of an old subway line<br /> whistling in the trash heaps as he falls asleep<br /><br /> If Louie had<br /> his way, <br /> the world would <br /> drown beneath himPrester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-75740103745076983432010-03-26T12:21:00.000-07:002010-05-04T12:12:37.381-07:00Let me (take you)I close the lid to the daytime land<br />And I seal away the worries of my everyday plans<br />The threats and the sins always hounding at me<br />So let me transcend my natural boundaries<br /><br />Let me take you down to the city in my dreams<br />Sitting in the stream of the television screen<br />Between you and me and the underlying theme<br />Are purple colored people gathered in the mezzanine<br /><br />And it would seem that they throw their life away<br />Disposable people getting overtime pay<br />The shoreline screams, well that is to say<br />I mean, like a dream just getting in the way<br /><br />Let me rethink the premise of my rhyme<br />As I highlight a fly buzzing into my mind<br />I climb my tree, I’m all alone<br />I’m far too high for a freefalling zone<br /><br />I stand in the fields and breathe the sweet air<br />Caramel skies kiss the evening flare<br />The meadowlark sleeps with peaceful care<br />And I take you down to my secret lair<br /><br />I scream with my dreams as the people it seems<br />Well it’s been, I don’t see what they really mean<br />All these things are severely demeaned<br />As I hang from the corners of the crescent queen<br /><br />In the green empty grounds of the village I live<br />In the busy blue streets of the city I built<br />In the Hawthorne fields where there is no loam<br />In the alleyway where we built our home<br /><br />Burned into the eyes of the steeple at day<br />Molded by the skies into people of clay<br />Turned upside down by a winsome fear<br />As the mind turns clear of potential peers<br /><br />Walden wails to the empty sea<br />Ishmael sails to see the symphony<br />As Emerson delivers the fool’s eulogy<br />Who are we to supersede the whimsy of infinity?<br /><br />The sun makes love to the stars at dawn<br />The queen calls home her wayward pawn<br />Flora puts her hand on the heart of the fawn<br />As I graze on the fields in the strawberry pondPrester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-28652763235168236052010-03-04T03:02:00.001-08:002010-03-11T23:09:08.094-08:00Scaffolding/tableau of the courtedShe took the first train from Belgrade<br />and I knew then that she had left<br />to see if she could<br />make it to you<br />through the<br />rain<br /><br />She had bought her umbrella while<br />in Vienna and as the station<br />faded from view her <br />fingers slid<br />across its<br />stem<br /><br />She had hoped of being a hairdresser<br />working in Paris or Venice<br />buying golden lamps<br />to dress up<br />her dingy<br />life<br /><br />She let her hair untangle from underneath<br />her scarf and it shook wild in<br />the flickering yellow light<br />her dreams were frayed and<br />dark as midnight<br /><br />She smiled as she held her letter<br />hoping to escape me though<br />knowing you would just<br />abandon her at the<br />next station<br /><br />Was<br />she<br />right?Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-70784351846923074092010-03-01T23:59:00.000-08:002010-03-02T00:00:42.521-08:00She called it "a withered tapestry of damned souls aching for their release" (excerpt)It was the end of time when cosmic light had dwindled<br /> the rolling stink of Normandy left lingering in our<br /> noses & having sold ourselves to history<br /> found life in eight stages of denial,<br /><br />Seventh Day Adventists saw the junkies <br /> littered on the morning floor with <br /> open faces burnt fingertips cracked <br /> lips bloody refrigerators piano wire<br /> dreams & pipes of war knowing they <br /> were the hopeless midnight of <br /> an unproductive day,<br /><br />Octagonal hours had passed in <br /> their hourglasses as <br /> they cracked beneath <br /> the pressure of the <br /> interrogative when the <br /> missives of the chimera <br /> became the mantra of their <br /> weeping mothers,<br /><br />All at once the sum of human history had released its brief and brilliant flash into the void, a photograph of lost potential and a warning to the men of distant starsPrester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-80529819838108026582010-02-28T23:14:00.000-08:002010-02-28T23:15:02.842-08:00Open letter of gratitudeAlthough I haven't responded directly to all the warm comments I've received over the past month, I'd like to personally thank anyone who has miraculously found this blog. Those of you who have taken the time to comment or follow the blog are especially appreciated.Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-38527383003199454772010-02-28T10:36:00.001-08:002010-02-28T10:36:57.601-08:00PainforsakenhappenstanceHere you are in your sexless, <br />electric dreamscape, <br />aching for the rhythm <br />of the mother spirit;<br /><br />Here you are in your sonic citadel, <br />bypassing the eardrum <br />and jamming your frequency;<br /><br />Here you are in the kiss of Judas, <br />selling out your faith <br />for your pieces of silver;<br /><br />Here you are within your wire tower of Babylon;<br />Where are you?Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-14794382609371640502010-02-26T15:38:00.001-08:002010-02-26T15:38:20.645-08:00LastPreacher man's sun sets just like mine<br />when we both glide down the Mississippi<br />he's a black obelisk, some monolithic terror<br />clutching a thin prayer book between<br />fingers wet with blood<br /><br />Preacher man's grass is green like mine<br />when we both run the yard and daydream<br />he's a mad liturgist, some monotheist mirror<br />consumed in flames like phoenixes<br />the rebirth of first sin<br /><br />Preacher man's bed is just like mine<br />when we both part sheets to rest our souls<br />he's a white anarchist, his glass of water clearer<br />filtered from tap so that he may<br />escape the angel of death<br /><br />Preacher man's grave is just like mine<br />when we both are caught by memory<br />he's a dead archivist, the price of mythic error <br />buried in his very best so he<br />can be forgottenPrester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-67783080960819567152010-02-25T21:47:00.000-08:002010-02-25T21:48:32.709-08:00PeelJerusalem is collapsing<br />am I just your phantom?<br /><br />Caw with me<br />and we can be<br />together crows<br />or cowardsPrester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-5105156078752445912010-02-21T14:20:00.001-08:002010-02-21T19:09:30.070-08:00The VenetianThe staggering wind of the winter is blowing and<br />he stands in the window, forgets where he's going so<br />he paces and traces curved lines with his fingers as<br />questions like strangers haunt him and linger<br /><br />The Venetian is pale and his eyes are still sinking, the<br />woman he bedded is smoking and drinking and<br />the sermon, it echoes from deep in the steeple but<br />his heart is crippled by good and evil<br /><br />He places his glasses inside his old raincoat to<br />remind him to look in the street for his angel but<br />as he goes stumbling throughout the black market he<br />trembles beneath the weight of his darkness<br /><br />The Venetian is pale and his eyes are still sinking, he<br />mentions to patrons that he has quit drinking but<br />he finds himself speaking words from the steeple for<br />his heart is aching for good and evil<br /><br />The schedule of trains, it is scrawled on his wrist so<br />that he remembers where he is missed and<br />the train screams like wind that is fervent and blowing, he<br />steps out of his window as it starts snowing<br /><br />The Venetian is pale and his eyes have stopped sinking, the<br />conductor is screaming, the train is still bleeding but<br />the words of the sermon are heard in the steeple for<br />his heart is empty of good and evilPrester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-35920800065031400082010-02-17T22:33:00.000-08:002010-02-17T22:41:12.404-08:00This stableI sought your sly replacement<br />holding form to flesh<br />when both of us were ruined<br />the rain was still so fresh<br /><br />She held me close for mischief<br />stealing with my hands<br />but I refused to stop her<br />or issue reprimands<br /><br />Had you been with me darling<br />who knows what I'd say<br />The price for your remainder<br />was far too high to pay<br /><br />The house we built together<br />crumbles at my feet<br />Your porcelain mask is cracking<br />from years of our deceitPrester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-82777563730560943832010-02-15T23:13:00.001-08:002010-02-15T23:13:22.573-08:00Is she broken?Do you see her<br />standing there<br />in the empty<br />street?<br /><br />Do you hear her<br />crying out<br />for her lover's<br />hand?<br /><br />Do you know her,<br />do you care?<br />Will you walk <br />away?Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-67313687377058598102010-02-13T21:43:00.001-08:002010-02-13T21:43:30.471-08:00I heard you hadn't mentioned itLight filters through your cage<br />the bars of which are window panes<br />The static of your television<br />is drowning mother's mind<br /><br />Five thousand city boys<br />dream of taking you to town<br />Blaming you for their love<br />roses in their hands<br /><br />Sit, drink, look at yourself,<br />hidden from the razor blade<br />You take your iron kerchief<br />and scrape away the dust<br /><br />Say there, dandelion<br />I heard you called for me?<br /><br />Hey there, little angel<br />I hope you're having fun.<br /><br />The bridge collapsed<br />beneath your father<br />Swallowed by the darkness<br />of a cold New Jersey night<br /><br />Settle in your carpet nightmares<br />lifting books to shield your eyes<br />As images of lovers roll<br />across your bedroom floor<br /><br />But have you learned to look<br />beyond your own reflection?<br /><br />Can you help but listen<br />to someone else's voice?<br /><br />Falling in through wiretaps<br />Falling,<br />Falling...Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-25915570157086445912010-02-13T02:18:00.001-08:002010-02-13T02:18:47.634-08:00daggerYou gave that formless hatred<br />the face of a mother<br /><br />You shaped the consciousness<br />of ten thousand robots<br /><br />You spoke in tongues of intrigue<br />to disciples<br /><br />Can you live with<br />yourself?Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-29173349814169987992010-02-05T20:16:00.001-08:002010-02-05T20:16:49.813-08:00JiltIt all came together suddenly. <br /><br />Red blouse, silver necklace, motorcycle.<br />Sunday the 31st, sometime after noon. <br />You laughed like the time I bought you flowers.<br />Everything in the room was covered with your perfume.<br /><br />Car door, radio, your missing Bible.<br /> Sunday the 31st, sometime after five.<br />There is no time left for words or games.<br />You left his condoms laying out.<br /><br />The howl of winter.<br />Sunday the 31st, sometime after dark.<br />I depart from Eden one last time.<br />Yeah, I hope you're doing well.Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-81087669211711565552010-02-04T13:49:00.001-08:002010-02-04T13:50:42.583-08:00helloI love you&<br />want you&<br />know you can't be there<br /><br />I see you&<br />feel you&<br />touch your cold hands<br /><br />I'm sad&<br />I'm lonely&<br />I can't believe it<br /><br />You're leaving,<br />tomorrow,<br />forever?Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-66173674371328936092010-01-17T18:50:00.001-08:002010-01-19T21:21:29.655-08:00As the day grows thinI awake from her loud snoring,<br />The sun blooms on the horizon.<br />Fog clings close to my closed window<br />And the sea calls to my eyelids.<br />Dew is sliding on my doorstep<br />As the daylight breaks on prisms.<br />She yawns sweetly to a songbird<br />And I mourn my broken prison.<br />Smoke is pouring through the kitchen<br />From the oven to the table.<br />My lover's eyes shine gently<br />Behind locks of flint and sable.<br /><br />What if Jesus carried his cross<br />Across mountains to the valley<br />Where the lepers are the princes<br />Of the gutters and the alleys?<br />There they rule their mighty kingdom<br />From their thrones of ash and cinder<br />And their rags are robes long tattered<br />From a thousand long Decembers.<br />Could he ever cure their sadness<br />With the eyes that God once gave him?<br />Would he cry in perfect silence<br />Knowing none could ever save them?<br /><br />So I close my empty Bible<br />And I wash my hands with water.<br />The floral patterns swirl from the<br />Wind that blows upon the harbor.<br />I then fold my palms together<br />As the train howls like a phantom.<br />A man peers from hidden mirrors<br />In the garden of his mansion.<br />The snow melts slowly on his cheeks<br />While he lights his ancient sorrow.<br />He still dreams of days long vanished<br />And the promise of tomorrow.<br /><br />But as he climbs into his tomb<br />The dusk crawls in through my chimney.<br />She will never be my true love<br />But she is so warm beside me.<br />My bed knows no other lover;<br />I am faithful to my demons.<br />She brings only darkness with her<br />But she listens to my grievance.<br />So I lay below the altar<br />Where the sacrifice is offered<br />And I know she will unbind me<br />From the sins that I have suffered.Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-91149658130191731912010-01-16T20:21:00.001-08:002010-01-16T20:21:46.753-08:00TacticalIs it strange<br />being at the bottom<br />of a century of<br />lies?<br /><br />When you can sit<br />in your asylum<br />and count the<br />steps?<br /><br />Is it strange<br />to be alone<br />for all your<br />life?<br /><br />When I can sit<br />behind the glass<br />and watch your<br />steps?Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-68497488955212796342010-01-16T20:11:00.001-08:002010-01-16T20:12:10.912-08:00LouiseDraped across a sofa<br />her hands were knitting,<br />she lay in errant exile<br />the madam of gold-bricked streets<br /><br /><br />Parisian eyes,<br />a bleeding chamber,<br />precision in pretense;<br />she did a lot of LSD<br /><br />Strange,<br />white-gloved,<br />estranged from morning<br />a ray of light bursting backward from her prism<br /><br />The canvas folded<br />and fluttered to<br />the ground,<br />torn<br /><br /><br />She was not a pimp,<br />she was a jesterPrester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-24435777777139107332010-01-15T22:10:00.000-08:002010-01-15T22:19:23.669-08:00What has she become?<br />A stranger to herself as<br />the lyric of the dawn<br />shrinks against her<br />ego!<br /><br />What has she become?<br />A temptress whose throat is<br />as raw as when she<br />fed on my<br />remains<br /><br />What has she become?<br />A godless goddess with<br />a broken temple in<br />the Garden of<br />Babylon<br /><br />What has she become?<br />A dissident who paints herself<br />with blush, blue mascara on<br />her blank face, forever the <br />patriot<br /><br />What has she become?<br />What she always was.<br />Nothing.Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-64907005052010400612010-01-15T21:52:00.000-08:002010-01-15T21:56:24.031-08:00cryYou made love upon the stair<br />You built an altar from your flesh<br />Playing his madness<br />Like a harp<br /><br />You took a throne from innocence<br />You steal the power of the night<br />Warring with sorrow<br />Like a knife<br /><br />you only want<br />What you can't havePrester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-39225803584624254862010-01-15T21:49:00.000-08:002010-01-15T21:51:26.656-08:00j'accuseDiamonds are your answer<br />For a century of pain?<br />Lost,<br />Lost,<br />Are we lost?Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-12893843257924144182010-01-11T21:06:00.000-08:002010-01-11T21:08:53.038-08:00Kicking pebbles along the creek; gravel achesPunch the dial<br />swing, sing sweetly<br />touch me with your<br />brilliant light<br /><br />Put me on your pedestal<br />drag me through your riverbed<br /><br />Rhythm answers <br />questions raised <br />because of our<br />disharmonyPrester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-44218478406541002112010-01-11T20:53:00.003-08:002010-01-11T20:53:46.375-08:00Demeter paws at wicker fleshShe rattles chains<br />she cannot burst;<br />she cannot unfasten<br />her love.<br /><br />She straddles him<br />into the night;<br />he cannot unfasten<br />her mind.<br /><br />The saffron burns<br />and drifts about;<br />it clings to her bosom<br />and curls.<br /><br />Their passion burns<br />and melts in waves;<br />like magic or mayhem<br />or myrrh.Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3280607842306992958.post-62646971727333506462010-01-11T20:34:00.000-08:002010-01-11T20:35:18.119-08:00The called me a radical hung me by a noose upside in the city gardenFeels like the space age <br />feels like a mirror. <br />Screaming like a razor blade <br />singing with her fingers. <br /><br />Pour, <br />pour, <br />pour, <br />pour <br />your <br />eyes for <br />Marianne.Prester Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14439609918826495450noreply@blogger.com