suckmysobriquet

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Rawbones by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Rawbones

Too much polymoronic silt forming cataracts crowding the lids with gluons, soft promises of sunbeams and Klimt. Time there was sensation to these whorls and ribbons time there was morbidity of purpose and fat little palatals sprung across the plains, obese gazelles writ in water. No matter, the hours are massless now, tearduct-shaped impressions on a pale wall standing effortless against a gale of ages. For such pleasantries, I have no art. A happy trade, null and out-stretched. thin

Eclipse by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Eclipse

August is a long month of trials and epic bursts of sunshine, eaves hanging by bold thread sonambulant grace cool mornings And the razed darkness of a ragged landscape recognizing autumn under the spring. Priapic roses and dusky fumes alike paralyze their nerves for duty of memoria. Breezes blow emphatic the noxious waves of molten mettle across Adriatic grasslands decisive as trainsong. Screeching iron prayers to the psychopomp, Iliads to violet battles, August stands astride in full bronze, the smile of blooming earth upon a seraphim of raging dust. Mendicant and true. Warm skin with that industrial decadence, sme

Androgenous Zones by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Androgenous Zones

He sees them out running, and he wants to be part of her menstrual jelly, thighs coughing slick with sweat. Green eyes on the machinery swaying like bosoms, Chastity licks itself thin and bristles with taste. Smoke condenses from the body in a film about the waist rankling the veneer of his carapace into a sullen fog of jetsam and eyelashes. Bulemic-hard rains in this salt-tasting sunshine, slippery as static, slake none of the arterial thirsts of these turbines. Cold running bursts of short life. They measure the time of lollypop ponytails in hard sounds--and they want to get close to this quivering membrane, the sou

Open Windows by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Open Windows

I have tasted the air of these seven soiled springtimes putrid in their brevity the stifling twist of metronome synchronicity bearing out the Pythagoras taste of Love on its tongue. Pendulous motions of faithful thought-forms flickering like fluorescence on rotten ceiling tiles. Metaphors, cognates have never been so cruel as the waves of sensation bright enough to be audible in the Spartan spareness of sleepless cold tables scraping their sound. Mythical proportions to each leaf and tree, this season! Limbless wonders tickling magic numbers under the chin-- Chinle

Galling, that galley by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Galling, that galley

Pissing and promises I am capable of violent pushes down breakneck staircases that end in the red no more treble clef incantations of delighted frenzy on dirty concrete walls that smell like vomit. Only grubbing feet in wet sand screaming obscenities in fading dusk sheets. Sheets and cold metal scratches from ear to ear worm to worm never to presume above that station on the line. The arms, covered with chickenscratch scars from greasy spoons and rusted knives They've forgotten about the beautiful hands of ten-thousand lovers and change They will lift me over the bridge into

Kama by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Kama

shadows in the East: lithe tiptoes of whispering metal slipping across the horizon through the atmosphere to tongue the sun. Nevermind the collateral, look to the sun. Measured monsters have murdered before-- pale boys with pleurosis rheuming sweetly but my eyes are clear. Little but the breaths of clean whaleriders catch my latches now: shadows in the East and waves of old leather dotting the orisons of thirteen beleagured papists whistling dark into the will o

Procremation by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Procremation

so he said let's make a baby she said let's just make love and he said What's the difference? She said A snakeskin or a little pink pill And he said Isn't it about time... she said You're never old enough to die She said Make life-- make death and he said What's the difference? I like my life she said he said that won't last she said I feel no need... he said Well, maybe I do She said Sow your seeds somewhere else then

Pivot by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Pivot

A rain of white poppies pebbles pebbles: my love, These might be our last days. Underneath fibers of lost dread pebbles pebbles lacquered metals skeins of buttered bread and eyes can't plead like tongues can If all goes well and kingdoms rise these might be our last days. Unskinned like a woman fair-chested A heaved sigh forgiven and lungs bid to swell and reach and fall pebbles pebbles Eyes can't wish like tongues can feast fey on flesh A wave of buttered bread my love These might be our last

Big by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Big

And it all came together with a crash an expanding singularity creating pure noise Monumental foam rising in a desert sea of waking something. The monsters and the carnivores of the soon and the twisting never The cancers and the throbbing monads The green megaliths and groping summers The plush sentients All at once. Ascending mightily a broad expanse of unbounded Nothing? Surely not. But all the same expelling passionately the voidless form of before to sum up into waves of sonic being all that would pass for passing all that would crash and scream and pass. Somnolence and in

Toxicity by suckmysobriquet, literature

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Conversant in Conscription by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Conversant in Conscription

Energetic fricatives find themselves flattered along the palette, teased, twisted, tormented into hari-kari complacency and duress. Lips smacking, closing unvoiced nominatives, lisping librettos of the glottis and providing perfect punctuaion to the proactive oval sound of a vowel. Somewhere synapses fire less dental and saliva drips, covering labials with the smooth sloppy silver to contract all vela vibrations int one thick thread of phonemic thought, and we whistle our words. Whole legions of the lovelorn stop to go again, swept by somnolent wind squeezed through muscular contraptions, flailing wildly past the loos

Carpel by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Carpel

Pine combs the wither away. tears her clothes off, demanding Why don't you Just... slips her feet on about the waist I break, and you dam it. Claustrophobes her way s p re a d i n g Upstanding Citizens under clothespin pidgenholes She's got gadgets an arm wide, open on the outfield. Pine scent of nectar em - ploying disparate times to disspirited natures measure for measure. Lyme light her (glowsinthe dark and stiff features blanking the bark can't polish the fat dust from strawhair or needleeyes, She'll te

Cleft lip and pale it by suckmysobriquet, literature

Stet by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Stet

disturb (past tense) those waters (negative) pressure building in the progressive future I can only hold in the indicative ice age of then. Pray for us sinner (plural morpheme) impetus bound not quite respite, resplendant in white vinegar. Your predacate phrase concluding with the garish girl. (Just because I wear lipstick) You could use some spit and polish yourself, beleagured, old-mannish rough draft.

Scream by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Scream

the illiterate bastard child of my unicode and my pedigree sleeping Wicker lips have never chapped with this vernacular (and poetry is full of nevers) the flack and flagellum of pinching stone athwart my cedarn cover-- oh Romantic irony! oh cold to be absinthe bound or symbolized for crypt-quick numerology, anything to flick language like the tongue of a lash, swish unsuspecting the codas of turgid flesh. concrete imagery do not desert me now without your fiery nimbus I would be lost

Kiss by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Kiss

of red rubber suits lock your upper-stylant and lip polish those bright gavels Manage me if you will, of your unwashed youth-- like the whimsy winds gone of limpid liquoring the measured hour poof abracadabra and brushing teeth against forced wax nematodes, under-spiraling usuring me like mandarin muslin gown, melanchaotic

Autochthon by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Autochthon

strange how suddenly laughter is falling from broken treebranches that admit none but feet. Wax light plays against missives of children where children lack strength to appear. So clear to the mind, though blazing Honorable stripes in white woolen patches come warbling down to the blank water To fill it In time the greedy sun will let them rain, but for all who barefoot linger under its penuntimates, that time spilled by mouths into stars is too slippery to mean much all those in mudfingered stone are not remembering oaths not of blood but of pulped flesh, too much scattered cold is whispering

Kicking Koch by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Kicking Koch

I want my time back so I can surprise you Liberachi under your ever-elastic waistband never had that stinging kiss-- the way Mothra toasted your thighbones there isn't much left of it though, is there? Bloody dipthongs always slurping their way in to my undersides, watering lungs with the bare feet of convention. Who else is tired of being post-Avant-Garde? except for the lexicon of smallfoetal foolhards who won't ever crack the skin of my egg there's nothing left to break not even windmills Quick!---(ly) smother a breast in white genre so I can clarify my words

Harmonica by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Harmonica

High, in a chair of black opal-- skin of a voice so catching licks to my pale ears an open null. (I see you sprawled in a pogrom, retching) Your knees describe a circle, and I can't help but twist my eyes from yours, that stare like bells, gobs of white blanching my morals and a smile just like God. You trip the body floral, efforts rising to a peak, firm nod Uh-huh. All teeth missing cry to the hollow gums of some jangling maw. I swoop but can't follow: cracked, dusted smell-of-a-jaw on its one-man quest for comfort in the rain. Oh pick me to somewhere, lisping prophet of dirt make me a cold stare I can assimilate for a

Vaccuum by suckmysobriquet, literature

Literature

Vaccuum

I was screaming into ugly squares when I ran off to join whatever would remember my name fledgling fellowship still not forcing a foundation under my knees scraped skin was peeling tomorrow and ice cream thighs refused attentions from all but embittered coffee cancers and the occasional Virgo Lipstick's scars braided my hair, tied curls under the brim of someone elses's hat-- dropstitch tripwires were d r i n k i ng in the winters of welcome and postulate strain life this doggerel, understated epiphanies underlining in a gauze of foam and ricecake for mourning the occupational hazrd of pure f

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About suckmysobriquet

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Apr 14
United States
Deviant for 20 years
She / Her

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My Bio

Current Residence: Athens, GA
Favourite genre of music: Convergence
Favourite style of art: Disconcerting
Operating System: UBIK
Shell of choice: Cicada
Skin of choice: Leopard
Favourite cartoon character: Vladimir Putin

Favourite Visual Artist

Valentine Michael Smith

Favourite Writers

John Shade

Tools of the Trade

Insomnia, hangovers, and doldrums

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suckmysobriquet

Jul 24, 2009

Tetelestai

0 min read

I picture her lying on stiff, taupe carpet.  I've never seen the floor there, never seen the apartment at all, so this is an embellishment.  An invented detail.  But I can still see her.  Her hair is a fan behind her, waves of chestnut and gold.  When I see her she is always face-down.  This means either that my vindictive imagination still takes some pity on me, or that I've already forgotten her face. Which would make sense, since in the past two years I've seen her three times a year, each time in passing, bubbling by (all smiles) to drink or have coffee.  She with her friends, I with mine.  We made vague plans.  To play cards and drink.

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suckmysobriquet

Apr 17, 2009

41484

0 min read

25, still alive.

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suckmysobriquet

Feb 12, 2009

Neuro-toxic

0 min read

Today I can't smoke, but I keep trying. Today was cable, indigestion and disappointment. Today was fifteen white hairs plucked out of the left side of my head. I have crystal-clear memories of miserable days that I enjoyed on some masochistic level more than I enjoy days like today. I want air and light and time and space-- and that man was right: it still won't be enough. Because what I really want for is discipline and fervor, the drive to continue. I am not in this for the money or the virtue.  I am only in this for the love.  And that will never be enough to keep me from scraping my knees when I should be scouring my soul.  It shoul