thecodyjames

Bless the Bastards and the Brahmins                on this rainy Gaudete Sunday. Bless the genetically-modified air in which carry the songs of perched birds of        confused winter branches. No snow in New England's way - just a week                        straight of rain and a mystery giftbasket of calamity to come. Where are the pinwheels by the billions        in the Midwestern Plains or sun-sucking panels atop Wall Street's buildings? Do these chain-smoking bone-burners                get to truly decide out earthly fate? They must be fastened to the concept that they can count their revenue in tosty diamond coask

Big Business owns the beach. They planted cameras on the shore - electric-shoots like looming redwoods. Dilating lenses watch over the people who lament over Libertine shipwrecks. Two beautiful nobodies stagger through the morning mist - barefoot in the frost-licked sand - ghostly in a cold drenched sun. They steal some beached artifacts - directionless compasses abandoned peace treaties forgotten advancements in politics - and carve their names into the rotting bow. Over the dunes and through the reeds, they run away laughing while the cameras get whiplash looking for culprits and the alarms burn red,        the alarms

A mattress consisting of oversexed springs. An assortment of secondhand blankets. A bed in which I can brood in all night over poems unfinished. A tomb stone time bomb ticks in my chest while my senses flock to lofty points of oblivion. Deliverance(on the constant )is all that I've asked for. Now I've more soulkicks than a holy soccer team, a sagging bookshelf fulla warping used records, transgressive scriptures all dogeared and underlined, a panoramic perception that's blown my mind sideways, plus a pending request for salvation. You can rid all your poisons but you c

As night surges in, etches in, from the west with great bouts of rain and noise pollution, a disposition made of darkmatter treads beside me, surveying these dark windswept sidestreets in a ratty peacoat with the collar popped up. Its eyes lure like the ghost of Bela Lugosi, watching the All Hallow's Eve decorations strew themselves across the front yards of Indian Summer. I've French poets in my backpack & a dire need to watch the world burn. Havoc is a homestead to them devils unsatisfied, stifled with anxiety & that crutch that we call love, with that self-woven stuff of our own misfortune, constituent to the likelihood t

Grey flaps and folds of clouds tug at the Burnside trees where ghosts of a movement pitch tent in leaf piles and bums at the bus stop snag smokes off the sidewalk        devising out loud from their grumbling mouths their plans - where take shelter from the autumnal hurricane? - while a man at the plaza among the dopeheads and        the squatters is scaling the skyscrapers with Confederate kid eyes - his Mississippi farmhouse twenty-five years since fled but his naive accent settled in the pocket of his throat                is the vernacular of a vagabond backpacking oddjobbing across this batshit country    

The moon          was sliced 'cross its jugular, pouring a film of bluelight          into the hushaby ocean.          The motel snuggled itself in Sept star-blankets                     - only us and moths fluttered near the florescence for redemption -          Provincetown hued the horizon.          Wrapped in cigarettes and sweaters, we sat in the sand - pebbled gritty under          toenails - teeth chattering in breath.                    A series of sinuous grunts          formulated themselves into images in our heads worth agreeing over - the grunting got louder, straining throat-labias,      

 Homage Ginsberg's "auto-poesy" "floral machines         - floral machines - let's slaughter the                 children in fields of green." - the road's been curled up        way too long              - a summer gettin' stoned     & watching the gardens grow of my own leafy disease             - who'd i be if i just kept a promise

We were spittin' off these churchsteps under warm and ulcerous streetlamps wondering how we could                 phlebot the system and both become saints in the long run.         "The beatifically batshit will find its place upon the alters where fuck will be a holy word & the choirboys will sing punk songs         while the reverend paints                 the forgotten blend of Romantic Tran

                Tear up! the astral hood of dawn (cusped in clouds & woeful longings)                Watch! the windswept sun spill seeping furls of curliecued          skyline( like a slashed! moviescreen                of reality          whereas no! projectionist can measly fumble            wi

Rat bastid burger boy leathery lipped & meth-mouth tongue-rotten, tastebuds swelled         all wide & gauged grubgrubgrubbing on his veiny tooth-nubbed gums while nursing a bottle of Freudian daddy-issues                  a pure gutter savant a saint of the bus-stop central         askin' for change in rain shine sleet judgement day between slaughtered Mother Goose stories his story unfolds.

my hand stays pressed against my face as my ears and eyes wander. my eyes quickly lose their way. i dont know what im starting at, i think nothing. what am i thinking of? my empty chest? my hollow pockets? lost loves or my impending homelessness? no.     nothing. maybe i should make my way back to the city? i would like nothing more than a mundane job that forces me to bum-rush bars every weekend in order to keep [my sanity &] a small rundown apartment, rooming it with a guitar and a typewriter and more ashtrays then one knows what to do with. i can soar the streets and the underground like a bird returning from migration, jealous o

fading motorcycle roars break the silence and chill of a nippy fall's night. tearing through the thoughts, moans and fears of lost souls in search of one another. tearing through the assumptions and through the facts, then eating up all information that remains. playgrounds full of hoodlums cough and vomit over tattered fences and burning Jeeps in hopes for a content feeling or atleast a lack of feeling. wipe your prints from the box of matches. *boom* i wipe the juices from my lips and find myself in the orange of an old ally. ill try not to think of you, but ill embrace the feel of you. ill contemplate how close i was to [both] death a

covered in dusk the town breathes heavy. she paces, she counts. fall is certainly among us and all that is everything shifts accordingly. i see smog and slight chills. i see fights and collections of joyous bodyheat. eggnog pours and seasonal TV specials begin their consistently ill-timed cycle. a small, rusty skyline overlooks our lives and actions, for what did and didnt happen ill pause. itll cross my mind everytime i put on my fall sweater. this town is so lavender .

te lleveo conmigo no matter the time, no matter the place. the circumstances dont stand a chance so please stop scaring me. i watch the conception of art and birth of catharsis, and wonder if im atleast granted the honor of eating the placenta. i have my chords and unspoken words but what does that add up to, and does it outweigh the pros of suicide? CONFESS ! yell it from the smallest window in the tallest building the city has yet to rise. surround yourself by only the most elegant of scents and bullshit your way to the top. beat the love out of you, lover. so that you can verify. crave your craft out of stone. yell it so [that] t

what do you do when you see the most beautiful girl in new york city on the bus? what do you do about her lack of smile or company? i know nothing of you, you could be the wretchest wretch to wretch them all but the way your hair rests on your chest suggests otherwise. devendra banhart whispers into my ear otherwise. the moon and clouds and the rythem of my watch tell otherwise. theres a story in those eyes and i like my women with some color. i swim daily through the copycats and killers, but as biology teaches they reach their peak and begin to die out[, to level out.], this is the point in which the predator strikes. the point in which

Lets go golden tan     Bubbly, gooey Fluidly down the squishy     Squashy Flosey Glossy, Don't go up. GO Blow That Glow     Sour, power Straight up the fog     Miles, pile High on my heart. Don't Bluff the Puff     Keen Green Grow greatly up there     Grass, ass You love me, huhh? Pink purple bluer black     Gogo Roll Curly cue straight up     Woah yo No blue for you. Speckle, Hear that crackle     Crinkle, Cringle Got that correct right     Bic'd you Top of the bottom.

behind the church, one by the name of god was found again, but this time it was not your god. nor her god, nor his god... under the tree and atop the fence the encounter was brief and unkind, yet rewarding and informative. here comes my outro, i hear the ques and the stage actors. all in place. and as i work out the kinks in all my existstances i realize that acting worked in layers. through working vocabularic erubux cubes and mental minesweep, the encounter had its purposes; some met, some lost and some overlooked. all continue to exist and are in play, im just trying to find the grid.

"You think you're going to live forever, kid, Cashing your heart in your tongue so clean and restorated? My love was never promised you to be a lifeline, Just another book you claim or seem to read so well. There won't be any silver screen in the fallout of the endtimes; We'll both be running for our lives when the payoff comes out. Climbing ladders won't cure your eyes of close-sightedness, You're still seeing the leaves and thinking they're trees. So, please, just breathe. Sit on the grass; let apples fall in your lap, Down to earth where someone made us brother and sister once, And rest the wealth of your tongue in a pocket poore