Brashmania Creatina Polyvergo : Lozi's Poetry

Fusion.
Oblong metal, dreams of travel.
Fusion.
Covered red in natures lavarific juices.
Fusion.
Everyseeking multimillions, squiddly vermin of the sud.
Popocatopetl's obtuse figure leems over ...to
extract the core.
Medecine.
Lack of raging talent-fire
that ceases the rumblings of a dead, volcanic lurch.
Overhead the garnets fly,
fusion sifts the spying cravens,
perching on their bones.

 

Every pace
(within the race of knotholes)
lies a man
in corpse corporal green,
smudged.

His breath,
adept in icy froths
begins to choke on yester-smoke:
the dust of ashen asians/eastern shrouds.

Too long have they fought.
Too long have they jumped
in front of the fronts of range rovers,
meshed in crisscross khaki netting.
Too wide the rivers of blood
seep through the watermained streets
My eyes cry silently in my head
as i watch from a distant me.
Inside. Foreign.
Helplessly the figure i am within
sees the eyes of terrored teens,
as they stand the bullets,
stand their ground.
What lunacy.

 

Dexter likes to contemplate the vast
courageous notings of the watchman,
with his gentle stub-ble-scratchy brows,
the scent of sweaty lynx seeps through
the circles of imperial liquor.

Dinner, dinner-soupy spoons
and lumps of generic custard stuck to crust
in every side and surface there's the waiter boy!
What ho, his master speaks in cheqeured tongues,
with tongs of steel i hand he goes,
towards the bathroom door.

Buttereyed staff and droopyheaded ladels,
hand in hand they go dripping filthy curds.
Softest jelly/jello whichever serves best who cares.
To be Frank, or somebody similar,
a forked tongue slithers through each room-
searching for a victim.

This other child-in whitish pink.
Into its arm the viper sinks its lazy teeth,
to hug the pin-sized veins with ivory love.
Fie fie, it cries, the child dies of poison.
Which country? Not England.
For surely, this isn't the proper thing?

So Dexter closes his hotel due to lack of staff.

 

At the gate, at the gate
I watch the boys run,
their pockets full of virgin toys,
still with the wrappings on.

Jovially sunsetting,
the yellow moon creeps down
and dries the tears of Emily,
who wipes her snotty nose on my sleeve.

Young angel with malta sea eyes,
I curb the metaphorical pathways with salty blood,
from my heart that stays silent in the muddy bliss.
Is this the wakened reality that i must suffer?

To perch within the clock of time,
the watch that paused. stuttered. stopped.
Goodbye my sweet one, can i call you
Emily? Perhaps we'll meet again, some rainy day...

Don't know where or when,
but in the rafe-like windy station,
trains rush past like tubular mail-
whisking each soul through a tunnel of foreignity.

Again, the eyes of Emily play
strange tricks on me,
as i discover the lofty platform edge reeks
heavily of engine oil. sharp and nauseous.

"gratias for the good times honey"
I raise a hand in parting,
wiping a tear from my rusty cheek.
Her loose scarf waving back.

 

Taut, angora coat
in an obsolete manner,
with the buttons done up.
There the woman in the nude:
lonesome, cold and dirty-
by the street she curls alone,
the only sheets she has are torn.

Why, every saddened brick wall
streaked with benign terror!
muck.
Terrible sunshine, burning through her:
the woman in the nude.

Risk-taking, a wond'rous thing,
twice she begs today
her lazy time she dies alone inside
within the hos-spittle:
institute-confined.
Cafffeinated dddread ahead she saw a light
softer than the toxic gore of rays she saw,
instead her lengthened back
no longer humped
but tall, towards the glow she walked,
defined by shiny trees,
beside the corridor of amphetamines/or morphine-
who can tell?/

...a sudden wind blows down her rail thin beat,
the seat of a train taking her back back back,
she wakes.
Her dreams: an end to mind forg'd manacles.

 

joggly pooballs friend in mushroom extract
divided by the juices sporn from a mans womb.
the zips of nether regions
below the surface of tatooed monsoons
at the peak of their climactic rage
but peaceful hypochondric stagecoaches
namely the deadwood.

 

Porticello cutlass rims
made from burnate glass, in yachting
self indulgent cuts,
a piece of sanded fuse escapes the furnace.
Verily the wind swept out the chill air,
those particular notes
the sandwedged fonicles
inside the pokersticks cool.
And donkey-horse goes under
branded by asunder his ass is on fire,
when the rain pours down in-out the window frame,
through wind it blows, not glass for shed,
but manufacture instead.

 

ok
in silent
steps of darkenened
gratifying losses. turn away,
from empty stairwells by the by they
creep demeaning in their wake, foresting silent
steps of darkened gratifying losses. turn towards the ebenezer
oh
like a
sorrowful corrupt
embrace that byes a child
unintended wonky faces mixed with
tears of rejectable pictures. worded in steps
of darkened gratifying losses. turn away from empty stairwells

kites of flying trapeziums, or maybe
triangular fixtures that are burnt
burnt by three
points of
this
gun.

 

I wish our wistful kisses
guess the time it took to cook my meal.
In half an eggtimer, Tuesday at 2
I bake my bread precisely,
in a way that one would relay to me each night when i tucked my pillow round my ears,
(to keep the cochroaches out)

Mmm,
sly dreams swizzle round my head as i slip down into illogical moon pools....
wish kisses gave a slight..

JOLT OF ANATOMY!!!

..which weirdo that kept the paces racing,
the heartened bloodstream thicker than the quick fox
streaming eyes of sickness in your face it's only 3 you silly fool
what sort of corridoor is this vein?
The footprints on the windowsill
JUMP OFF JUMP OFF!
guiltridden lurching
stomach only surging:
thorward backwoah'd/

/ghastly firecrackers biting air
and dark
dark
dark.
shadow seeping nearer ever creeping
in the deep of glad glands,
they sit waiting:
the puppet clown in a wheelchair,
bursting
waiting
waiting
cackling to screech
unexpected surprise,
no prize gained by the fearful retch in my throat
smoothest jerk that pops behind every whispered corner
haunting me like..
like..
like wobbling buildings when i'm at the top
like spaghetti that turned into worms
like the day i hugged my pet dog and it ripped out my throat.

 

As sky-touched blossoms turn to ash,
in bernards mouth from satans kiss,
the terror cup drinks itself away
to hide from days mood.
Burning with a poisoned
fumigated hate
bernard sinks through several layers
to reach his sister.
She stands at the edge of the mud,
dripping a septic heart.
Moaning groans of tortured teams,
quick! silver! Gates come forth to bernards head.
He lies still.

 

Spleen(parody of Green)

My beautiful pigment
My very own to seep
To bleed and gloop in my fist,
When holes in me have grown
Slavering on the seat,
My spleen.
You wash the sheets at night,
And grow redder still,
Lengthening my sepsis,
Bemused at my simple need for a splenectomy bypass.
Oh spleen, you astound me,
I know not what you want,
But all I know is that you are so ugly.
You paint the ground and sheets alike,
You pave the floor with a rusted rouge,
I am forever in debt,
For aquiring faulty organs..
And stupidly,
allowing it to seep, to seep....
to seep.

 

Death of a Goth (parody of Death of a Moth by Jaz Delorean-http://www.tankusthehenge.com)

A long time ago, in a far and distant land

There lived a chav named Nicholas,

He tried to work for The Sun!

(With his parents fake ID)

Nicholas could not spell!.. and burnt up

for some apparent reason.

That day, Nicholas was reincarnated...

As a goth!



Nicholas: It's so depressing, it's so depressing,

ooh but it's so necrophallic!

I must cry about it, with my metal things,

pierced through my nose,

Ahh, it's so sinister!

It's pulling me in, I'm... I'm... being attracted into

It's amazingly, shadowed... agh...

It's so gloomy, it's so big, maybe,

I could strive to job seek,

Maybe I could go and take a piece of The Sun!!

That would be amazing, I have to strive harder,

There's too much hard work in here, too much hard work,

I'm burning up, Agh, aaaaaghh!!!



Aggggghh!

You lied to me! You lied!!!

It didn't work!



[Improvised Section based around G Minor]



Sung: Sun destroying all of me (yoooouu!)

How could you do this to me? (I'll come again, I'll push you off of the skyline!!!)

Sun destroying all of me (Aghhh!)

How could you do this to me? (Git!!)

 

"D'oh blast this painting-well it goes"
says dear old dad in his overalls.
He larks in spitting curses at his
cartoon-like thumb, it throbs overtime.
But little girl at his kneecaps,
with redribboned hair and puppyeyed tears
creeps slowly into the

space

a face of nonchalent gravy
bearded sunshine in the air,
children see more than we know;
taps her finger to her nose.
"Come hither kid"
Elle beckoned from Herr Blind.
His Ohre open but tuned to a different station.
-------]
12 years from now
ina field sits Elle,
her cowardly cravings moulding pet caterpillars.
One from past,
under the stairs
fumed by dispair.
But Elle picked up her pockets
in he went
12 years from now
her cowardly cravings
watching fixed on a bulb

suspended

in hours to come,
cracked open or sog?
who knows what's to come?

Only the applemaker knows the inside of a core
before it is cut,
but there is more to the reaffirmation of a motherfly.

 

Every sensual slip of pear

takes flight with fools who dare to weep,

as in their forests of despair,

a sorry word to keep..

watch over strokes of icing. touch

the heartbeats pulsing into love.



'A fellow fellow told a tale

in her ear-

she listened

intently to the half truth..

false alarm and later close,

to death their lips touched briefly.



and so began the tale of the 10th mistake in 12 episodes...

Lozi says:

oh so emo perhaps on show

for other watchers in the dark.

prefuse unwords begin to unravel their piercing creeps...

in order to sleep

she weeps,

she weeps.'



Foul rhyming spools of cringing sticks,

unworthy lines that try to paint the image of

a seedless grape?

No images can make my redblood organ

flow the right way.

None.



she promises to God

in vain.

she lied and failed again,

again she strived and fell

at the first darn hurdle.

*sigh*

what notion of abstainance is realistic?

He tries to say hello,

but i can never stop saying goodbye.

 

I'm sitting on a coathanger
with my boobs a triple D,
but that's not why
the shylet sky
is captivizing me.

The droplet showers
that fill the hours,
encompass me with shit,
I don't peruse we've met at all,
But i believe you're it!

chorus :- Coz you're a 12 stone snowman,
with freckles in your hair.
12 stone snowman,
my sister seemed to care about the
way in which you sexed her up,
then laid her out to dry
but icecreams up,
my twins are out,
come here and ****ing die!

 

Jellybean man
stumpy kid with a bass,
your face pudge in a-round
and your hunched shoulders
frowning in glee
laughing in spite
you lock up your cold pub for the night.


Jellybean man,
little dwarf-in-a-tin,
with alert handless arms tucked inside
and those stonyfished ears
loophole strings up to E,
while you laugh in your anger,
and frown in your glee.


Jellybean man,
happy clappers walk passed,
you can service their shoes if you asked.
But your hunched wooden back
steals their glances away,
when you frown with bright eyes,
that's you done for the day.

 

Against the cola backdrop
spirling lichts of cooing bright,
stands ye,
accompanied by a hobo-
kneedeep in spite.

Keeping to your side
he sits closely,
stands more like.
In the jingoistic
differs
height is funny,
quite funny.

So, you,
Jellybean-
we meet again
(or glance behind)
Your squodgy shape
a mystic sight
when Best asuits you
to a T.

More like a child than a man,
today.
For without your license to kill
(your liver),
the mere, rectifying dream
of you and I,
is just that.
A dream,
in pictures.

 

Gashes in my side
paranoid escape,
a blinding apparatus holds me down.
Pumping drive-by car-
accusating rape,
dominating victims hold the crown.

Delving into bullet-minds
Catching waves of brainy cud in which the end of death
defines,
a hazel tree
hurrah!
It speaks to daisychains
unzippied-
ripped apart and shredded by a monster femme..
she spits on hoe, fork, spade.
No guesses for a reigning queen in darkness.

And there's me,
I see myself-pale.
Withered like a palour demon,
diving for a churn.
The exit's here,
they said.
I'm still trapped inside somerset though-
binded by a brick layer underwater.
Each breath is death when i don't speak.
Each clod beneath my feet, slip...
and, oh, i believe
that imminent look of ice in those eyes.
who wouldn't,
who had experienced
that poker-hot,
mind scrawl?

 

Metal sheets that 'noint my head,
cardboard beer box for my bed.
slicker olive,
oily bread,
abandoned by the chef.

Gates of furning, oven hot,
gasping, chicken pores..
Salmonella left to rot
incarcerated, threaded leeks.

Iced buns of steel,
and crude and crude
bask metal sheeting-
iron chairs.
The seating nude, beige hue
(i think)

In chequered nudges she dances,
in her oval alabama hat,
she spears the turkeys rump for dinner,
only to slump on the oven mat.
Cullinary insomnia gets the most of us-
blame the salsa.

 

everytime i think i miss them, they call me and i'm reminded of how free i feel here
waxing in Sassenachs whispers
like a drum n basso continuum that sev-
-illes ocean oranges.
mm how doth the waving pools
that dorse again,
brick simile twists

apple nova.

As grim as ever
waking foam that drives against
the battered set.
It guards the notive forast keepers wench

a tootless smile with jaws of hide
perusing porous nuts.
how how she chews her way through
Mary's buttress
like a worm of wood that seeths its chorus by a feast