Shakespeare Erasure (Romeo & Juliet, Act II Scene II)

He jests at scars.
It is the east! 
kill the envious moon, 
sick and pale with grief, 
Be not maid, 
my lady, my love 
O, that she knew she were
She speaks yet she says nothing 
Her eye 
the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
twinkle in their spheres. 
the brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 
daylight a lamp; her eyes heaven 
That birds would sing— 
cheek upon hand! 
O, that I were a glove
I might touch that cheek!


MUSIC: BOOTS ft. Beyoncé - Dreaming
What a pleasant surprise. Earlier today, Roc Nation singer songwriter and producer, Jordan Asher, otherwise known as BOOTS released his self titled EP: A Day In The Life Of Jordan Asher. 
And now, unveiling the closing record of his mixtape, BOOTS has revealed Beyoncécollaboration track titled “Dreams.” 
Read More


American Royalty/It’s Nice To Own A Maserati 

I can point at everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
perfect in instants, this realization is fleeting—
before the gasps in the streets, last night, I was
nestled between the hills, houses lurked, spewing
shapes and crescent moons across the highways, there were dinosaurs,
walking on stilts and elephants being chased by mice
so I picked them up in a spoon, plucked the milk out of my breakfast cereal,
and dumped them into the bowl, where they all scattered around and wove between the cheerios and the porcelain, heating it until it
melts off the table and falls on the floor, upside down, shattering
itself like a potted plant and reforming in an instant.
I pick it up, and it has become a mask, and a parade grows out of the hole the bowl made in the floor.
The mask goes on, and I am enveloped by a red cushion at the head of a miles-long parade of toys and toothbrushes, false idols, a stream of objects I can never remember
carried forth through the white wastelands inside my own head.
“Stop, stop, you speak of nothing!”
But nothing exists—nothing is the existing form of the formless to have a “nothing” one must create something and I speak, of dreams, Of some thing given birth by nothingness, why do they have the right to exist? Why does the fabled Queen of beetles come forth upon our noses, bringing to life our memories and great desires? But dreams—
Dreams exist to show us our own potential, the limits, of what we have we imagined it, and it was created
“Where did you come up with that idea?”
“It came to me in a dream.”
“This city subsists on dreams.”
You can see them, walking Hollywood boulevard, starving for attention
they haunt the surf shops in Venice the houses of small photographers and the mansions of the actors, swaggering through the parties lord, they come here to live and die they change,
they get smaller, bigger, they are inconstant but enduring things
you see that?
It’s the star! O! gorgeous, who are you working with?
Send my regards to your father for the limo—yes you too, kiss me…”
but we weave our way in and out,
I touch, the faces of my fathers and I say look,
I’m living my dreams—-I found it, what I need to do
I’m happy, so, so happy—this is how men like us live, isn’t it?
Burning fuel until we drop dead the wild, shapeless cosmonauts adrift in the open ocean we shift
for nothing, but the tossing tides bidding us onward, onward, onward
towards those islands, toward the mirage

of the future self with money, fame, women it’s
what I need„,I need„,I have
always needed I know
I cannot hesitate
I cannot stop pushing because I
need this If
I fail, I will die when my name is spoken for the last time I will
finally pass from this earth but I will walk it
for centuries my dream, will hang
like a billboard over sunset and my body will dangle from it on the film screens I will be
remembered, and wander these streets in the whispers the
closed lips and pictures of
reflected sunglasses and storefronts I did it,
father, my mirror says—
it says ‘I love you’
for the first time, ‘I love you’
and I expect his head to twirl around like a top because,
no one loves you they don’t
dream about you I set
aside the camera years ago
let’s take one,
take one for the two of us, huh? what do you say— thanks, perfect.
Look at me now,
what I’ve always wanted. I can reach out and touch the shower, the fucking
gold faucets and the marble of the floors and counter the model with my grandmonther’s ring
my ring on her finger
but I speak
of dreams.
I’ve seen them walk out and now they dance for me
 along the banisters they walk
along my fingertips I can sew them into little eyeballs and faces and paint them into the walls and then they start to move, they close in,
tigers spring out into my living room and great butterflies sit upon the couches and we all march on
behind the red parade spreading out inside us laughing
as we walk forth into the waking spaces—
hey, hey….did you see them too?
They all just
turned to dust.


Nest the flashing lights—
bosom of time, quietly like
the nightfires on the rooftop
pyre to the cradle of rust—sanctuary to 
gods made of electric toasters and modern heiroglyphs,
dart behind the plastic creatures, sing brightly on the wormwood,
blink as the light fades and sips a coca-cola
bottle on it’s way down,
scream with the children on the sidewalks,
plug in headphones—melt into the bricks, 
screech at the rubber
of abandoned taxicabs.


Unwind, souls—body,

blades of grass waltzing with hair,

fingertips stood still.

[Missed a poem so sorry  \O_O/ ]


(blonde braid babe)september 2011

s t r a t o v o l c a n o by neamoscou on Flickr.


Cosmonauts balloon
outwards, over grassland— in
tiny human webs.


Antony and Cleopatra

March of the elephants,
night upon the crests—king babar feasting upon the flies—
the footholds, cloth, and warm settling like dust
O marchers, trumpet forth, gold-powdered gods when we see their eyes—
parades always long for leaders,
despise’d thieves of the continents,
hearts, and minds
gorging themselves upon the cats—
the crows pick the bones of the nile.


Little light of mine

Nitpick this nitwit
twist up this lip stick
smack and embalm it ‘till
tres chic in timbs with
candles, burning holes in our
We cradle our lives in our palms,
rocking back and forth
 until the buring metal presses into the skin.
I held onto it, hoping
to press the sparks back onto the wick, to cup
 the wax between
blistering fingers and gather it
Like a mud castle,
back into a small candle that I could hold—
The winds were
Worse than the bends
 were best friends
 were inconstant memorials
of my hands like
candles, burning holes in our
My bone-touched fingers, blackened at the tips
Falling off the knuckles,
slipping through the cracks I
remember, how your hand felt—
 heart felt falling through my chest it
popped out the back because my hands
were too burnt,
too hurt to hold onto it—
so you lightly tossed it
 back to me,
like you aren’t very careful with it—
I picked it up, and sat with it for awhile
until my eyes melted,
and I lost it in the fireplace of an empty house—
when you use newspapers for kindling,
 this little flicker in your iris, this light residue
that won’t leave no matter how many times you blink—
I closed up my eyes with tape,
walked Hollywood,
tried to feel anything that didn’t touch like you—
the whole block burnt,
spreading across my skin like a floodlight
your image behind my eyelids
those flitting red lights,
formed your face even
with my eyes closed
so I stuffed candle wax in them
to blind myself from everything you are
cupped my hands,
to carry the ashes home but
the wick curled like a unloved babe—
shivering upon my fingertip
with candles, burning holes in our
Like live wires,
rolling and burning brushfires
dusk liars and corpse buyers, strings
like conscience have you been conscious
 for these last three months we’ve fallen just
so far from where we started and
we started and
we started and
we starved for each other—
cactus like, incomplete without water;
There was a great drought
 in the valley this summer. 


Natalie Czech Series: Hidden Poems A hidden poem by Jack Kerouac #2 2011 C-Print

untitled by Michael Sleet on Flickr.