23 01 2018

Hallidd's Weblog


You can hear their knife like squeals in the swamp, sounding like one was already being digested.

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23 01 2018

Hallidd's Weblog


Preaching death. Promising darkness.

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Trying To Feel Taller

23 01 2018

Hallidd's Weblog

Priape Burning

This is the last in a series based on my book Church Street Is Burning. The book is much larger than what appears here. If there is a publisher out there who is interested in publishing it, my ears are always open. And are incredibly large.

Church Street #41

A gentleman put his wife to bed,

turned off the light

and pretended to leave.


An hour later he joined her in the darkness

trying to feel taller

and imitating her lover’s voice.

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The Manhatten Project

23 01 2018

Hallidd's Weblog


god is not dead

he was merely blown up beyond all proportions/made light of

dropped into a glass of water

where he burst into a million tiny bubbles

with the hope

that he would bring fast fast fast pain relief

from historic indigestion

and ise eno esc ape

noe sca pe

nof ork int her oad.

the ad-men sit in a trance at SAM’S

ironing out their problems

business is slow

a spider is spinning his fine web of suicide across their eyes

the janitor is sweeping around their feet

lifting the left leg when necessary

lifting the right leg when necessary

the dust continues to collect

piling up history

he files it away in green plastic bags

that bleed internally

god had tired blood

he was the multiple million eyed monster (incl. cable)

with multiple million cataracts

surrounded by crow’s feet

that slipped up on…

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A Crowd Screaming In My Head

23 01 2018

Hallidd's Weblog

The End of Flowers


the sticking stuff

is bankrupt / the churchs

have been fleec’d / their pockets

turned out / two old men

are drunk in the alley


it is eliot and marx weeping / like bulbs

of an hour glass



there is no fusion of elements / we are

not units but systems / our poetry is

like digestion / we are meshed

in the veil of maya / falling through

the eternal yawn / devoured by

time / we seek some break from this lease

in our head



the dead

do not rise / the living

do not age

they are

mollested by terror / we lust for

the golden age , fools’ gold / we whimper like

old dogs for some gesture / we seek applause

on an empty stage

in an empty hall

with empty words




This is the end…

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Bernard Strozzi 1581-1644

23 01 2018

The architecture of smoke

23 01 2018

Beach at Dendermonde…

23 01 2018

Debbie with benefits…

23 01 2018

somebody here owes me an apology

23 01 2018