Embarking on a disturbingly beautiful avalanche of language… And Yourself?

Friday, November 29, 2013

Count Cunt Poetry






















Plucking my eye-cunt socket, your cock its

fondness for pearl
teeth-whiten stripping  your dick of old stains
sucked in my toothy cuntinuum
filling behind my yellowing pearls; shucking nuts
fucking plucks my eye, swallows it wHole;
sees yours


****
body parts you don’t usually swallow
a still life drawing of the action
brows groovy, furrowed in pencil
your fingers in the fruit bowl, plenty

****
Takes a full second now 
from getting the joke to laughing
a slower pump than pain
dripping dripping, anyway. 
A full second before you take your hand off the stove
though you felt it immediately. 
Is that funny?
A full second now. 
I'm laughing

****

Is anyone else a wake
for a wiz 
arcs the surface
rim ripple 
sleep and edge
rim nipple, awake
swims the house
piss the bed

****

dreamt you got tired of waiting.
i walked the hall 

you were the rooms 
flicker from under the doors
bored and changing channels.

but let's not count the essentials:
space and timing; a plain enough phenomenon
everything horseshoed around nothing
eventually hooking.
evenings I examine the fantasies, more rooms 

****

Perfecting width and height -
depth is consequential;
spacemen and their plans
defining what's essential

Monday, May 6, 2013

Invisible Foxes - by Eddie Mumford




My novel INVISIBLE FOXES was recently released by Toronto publishers Teksteditions (!)
So if you like unhealthy imaginations, and your comedy dark, then Purchase a Soft-cover or an E-Book today.

“Mumford, the young writer, asks me to read his manuscript. It could go either way. It doesn’t. Don’t hold on to your socks, grab-hold your proverbials.”—Brian Dedora




Credits: [Pat Gaines/Flickr/Getty Images] Cover design: Peter Rahul - Titles: Richard Truhlar

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

They're Always Applauding

The screen goes blue, music starts and a talk show host is dancing, dancing up the aisle, bringing an audience member in from the crowd, a face, wide and confused, excited to go sit and talk with her favourite talk show host Penelope Cox, except Penelope has a clip to show the woman, about herself, about this woman, about how hard her life is, how great her daughters are, how living paycheque to paycehque is only bringing them closer together, and she manages to put her oldest through college, so that she can be whatever she wants to be, unlike her mama.
(The crowd blew their heads off, and they all got a shopping spree. And the woman cried when they gave her the scholarship and the makeover. She screamed when they gave her the car). It’s a big one.
The screen darkens blue, and the host is alone now, somber, stern. We've been on a remarkable path here, on The Penelope Cox show, she clears throat into her fist, and it’s been a long, long journey for all of us, to justice, a woman in the crowd screams: “I love you Penelope!” but Alyssa Horn and her young accomplice, Blair Baxter, have finally been convicted, she pauses, on four counts of identity theft, six counts of fraud, and two counts of prostitution and interference with a child, the sound was dead. And for lying to Mrs. Penelope Cox!
(The crowd blew their heads off and thwacked with applause, when Penelope fell into her chair).
The screen lights beige, The now infamous scene, says the television, from yesterday evening on The P.C. show, where recovering alcoholic and talk show host, Penelope Cox, suffered a serious stroke—
The screen goes white, colour. The screen goes white, colour. The screen goes white, and you’re so far removed from your phone, it’s ringing. It’s just ringing. But you can’t start trusting your senses now, they’re too sensational, they’re always applauding.


Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Shortest Story I've Ever Written, but who's counting? (3 Minutes)


 3 Minutes


He handed her some change through the drive-through window; the brief touch of skin rashing sensations. He was vibrating in his mother’s car.
She turned for a moment to play with the cash-register, and he imagined her body through the unimaginative, beige uniform.
“I’m older than I look.”
“What?" he checked to see if she was alone; the boy, her co-worker, was at the counter inside, serving someone else, "How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Oh, wow, you look so much younger.”
“Yeah I know; that’s why I said something.” And she smiled at him; it was happiness. They were both pleased to meet; their eyes sharing a loop of attraction; a mirror on a mirror; a boundless feeling, where generations travel. 
“I can’t be more than three minutes here.” And she pointed to the red-bulbed numbers counting upward. “They time me.”
“Oh…”
“I finish at eleven.”
“Ok.”
“Ok. Have a nice day.” She handed him the coffee and cookies. Their hands felt vibrated, and then the window closed, and the car regrouped itself.
By eleven seventeen he found a dark spot in a super-market’s parking-lot for them to “park." The windows were rolled up and the green battery light blinked steadily. He lasted exactly three minutes. She said: “How relevant; I bet I’m pregnant.” And they vibrated together, in his mother's car.




Monday, February 27, 2012

Touching Myself(s), Again


The Genitals of Art and Other Human Ends
----------------------------------------------

Art has created itself for the purpose of beating-off
Splendid isn't it?
It feels so good to show off on me doesn't it?
El-Em-En-Oh man are you hear just in time
to play with myselves
with another helping of alphabet:
Double-you, Ex, Y and Me
You see?
the el-em-ent of L-M-N
Can U C, you double you?
It doubles me!!

WaiT
There aren't enough apples to make sauce yet you Ts!
though the orange is so very
there must be a significant citrus in the brain
commanding you to peel it
and show off your fruit again;

Quick
Hold that meaning outside of the peel
And think of what you're inviting when you stand in your mouth
Hurt peelings?
The bruises are feelings
Faster now
lift up your helmets;
carry what you have like armour
until you feel the kinks relax in zipper formation
folding teeth
eating away to a new layer of skin
every time another shade of before and different
because our scars R just memories now
memories of when you wanted skin
when your skin felt necessary
and needed;
sometime soon you'll find it necessary to kneed skin

Who needs to masturbate when you have a mirror
or a page for that matter?
Who needs a paper?
And then you masturbate
Who needs a paper?

A candle usually burns for an enjoyable time (semi-colon)
A solid, shimmering enjoyable time
melting just the amount of wax you'll need
for an eXcellent adventure (colon)
maybe to where the candles grow
and good times go (semi-colon)
Let your brain blO the candle
It's ready for a good time

In the dark you have to lie down first
before you can see the lateral moves
My gut might star in its own filminess
but on my back
all the stars show off the way I do with U
starving to twinkle
until the release
dreaming into them as hard as we want to (full-stop)
Lie down first
on the table
in the pen

Can you command your dreams to have sex with you?
There's only one way to know
fall asleep on this page
then go
eat your orange
stretch your stems
and find some people to talk to
about the genitals of art
and other human ends 

 



Monday, October 31, 2011

Witches Don't Eat Gingerbread

Without any breadcrumbs I knew I'd be lost. Maybe I was hours from home, potentially everywhere, next to anything, in the dark. A parent is always everywhere to their children. I'm not wandering tonight, beyond looking for an edge to fall off of, or an end to all of this wheat just crawling with weather. Whether the moon was lost I couldn't say, but it provided no light, for breadcrumbs or the like.


The Darby boy is dead, the cripple with the legs. He had walked here on his own power, with those metal teeth sunk down his calves, and that tinned sound to his walk. He found Abernathy at the plateau, where she had carved her name on the cliff side, upside down and hanging over, as she was when she carved it there. Abernathy.


They were discussing something, her and that Darby boy, or he was telling her something, something important, something that made her shoe betray her face of calmness, flapping up and down against the dust, rubbing dirt in the sole. She could have seen me then, and everything could have turned another way, if I had stepped out from my hiding place, from watching them.


I was so close I could smell the dirt lifting from her shoe, dry like wheat in the wind. And then stillness. But she hadn't seen me, she wasn't looking at anything, not me, not the Darby boy. She was far off into something else, something predictive, trapped in her thinking and twisting her ginger hair, her father's hair. Maybe that's what he wanted from her, to have her trapped and choked out like the muscles in his legs. Had they planned to meet there? Perhaps he knew enough just to find her there, so he could ride up with those awful spurs of his, screeching when he bent to kneel.


Mouths were moving quietly, and their words were stifled by the angle in which they found themselves. She wanted to show him something, the name she'd etched, just over the edge where his torso was was leaning. You could hear the boy's legs split open like an oil can when the ground took him from the fall.



That night I would watch Abernathy's red eyes, bleeding her tears for the Sheriff. Making a mirror with her face, he couldn't do anything but stare at his own self. He couldn't see what she was doing. He lapped up all that sadness like he was thirsty for it, perfectly ready to hear about the Darby boy's unfortunate accident, up there where cripples shouldn't be messing, like the moral of a fairytale.

There wasn't a tick of flesh in her face, as I asked her what business she had at the plateau. But she's always there, I knew that, it was part of our property, she had every right to be there, to be alone with her thoughts. When I asked her what the Darby boy had said to her, she had nothing to say, she couldn't remember, all she could see was the poor boy falling, her sobs overbiting every word. I nearly retched at the sheen of her melting face.

Pain is to be understood if it is to be respected, but she didn't understand. I asked her what she was showing him before he dropped, but she said nothing, I asked her what was so interesting, that they both should hang over the edge like that, without a single care for consequence. But the girls face was only water now, unable to hear what I had witnessed. Her hand was on his back, mocking at protection.


My baby was lost from me, from God. She didn't understand the pain she'd inflicted, but she needed to know, she needed to feel it. She would burn in hell if she didn't feel it, if she didn't confess. I gagged when I smelled her dress burning, but she wouldn't tell me what she'd done, what I'd seen her do. Skin was burning, but I needed a confession, she would give it to me, or she would understand what it means to burn in eternity.


When she slipped inside the furnace, I saw the flash of her hair ignite like a branch of autumn. Her sound was pitched, and then shriveling. She had been kicking me with those little black shoes of hers, screaming me her lies, only then her tears were full of meaning. To sit on the mouth of hell, that would be her redemption. She would sit on the lip of that furnace until I was satisfied with her answer. Until she knew what was good for her. And then she slipped, and she fell, and the house snuffed up the rest of her.


The only difference I can see between being trapped and being lost, is that one is still free to keep moving, to walk deeper into the fields, getting further from found. But both of them are bonded in dread, and that overwhelming need to meet the end, when everything is settled, and safe, at home. I don't know where I am, outside the smell of wheat and the wilderness of night and its purgatories. But where are my breadcrumbs, and the smell of gingerbread houses? I hate that smell. Where is she, where is my only child? But then I know. She's with her father now, trapped in hell for an endless time, with the end.



Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Self Portraits

and another self portrait was the question

and we found the answer to be surprisingly striaght-forward
Then there was nothing left to say between us.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Photographs and Free-Verse

First
you whallaround
in your mouth—
and then
you have at it
with your delicate
little
chews.
You are certainly a creature
of habit
when you do that
with your mouth.

You’ve been saving some for me
haven’t you?
I can tell
you’ve been saving something
oh so perfect
that only the word ‘perfection’
can make it feel better
you better
same some
for me
caus I’m ready
gimme what you got and get buzzing it
over here
where I am
where I’m standing
very still.
It’s all up to you now
caus I’m ready
for something
 
I need summore light
like I’m drawn to its drawing
asking it to become a little everything
and a little that—
a light can be a lot of things
if you’re willing to ask it nicely:
“May I have a light?” 
 
All of my hair
standing out straight
can’t wait
to get out of here
all of my hair.