"Wild Tigers I Have Known"

I have been neglecting my post. I have been neglecting my liver, my timezones, the neurons I've trusted and all in search of a new story. Curiosity should have killed me long ago. The circumstances of my most recent absence call for this dramatic and vague language: forgive me. Just back from London and Ireland and now investing, once again, in my mental faculties.
Before leaving NYC, had the chance to listen to and visit with lovely friend Emily Jane White:
Her new album is a dark study of Victorian America.
THEN to London to splatter the town with Ladeenz and trash the Park Plaza. I stopped taking pictures for 9 days after this:
I have video footage to come of donkeys and old men who once ate with Frank Sinatra and drinking and rivers and the flora that line them. Ireland is a special, beautiful country that I quasi-regret defiling. Ballynahinch Castle was the greatest highlight, a place where you could count every surrounding sound on 7 fingers:And after the jump, an exercise in automatic writing I did in Dublin during one of my more bleak moments (very obviously unedited and juvenile but so be it; I'm no poet. Inspired by an amazing WB Yeats exhibition).

If I deign to start I’m just continuing to weave a bite to capture the thing which will not go unnamed as it must be spread like that pâté.

You lied about the black pudding which is just as full of blood as my heart before the plane took off.

We are splitting all the while.

We are tiny as sentences, tiny as a fraction of a full stop.

You split me on the four-post bed

And was it enough,

Over the low river with its 2, 4, 5, 7 sounds,

Before pawning me off on the stoner with knowledge of nearby bikes.

I should have stayed in the castle, I see that now.

I see that now.

And still I left for this Euro money-sucking whore called Dublin

Whose veins are the color of Guinness shits

But whose heart I still love and hold and forgive

For like her, like us, you took something you perceived a gem and polished it until you came.

What is it and how have I been drawn on this paper as a caricature?

But the drawing is the only real thing, the unchanging truth and I am still walking.

I am still the absence of the field.

I am still the dreamer being treaded upon.

Noisy and final and fighting for a relieving moan, I ached and sang Nina Simone

And ate the tablets that let me acquiesce and WAS I BIG OR WAS I SMALL

And did it happen at all?

I know the past has set sail and I know nothing but the stamp of time has faded and still the other, the dark prince, the Cheshire cat of fucking without soul (there is no soul you and I will say)…

You still sit in a crib in my brain wanting a breast so you can, so I will…

This daze will not be lifted, nothing will be returned.

There is only the perpetual motion of nightmares where I squeeze foreign bodies from my skin like small tricycles covered in mucous and long strands of congealed excess.

Scratching my scalp, a hand in pain, you took what I gave you and nothing’s the same.

Do I lie too?