If love is depressed that she cannot live in a vacuum anymore, I’ll look for the eroticism in having to tell the time. We’ve done this at least three times now, can we call it a tradition yet? It’s only natural to look for a pattern that assumes a shape within reality and causes us to walk around it on our way to the kitchen. -C.S. Henderson
Anonymous asked: Hey! Your nickname is awesome. And i'm wondering if you let me to use the nickname for my band. I mean, we've think of name like "The Ploops", "The Shortcut", "The Overview" and stuffs like that. But your name sounds so great you know, "The Target Bird" sounds very creative.
Digital Chapbook: "Anti-Revisionism:...
thelazylazarus: Formerly “Thirty-one Ways I Would Have Done Everything Different”, this is a collection of recent poems, collected, connected, and edited. Thank you for reading. “Anti-Revisionism: Schizophrenia, Schizophrenia, and Memory” Something to help get you through the week.
You could just tell me how home is just a bird fluttering against your lap, or laugh off the stammers of trying to be elevated above the sentimental maintenance of integrity, or put a sudden shock of orange into your hair before dinner — either way, we correspond oddly and with an odd thing of wonder, like the future is a crag jutting out of a sudden fog, and then we leap! -C.S....
I grip the throat of my echo as it careens into the bathroom while I’m taking a shower, lamenting that life is just shedding in my lap until it no longer purrs. -C.S. Henderson
entheon asked: what writers inspire you? how long did it take to refine your style? and do you have any particular triggers that instantly give you inspiration?
You wanted to be the thick molt of dreams, green words billowing white until they mix with spit, the ashy salve I use to keep you from smelling me on the hunt. You lower the arrowhead into happiness, love it for its woundedness, embed it into its expansions and contractions until it erupts violently and dependently across my face. I watch a bus in flames on 35th. Tonight, between bourbon and...
DIGITAL CHAPBOOK #2, DREAM A DREAM
lavosxii: Hey all, Dream A Dream AKA the Player’s Guide to Kirby 64: The Crystal Shards is now available at this location. Enjoy responsibly. Jesus H. If you’re not reading everything this kid writes you’re failing.
582 Love Sonnets to the Rock: 4
After the fantastic idea mentioned in THIS POST by TheLazyLazarus Let’s sink into the caldera and wait for day to crack itself open, oozing yolky light into the room. The same yesterdays blossom into large fears, anywhere is too great a distance and I hyperventilate in its dust. With eyes spilling boulders from sleep, you said we’d never rhyme above sea level, needing the...
Why did we decide that getting drunk and drawing new maps to find each other when spinning darkly into the pit of lives meshed with the soft crashings engendered by intentions we can’t do anything with was a good idea? Because I woke up, head adangle like a broken chandelier, lost amid the stained and sticky cartography. -C.S. Henderson
I laughed at the broken toes melting at the beach, a loamy joke you told with lampshades to defer the full speed of the punchline — if I could stomach the embarrassment of always being cold in bed with you, then maybe I wouldn’t tremble so much as you scratch my wrists like they were beautiful. To hell with the wall of sleep and trying to complete the revolution of thought!...
582 Love Sonnets to the Rock: 3
After the fantastic idea mentioned in THIS POST by TheLazyLazarus Shallow dawn spills Like magma into the room, The viscosity of rising thicker than anything More than an arm Over the quarry. I’m still Unable to predict the dispersion Of days in your light, Rays on your head bellowing Within the chasm that precludes Each tender lonely night. Your lips, still stained of gabbro and...
582 Love Sonnets to the Rock: 2
After the fantastic idea mentioned in THIS POST by TheLazyLazarus Bless the columns of Rome spilling Into my lap, polished white and apologizing For all subsequent earthquakes and sheets Of rubble. Historically, it’s too dark To swim at this time of year, So we settle on eroding at the foot Of the shore. I get upset thinking Of the hardships of sand, How many people they could have...
582 Love Sonnets to the Rock: 1
After the fantastic idea mentioned in THIS POST by TheLazyLazarus I felt hungry and hollow In the gypsum morning, you the back Eternally turned, you the face Of granite, eyes freckling dawn. In what cave did love harden, uncut With ardor save the endless dynamite Kiss. The sky bruises easily Waiting for your first blink, The air chewed apart by jagged fate. The moon was supposed to rise...
A Possible World: The Target Bird for #Poetry... →
thelazylazarus: Okay, maybe 2083 is a bit to long from now. But it seems like that’s as long as it would take for someone who clearly deserves editorship to get it, so now I am now announcing CS Henderson’s (thetargetbird.tumblr.com) campaign for #Poetry Editorship. Please do not be… I am beyond flattered by this, not only for the nomination (be it 2083 or now), but also for the accuracy...
Morning in Zuccotti Falls
The year was already tired from moving in all directions, wanting to rest on the porch with tea before finishing the week. Thinking boiled over and scalded our hands; determination, polka-dotted underwear, obscene if not for it’s cute ridiculousness; politics dispensed in a Coke machine, tickling our noses if we drank it too fast. Everyone ached on both sides: the infinite awful...
The One Where I Forget It's Your Birthday
The room explodes away from me, Suddenly everything is holy And light skips as oil in a pan, Light breaks its yolk in my hand, Light does not wash off in the dishwasher. The dark is farther From me and you than Los Angeles, A crisis Erupts from the milk As it tilts Coffee into a god: God of courage, odd Bouncing of wings inside The brain, lied To as a consequence Of responding...
If love is the dreams reverberating off the marble as history digs its heel into our backs, reality must increase the frequency of taking a sledgehammer to desire as it circles itself into a storm. -C.S. Henderson
The Present is a Rhyme (A Surrealist's Brunch)
A collaborative poem written with David Pritchard via text message. Don’t tell me what to do. I’ll tell you whatever I want to: Deaf ears, silent jeers ,quiet fears, wired mirrors. Goliathan cheers, Golgothan seers, going to Sears, Bowling arrears. Napalm peers, gassy biers, fallowing leers, laundering sheers, cloudy deers, bored careers, mach piers, swerving queers,...
Four Thoughts on the Moon
I The headache welcomes afternoon slowly, the antlers of a dusky elk palm muting twigs, the burgeoning synapses of a plush moon. II The engineers try to fill the craters with broken levees and track houses, the meteoric bombardment of the ought not to be modern age, but we don’t know how to call it anything else when drunk. III The moon lifts the twi-lid of a dusty city,...
The wilderness of the tongue braids itself in silent mutation with gin and clicking teeth. The bad kiss of love lost and won back becomes the beat. The dance was heard from a distant room. The brain is evolving as fast as it can, the consolidated assets weighed against how much tissue can be balled into the hand. Genius can go unrecognized if it’s always spilling its drink at the...
Gap: Ruining the Webs
The last of the good leaves stunned the coffee into being warmer. No lemon, no melon, no way to start the morning, looking past & finding it the same future. There’s nothing left but the dry oases of the heart, the bursting of stars at the brief switch of dusk. -C.S. Henderson
Nothing Incomprehensible: Awesome Tumblin' Your... →
comefriendlybomb: holdonmagnolia: thelazylazarus: I’ve been thinking about doing this for a while and want to give proper credit to some of my favorite tumblrs because they’re fuckin amazing and deserve it, and are the only reason this dumbass website is worthwhile. So, thanks,… I don’t care that I’m on this list (but very flattered, *fist bump back at ya). I care that...
If love has seen its reflection in every adjective between “grapey” and “sledgehammering,” folded itself into a sandwich, left itself on the counter for three days, and complains about being misinterpreted, then I might as well throw myself upon the bonfire, lest I spend the next hour negotiating the scaffold which may lead to heels-on reverberation but more likely just the...
Shamelessly Cynical Monday Poem
After Brooks Lampe of UutPoetry What if we do not end up happy, always cleaning the maroon and brick from the expansive blue trying to reach out from the sun? The earth is a clutter of hoses, umbrellas and brooms — what else could there be but surrender if not from the matches (it’s hard to hear, but there’s no use denying that we could understand the transcendence...
If love is trying to perfect the image of a stillest peach, heavy flesh spilt and marbled with fucking and pain, then at least remember that if you ask for her number you should call. -C.S. Henderson
Jumping Through the Security Checkpoint
After Chris Schaeffer of ComeFriendlyBomb We heard over the radio that youth had stopped considering going to point A after watching Speed and Motive make out drunk on the patio last night and instead decided to oscillate tightly around the wringing hands of the sun. The commercial break makes the body feel quaint with radio-activity, glowing in the way a sick nose does after the cold...
Digital Chapbook: Eleven funerals for the heads of...
thelazylazarus: thelazylazarus: hihihihi. after the fantastic poet Sam Stein, i wrote up a short diggie chapbook of eleven poems. check it out :] “Eleven funerals for the heads of perspective Watching Judith behead Holofernes” pdf version: http://dl.dropbox.com/u/48263816/judith.pdf Some more weekend leisure reading.
Like a good man, I’m tickled by a God who spackles shut the sky. The morning is not still enough, it percolates through itself and drowns in my lungs with a roar. I look out the window and try to capture the sun in a millisecond, look at it bursting polyps to feed on twigs in the Styrofoam fall of a glinting city. Like a good child, I claw at God’s breast to shake the...
Won’t lovers revolt now that everything said moves backwards against the future? The narrowing verge slurs itself to sleep, never odd or even to them who wish to say: Now, sir, a war is won. -C.S. Henderson
VoCL, Draft 4
The continuing saga of this project that I never take the time to work on and make better. We lay at each others’ feet because hereafter there is no room for our heads but in the sun. The dark tomb is not the dynamite blast of God into the soul nor us. We remember that death promises a moment and that the eyes are the stone leading to the alchemy of making empty full. If I could...