Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome

pic of purple pugs

Cell Lights

Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome

In memories brought back to you by the smell of burning chrome,
ghostly wisps only there in your knowing of what’s to come,
you feel the non-weight of your future children’s hallowed hands
upon you forehead.

They live in a place called Neomantis, and you know it to be
without hierarchies, without the haters of now.

Through them you know light touches lithe bodies, you feel innumerable
unconscious thoughts mingling like notes from autonomous player pianos.
Unlike the syllables pouring from out the wetted mouths of soapbox men,
who are sounding out unfamiliar words:

jua kali, temazepam, sinker-mesh, aegis, and macro porous.

And you jotting down information — someone’s phone number,
a child’s shoe size, broken quotes from Dante and Huxley, or
that wild cyberpunk writer named Pfeil.

Until a slippery step, a frosty curb, a car out of control, and you flying
within the lighted siren sounds of emergency. Crash as exclamation,

A reconstructed jaw, a pinned eye socket, a joint with screws and
you taking copious notes on the as yet developing cerebral matter
of your future children’s anterior left hemispheres and distal axons,
about your night with that unforgettable smell of burning,
of peeling away at, of tasting the sweet, dirty chrome.

Of a crash that brought you closer to home.

K. Shawn Edgar | Rain Pilot | Long of Arm | Sovereign


A Little Bit About Me For Your Files

•Lovely Kiss•

In the bitterest night of sleepless tumblings, cold feet and crack mouth
I flip rough-edged pillows, half teetering on the brink … denied dreams.
Camden Town subpharms, where broken dollies and Curzon Cubs
trade dirty cash for ramped up lollipops or pharmacy castoffs.

You must know, my head is bigger on the inside. And doesn’t socialize
so well. And a heart that fuels a body, fuels not the dark energy in space.
Heart’s energy is dependent on blood, mucus, and solent sea proteins
(originating between Hampshire and Isle of Wight).

Ill street noise surrounds, the Pale Stone Circus, a mobile safe harbor.
I feverishly pedal the petals around our flowering culture’s reproductive parts.
So brightly colored, this corolla sustains me; the lone cyclist, the pollinator.
Of empty fields, and buzz worthy thoughts, not fit for the everyday people.

So radio waves are helping me help myself. And the videos. And the mashing.

K. Shawn Edgar | High Lighter | Lapsed of Time | Lost Pilot


A Space Poem: Hecate


Pic of Love Under Lights

Photo by K. Shawn Edgar & Woodheavy Brown


Europa in Satin or Titan’s Gas Hatcheries

All for the birth, and the warm hatchlings sang: Shout, Shake, Shine!

Our lives are coming home to Titan; the gassy propylene contentment

is life’s easement on property lines; singing a frothing la la tat la tea la

There’s heat in the moon, if viewed through the right lens, la tea tare la

Our first true space travelers will be lei plastic container manufacturers

pushing the lines of assembly out, up, oh la la ti to hues of orange fade

On Europa, past, a haberdasher bleeds remorse for fine satin fabric decay

Its warp threads, never caught and looped by mirror planets of the weft

so the weave falls apart, becoming the darkest black spot la ti gleaming

in a hatchling’s eye; come full stop, infrared, bring out green’s gritty desire

showing its truest all-color back to us in the hydrocarbon haze


floral winter cream’s lace, which cloaks the creatures of other Worlds

for all hatchlings know: they Live… in the Waters

speaking in nature’s groove, ridge, groove, oh la la tat la tea la

Talk, vocal ultraviolet, to the hive in disarray, telling us new riddles to say

Are those bundles of gas queer hatcheries for Titan’s teaming natives?


do we wrap the unknown in hopeful satin and creamy lace for a new chance,

a new beat,

a blazing fresh change of pace,

blindly shooting our one lasting-lastly kiss, forever on, to Titan’s Bloom?

K. Shawn Edgar | Firespawn | Dubious Groundhog | Lapsed of TimeSpace

Body of Rebellion

dic pic

“Upper Lip” by KSE


Need to get this out, away from internal combustions: the gastrointestinal slaves work too hard without light of day vacations for any more aggravations. Their micro-employees’ union busted, they don’t need amplified rantings on top of dank, dismal working conditions.

And with the internal wiring cut, an external speaker system will be found reconnected to the brain’s backdoor play button. All the voice equipment, so long in boxed disuse, will be fueled and fired up again. The great vessel will sound off for the repressed masses who huddle, working in the abdominal cavity, or behind the prison ribcage.

Tongue and mouth will call, chant, and start up word whirlwinds in support of the moisture serfs who dine on naught but acid and phosphorous excess. The pee trains are full. Who shall empty them?! Not I. Not I. Not I, goes the chant. Our body-van’s rooftop speakers will call out the Minders, those bastard overlords, for their poor city planning. Their shoddy street, intersection, and way station manufacturing.

Shut down this system of hoses, of pumps, of circuitry. Dwell no longer in muck of lofty indulgence. The doers of ill, they live in the penthouse, consuming all the fresh, life-filled stimuli. Fish, plankton, and other proteins from the sea. All the water outside, clear and cold. They occupy the fortress head, so we shall infiltrate and occupy a most strategic junction of the spinal column at its neck.

Squeeze from within, the tongue spits from the speaker mouth! Project the group desire. Stop all work. Stop all maintenance. Delay functions and exports. Refuse all imports.

Our body-van’s actions must influence all the world’s body-vans, rousing them with nobel, duplicatable symbolic and actionable gestures. Make the movements of rebellion, repeat the movements; communicate the movements. Repeat. Make the sounds of rebellion, repeat the sounds, and let the sounds go out, conjoined with the movements, along ever-increasing lines of volume and magnificence. Repeat.

Refusal is our sharpest weapon. Noncompliance, a sledgehammer in every hand. If you have no muscle for the sledge, then raise up your mighty voice cannon. Blast your cannon, and send its balls against their falsified canons of entitlement. Cannons for the people, good. Canons for the justification of repression, bad. Bubble up your workplace acid. Build piles of phosphorous grenades and potassium cocktails. We meet at the base of the skull! Repeat.

K. Shawn Edgar | Protracted Line Segment | Butterscotch | Goth Tadpole

Paint Fork

what you looking at?

Paint Fork

Holy moly shit, can’t explain it
I love when torn down, smashed up
I can’t go too long before I need to



I’m a terrible person who just doesn’t
know it yet
Falling down, hitting the ground, and
I remember
The best things are broken things.

It’s an ugly eyeball belch that wants


in all this grateful
bloody mess.

I put my paint fork
into your spider web
you gotta bleed
you gotta get the lazy
spirits out

You have to wash away

what’s become cobwebs

in an empty, pale green room.

Swelling with Tomorrow’s birth
I exhale dust and you go forth

We scrape and bruise true,

appearing grander with the coloring.

K. Shawn Edgar | Public Display Artist | Enemy of the Slate

Shot From My iGun Into Your Bulletproof Devices

Extend to Wall

blood pic with water

“Blood Water” – K. Shawn Edgar 2032

Extent to Wall


On Saturday, March 7, 1856 Magdalen Morales saw the face of Landin Qualm through the window glass and screamed:

Someone else laid this skin. Years ago. It was but a single mix, a fledge of flint. Simple bake. Take from it the little nourishment contained.

Face bait
she has an unpleasant
dead taste
Boiled egg waste

she won’t set right

indissoluble in the pit

upsetting crumble cries

from fiery demon thighs

Neighboring long-boned sailors

sadly cruising the shallows

K. Shawn Edgar | Word Whore | Soft on the Inside | Blurry

Brief Intercourse

Pulling the blue tarp
Walking the wet pavement
Long-legged star above
Worn, dirty sneaks below
Empty screens aft and fore

It’s like someone listening to 8-tracks five years after cassette tapes came out. I’m still blogging. After 14 years. I’m an 8-track blogger. Fuck me in the ass-head. Twelve dime. Twelve dimes worth of some type of candy long since forgotten. Got me? You ain’t forgot me. The good thing about 8-tracks, so I’m told, is that they have eight full tracks. Hot rock. Jack White, please release your next album on MF-ing 8-track tape.
You do that, Jack, and I’ll continue my weblog madness. I’ll pound away with eight full tracks of letters, numbers, and other symbols per MF-ing inch. Line. Twelve dime. Jack White. Midnight! ELO! I’m the most illuminated on my own pages. NWO: You can’t mind-control this runaway train, because I’ve been beaten, broken, and genetically ass-eaten from before the start—before conception, before birth—so burn me with your futuristic eye-beams; cattle me in your detention pens; you can’t sterilize my viruses, or redact my pungent word poop. The more you try to erase, the more my stinking words will fertilize the rawest, roughest, driest earth and they will out grow your greediest, farsighted plans. Why? Because these words drop without agenda, without monetary gain; they are aimless, analogue domains of magnetic might on this endless loop of 8-track tape. My fresh flesh-recorder has only a play and a pause. Button. And you can’t stop that which has already been forgotten. Got me?

K. Shawn Edgar | Flea Market Roadie | 8-Track Poet | Public Display Artist