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HEARTACHE 126
He used to smoke and pace outside of the motel room. . . /
It was 126. This was minutes ago. How funny I see it already / As so long. I guess, a deep intimacy
forded time out, left the event back there in the minutes that began / It; yknow, to freeze.
Ceasing to be real, a moment hinges / On chaos. So many thoughts can draw out for hours. Yet
rambling is ego nuzzling up against a common ground with reason, not the passage of time for some
lackluster point, and life a reaction, valuing clarity to the point of obscuring it, dogged to expose
fragility beneath already-reinforced sayings; but, dogged to freak itself / Thence into something,
perhaps, more positive. More like you. A muse might as well / Be here just so I can see all this beauty
everyplace. For example. Item: man with natty hair descends onward through gates of hell, his
favorite. Item: some mother eats a sandwich while looking for her childs monsters.
Item: fat guy gets thin, thin guy puts on a handsome / Few. Item: writer relishes the metaphysical
palm on behalf of the universe, to me, inheriting thus some few clear statements / To mollify a
rageful, ogre-like imagination always in flux to balance itself / Yet always, due to the elemental ringaround of good karma, of a fury surviving as the last living example, at the last endless grain / Of
chant. / A causa finalis. This fellowship of good manners / Is as common ground between the writer
and his depths, which are mine, / In its own right, and outside of my ownership. But
Then, and I guess I will make this a bad thing or whatever, but-Personally, I think its the oddest and therefore
Most rattling ITEM: A flock of birds quickens
MAKESHIFT 1
Mensch or mendicant to hang his head at dusk,
Look to new lopsided suns, and however you go
About breeding from the / Diaphragm the next
Bewildered soul, connect / With each empire of
Those the salt of yourself, / Just dont be too
Extravagant and go impending your personality
Like a drawn out wind / To shoulder for the very sun its own responsibility to delegate / Morning
again. So swill emits from grates / Of hot night. The carnivore that is the tramp you is / Connives
with eyepatch, scar, general blatant / Affect, nose the size of his watch, or maybe is / He forth into
something, struggles to imagine,
Succeeds where mortal respiration doesnt. The
Skys work ethic, finally denuded / Rehearsed itself
To life more fully, but this was as like death throes
Of something just far-gone enough, or just this thing
In / The gut, amicable as it is, that tells furious truth
In each breathy circulation of this or that sequence of clouds.
Without them you are not a thing, / Or maybe, crazy with
Fortitude, blessing a / Conception beyond good and evil, and
Something / Gets cooking, perhaps, that isn't meth for once:
Or / Do vagaries partake of the cafeteria's lush / Corncobs,
Ordered special that day, or do this, TO do this, yeah, to do this, would it be like
Something I am - to make it epic with referent - 'I' - making personal: out of gripes with suns
Do many men make a man who is probably / Not any of them, like everybody really is, or at
least tries to be?
There reigns a tourniquet yet that / Only adds musculature to that question, but everybody
cant seem to tackle down it or get the name in their sights even. People
Cannot handle the truth, basically it is not to
Be trusted, too hefty an index finger's truculent
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Point at that, whatever it is: his soul's most / Likely still hanging with the gulped breath he /
Can't control in gulping, never to release, there, / So, drug of regret work in place of it: do we, / Him
and 'I' at random about-face, making a one
From a many,do I / Distill from that many a man beyond good and
Evil, but with faces more than tons of suns
Still, as if I felt most familiar with that hydrogen,
Or ideally: was a myriad individual? But am not, / And deliverance to me is every
day, suppose, / That is the personal aspect of not getting all: /
The sun's I want; but do I want to imagine more with / The stringy, bedraggled end of day,
an end that will cost / It a thing, that I give up for what I prefer to / See, the very thing I see, not
knowing it? But you have made too much a point, now
IDYNTITYLESS ETC
Own thoughts, own branch off life, hanging, as
if by the hands, clenching life, trying to organize
the parts / And make them periods of memory,
like family pictures crowded on a glass table, devising
Own change, over time feeling the / World not shake so much. All those thoughts hiving in you
realize you'd been feeling the world shake silently / Beneath you, been reaching for the branch not
Holding on to it. For you only in the / World feel what / You do and how. Even by right
were all voids, something / Different is to what youd go beside. Stick up for. The
Sickness of empathy soothes you in every pore its in, / Hearing whatever case of injustice or fault
and folly, thats for sure. Sure, spaces of doubt differ because of the / Reliquary-standing moments,
Times that slant, that meant what they
Meant, but they were guided either way to where we are, the both of us, precisely for their nature, so
introspective were we, holding up mirrors to everything. You, me. Because it felt itself / A ruse, a
question, an anomaly. Whatever the sensed / Affliction, our wound on reality. So to / Speak. Thats
how I feel I am. Thats how Id imagine it could be. Bada
Bing, bada
Boom. I see some things
In terms of what I can mentally own since it is that I
Cant seem to own the one thing most important, since
The life given seems in vain, a quest against a
Windmill. But trumpeting all the while for yourself!
Looking for life, measuring it by what you find though maybe
Not experiencing the value of what you find, maybe
Afraid to use it up. These are not fetishes, idols, though. Theyre things that value in themselves
without the / Absorbing. This is after all the nature of anything
Anonymous, not created but there, sans subjection
To search for the first cause, the illumination from afar. Where you feel yourself to have
grown is enough for Williams taking a picture of New York / From the next borough; but
By that doubting would your life seem empty too. That all is a masque of vowels lacking
syllables / And hard Ts. That you while shaded in your own as I said / World of work, of toils,
Frequencies or vibes of the / Being alone, left no slack for tryings or weaknesses, put
All the rest of the good stuff on where these thumbs are pointing now, not indexes.
What I do I do however I do it for magnitude however-The dash-and-slant life became you, the small shards
Of substance became very beautiful to / You for that very
Appreciation for small stuff, a mere drizzle in the rote,
You examining these
Doubtful quantities of spare change, insubstantial to me. Though rotary-like wheels of action,
serious, cold as I am, / Are just to make a picture of what you see, I guess
I see, I beg you, tend not follow them to any sort of hyping reality. Suchre people of pain: estranged
for being a giving sort, giving their lives but hiding their burdens for the help of others. They want
definition everywhere else by proxy, though / A sort of passive-aggressive / Thinking; scoping
Out for scopes not because they want
To define themselves, assuring it impossible, but
In humbly not looking at defining themselves as
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DRAFT #2
A big, spanning arch burnt by pollution some places produces
something in the onlooking gawkers eye or random citizen of the area [to whom
most things would be invisible anyway, but that kind of goes against what I will say / presently
about my neighborhood wisdom, awareness; and at that, invisible, unless, like humans
are so wont anyway, all that invisibility gets boiled over into an image by force: suddenly splats
of hot / milk are left on the floor to petrify, for vermin to smell the residue of, in some
chickenscratch cell of an apartment somewhere: like a bad place. I just know its bad]:
basically, to start again: start with a
hearts thud, I mean, an extra one: it gives an extra beat. So say whoever bothers to dig for
whats produced of the arch, outside of, you know, dreams: all really just
appropriations of the hearts molded need, especially if it be outside the wisdom of the
corral of hipster and proto-hippie locale dusty old men who are exactly
what you would think I would mean
when I say, not rich in the place
of poor despise: theys all deign The Village: well, and a good few decent queers,
thank god: and thank god for
Washington Square, that kind of disgusting edginess about it
that attests to a lack of regular swab or regulars called upon
to swab: I suppose thats the deal with any iconic structure,
it stays around cos people want it but dont get washed off cos
it being there and what it is is enough: take a picture of the arch
and maybe see a face, or definitely a grumpy frown, or, if you stand
on your head, a smile of narrow width and long length, almost
a flavor of the dastardly: yet what 'personification' isn't dastardly, and
high treason, or highly creative irony, like Rimbauds Le Bateau Ivre,
a ship who thinks his way down impassive rivers, from redskins: one may
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palely muse like the arch does on the way the arch seems like it can do / without us /
humorously enoughin the urban February chill they [one] themselves could do without, thinking
there / is as much compromised, as in nothing, in the case of that hunk of marble, or whatever it is,
stone; and in regards to the usual hollyfuckingwood harlequin-screenwriter this even more; you
know, that guy with a vision unswayable
who devises not only a clearly inhuman antagonist, or maybe robot works best,
but moreover, a nemesis devised for the sake of a boring last battle: and, sorry, no surprise: /
but the story goes off without us. / As the story progresses we find the prawn-like invaders or robotfetuses or whatever changing their rle:
whatevr fictional alien or beast or robot a-sudden goes toward bravery or
selflessness by feeling pain onscreen, actions hiking up sentiment in the audience
enough for to regard the plight of this poor, completely not relatable robobeast
from Mars, with perhaps a few
irritated squeezes from the glistering eye [tears]. But this is why
I hated that movie, District 9: o the deludedness, the harlequin-creators
schmaltz, that one is more upon the object by making it alive the way people are alive, as if it /
being an object werent enough to lose that, or a structure that is to say:
though now, back to hushed contemplation,
or at the least mildly aggravating musing:
for example, this unfathomable comparison
got the life but maybe not the manners to be
like those who slump their game up around the
surrounding esplanade, today, on a freezing
day: the men are at the concrete chesstables, that have always / been lined round that arch or
object, or thing, in slightly odd arrangement, like / a serious paucity of sprinkles on the [concrete]
cupcake spaced out, for the sleeping bratty child, hoping
this oversight is too an oversight
the bratty child makes, another tantrum avoided. 9 and in a stroller,
him and his mom emerging from that hip cafe where lesbian moms go to breastfeed:
a fulltime hobo traces the next move
on the board quietly, steeled in the shelter
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of many loud, soiled jackets people most likely threw out after Christmas: gifts
from that uncle with bad taste: these are old, old men, mind you, and perhaps
gone a bit eccentric from too much time living on the street: and drinking
formaldehyde: one ashlike hand handles a bishop towards
the nigh-slain queen, and then
the game ends when said challenger
to Almighty Cosmic Steve [after
his big twelve, consecutively] gives in,
at first argues for a draw, but of course the dignity of chess allows for
that fat junkie no terms of requital, sans finishing the game: slightly under a
sort of char, one could say the open light of Washington Square Park marks
the skys resolution a bit early for the grime and seedy bastards to come
out, but they do, like roaches to the flame broiled burger piece wedged
under the couch that one time somebody bought burger king
in secret. A month later a family of hardcore vegans [they live
a few blocks from Bleecker, to name someplace recognizable, so as to
smooth your bearings gotten, regarding my obliquely-centered subject, if / you have trouble
finding the building / or rather illegal shack hiding sweatshop workers in the wallsyou knowjust
in case they ever invite you to
Bradleys wake] reports quick to the local
fumigator with much grief that an army
of roaches, apparently lured in by hamburger
meat, has eaten their darling, their poor
boy, 19, 6 4 and 120 pounds, with bones unstrong cos, well, no milk: all
in the name of equal rights for cow-teats: prawn-men: what with all that painful
pinching and squeeze:
I observe the less kept corners of
whats its none less spectacular frieze, however burnt to dusky
resemblance, but not dusk comparable to the dusky heads
of people walking dutifully places, checking
watch, ignoring a crimp in stocking cos well
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itll be a deadly crunch for her [whoever that is] to get to / work even besides her not stopping.
Random fortitudes swell through the streets of The Village, back to everywhere, while the buildings
look on, essentially
heartless, sans those ones of especial magnitude you know the
architect put a lot of grit into: just to set the structure upright:
she fought for her plan for The
Big Wonderful Building and thankfully
with a few grants the value of blows along the way depreciated
and her accomplishment, given amnesty: financial or no, it must
have been a mess to work out everything in proper regard to
the municipal grid:
do not but people
alight the day to their business, cringe at night, tongue hitting
for a sec the string of the stringy steak had for dinner, nights ago: gristle, ouch,
stings: buildings dont feel and say ouch, they look on like disinterested giants
on my friends here and there passing,
and their presence among, enough the hello.
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Intellectual wanderlusting, devoted, wellsans of course ever staying for long in this concept
or that, and with waning standpoint until mute, and with truth trod on more than savage heroin is
with fentanyl, well, considering all this
We may forget as well that there is a mark for this, perhaps more / Like a giving bush, not
burning: the bush is fine: the fate
Of one young immoral bookie is not, / The flames wait for him at eve, the whispering bush, o
god, the laughter hidden some other where that he laughs at, what is it, can doing this / Guarantee,
tap, tap, tap, well, HELL?: / Denote evil presences,
Liquify the ambush with your other assets, and then you / Will be left with no fears at all,
much less anything else, / The boss-man says: burning: my faults and the boss-mans are the same:
what you make as leif to call comfort I call out as bullshit, tho:
The accountant nods, glasses falling off at my supposing: I suppose reality stops and so then
time stops with it, but am not sure: if time stops, that is the reality, that / Is, that time has stopped:
reality requires observation: a
Halt of all things for awhile at once wouldn't even be much if no one was there to see it and, most
importantly, keep going: reality then is what keeps going, in spite of time or death: so then, the
reality of the scum's situation is a
Halting of time too quick for morality, unchanging, to catch / Up with and assume
with it the static position: if something
Just shouldn't happen, is it wrong, is it reprehensible: if the world were made of
coincidence, anyone would do anything
Whatever and it would mesh, therefore abolishing coincidence and introducing us all
to a time-free universe, a place that since
All would be in coeval with all doesn't anomalously declaim it all as not so, despite the
unreality that hangs around and which makes it
Not right, but really, right: one feels the sangfroid in the attempt / To force something
just to soothe something: wrong the result is
To un-wrong existence, since the psyche if it does does right for / Itself, sees perfection, there: selfish
really, which anyways is why
I always do exactly what I think is wrong for me, just as sangfroid,
but, perhaps a foolhardy rebellion only I myself could ever know,
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man. / He gets heated as he drives up the road, to the beginning, again, of meaning something,
desperately, and besides-the destitute corporeal: ah the immanent haste to drag rather each bundle of hay again to
their needed places in life as if to screw it and at least show to who gave him life, to the mother, what
pain is living enough to go through more; to at least
communicate it to some abstract homogeny in the sky: hay: at use for these farming
homes, a frontier almost edible, sky lush and pin-cushion smooth, soft rather: we package
and refill our existence by the day, have new motive,
get tamed downed to believing one or two consistencies, at the days end, fear transcendence as goes
beyond the suns reach, a brew of unwilling themes light gives order to by revealing what but that the
personal schemas leave, which are rectangles that-floof detritus upon the floor of the barn, themselves to be relieved and relived, that dim
feeling of bad choice or some wrong thing done provoked out of dark, there, then
as tips the earths dark in its maneuver, we all see it: again,
wake up to deliver hay: but what if all those stray strands made straight to their use, to, in vaguelywrought homes at the center of their big cranial fields, be a road leading from there to there like a
bridge, the man, at this point fuming with confusion, calming himself
with precious shouts of MOMMA, dog-worthy, not even infantile: says all that the dark of
beginnings in doubt commands of the self light shines judgment on, despite the misgiving of thoughts
on the hay, collected stuff just to save money
and thrill out upon the roomy hills,
is repetition meted again,
like anything diurnal
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The water in the crevices there. Or he has turned his shoulder / Inwards the same, a shameful coil,
perhaps he felt the light / On, cautiously, didnt want to get shocked, went for a towel, / Looked
outside, guts, rainfall, hell, big rocks of hail
smacking the roof. Goes and turns off the oven, in his sleep remembers not whether it was
so that he was drenched, or merely padded
By the finger or by the arm, / By rain. He gave up and dreamt
Of this in its place, forgetting doubt
And the doubtful realities wearily put to rest too,
And, using his dream-sense that he never again would
Wake up to find, found only that it had not even rained.
.........
Give me the light of fury,
And give me in your pieces something worthy, and give me what I have worked long to paint, in
words, a thing the faint picture means. I am not soundless, I scream, in proliferating yells to breach
the sitting sphere. / It does not move, it does not roll,
It is the obligation of the soul
To stand it straight, a sphere as tall as GOD
To capture this dreaming clod
In colors painted to keep, this log
Of infinite, to make me weep.
There is in me / Something after curfew
An imitation of an evening / In an updraft
Now spelling / Like wind on the wharf.
Others previous words, passed around
Ceremoniously like a rag of ether / Whereupon I feel intoxicated, feel the haze launch me a
damnable palliative, up into trouble, betrayed by the sweet cahoots
I dont realize
The time to be home by / Has long passed into
Waste, arrhythmia of time
And, smoking ember alone high after
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Nightfall, observing / The azure wreckage
Of Jersey lights from wharf that
Make it seem day, and high / Off the
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-Manner of smoke bouncing wall to wall, which once aerating the whole estaminet leaves a
spooky residue that you can see all parts of. Sequences sight themselves correctly, by / An act of some
kinda providence, so that / This wheel of townsestaminetsthe whole
Populace thoughts, all thoughts, had been / Victim of no radical, weltered mist into the mix / But
rather knew it, accepted it a dandy fugue,
As if somehow what had been written to be
Seen by fellow thoughtsmy mind in the feeling Id got lost in beforedrew a new knowledge, a
wraith into the next chamber, me taking it wry / Although it delicate, me a shook head at the /
Circumference I describe, inevitable, me at the / Fore of the legion, seeing blank places, towns. And
all that still revealed in the same container, and all this somehow, a metaphor, neatly refined / As
tulle, for escape at large, the piece to come, / Betting ondespite my ric-a-ric about contrivance, /
That very abjured sentiment from the next town over.
.........
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SPAZMASTER
Darling one no I have not left yet perchance
Hollow I feel in the shades of mine omnipotence
Dangling cats feet off the side of the roof
Hes a one for life to take stock of there or
Maybe the sun and maybe the rain too
I have none less than I did I stand before ye
As sun or rain in the sky ye crick ye neck to see
On this roofs edge I am not unmovable I change
I am not for ye wordy baubles to shroud
Lift me darling instead as reconnoiter and familiar
Clutch me hardly again where I have been where
Though I change I have considered ye beatitude most
I was always before ye tell me o disinterested factotum
Like those old lines I am apart and sad of your ignoring
All sifts anyway like the shade through your thumbing
The material onset traipses like this cat you are then
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when said / Too much, under your voices / Haughty draining of the
subject to implicit intercession, / As if all along, your / World was a plea
to stay, and all this / Only fills my vision with tears, and I forget to forget
the nerves as they tumble through irreparable mist / And out of sight:
a foggy fucking shame: / A refrain from the more complicated celebrating
we have, / The which comes more like sacrifice, we jobless light / Our
honor well and without fail, from / The daily pyre: we erect it with dead,
strong lengths / Of shoot to rectify our special miseries we leave / For the
uninterested tribe of utter humankind / To yawn an answer at, once
known, once / They know it: all the while / Keeping there in their keeps
an ample dose of judgment / Like a chinky cabinet filled with active potions:
all this / Stings the shrinking pupils in their eyelids when / They look at you
with a suspicious fever / And quicken of glance, yes, looking us as / Slitting
the throats of chickens, goats, etc. barbarism, / Hooting through our tongues
the latest, freshest of / Carnal blessings: sanctities in vogue, / Thats what
the pagan lifestyle is, a fad, ill-thought-out, at the behest of time to prove
itself longer than a notion or a hint, / With time to appreciate it all, really,
we learn to give / Ourselves the right to fetishize ourselves and call it something
not like religion, yet that negates the need for such: but, ah, / The hoi polloi
would never figure that: they would alight from us, maugre the meagerest twinge
of daffiness, each stand taken a revelatory / Scoop into the dreamers inner
unbalance: or, forget the scandal, and we would go forgotten, like love / At
the door of ones enemy: any-me: alrighty, one thing as I see it: / The marching
pole of light from the broom over the days / Creeping, and my noticing your light
differs, different, ah, it differently differs enough to make smile the steeple of this
broken church of a man, lets call each a touchy tooth, sans enamel, totally: to
banter holiness: your blue multiplicity slays the time by adding time, by which
I look at you and see a minutes hour, and the planet feels sunken in the
girth of no malady but irreverent prophecy, import, ludicrous, raving excitement,
if only to a minutes proposal of a given thought allotted you, / As opposed your
image proposing all thoughts / In that one span: you view me yourself, you say
your blue daddy doesnt care: rancid in the breath, he is itching his stomach,
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bespectacled, not a thought to focus him, besides on the trimming of the crocus
outside: his addiction to control is as grotesque and demented as any Jack Nicholson, him licking / His lips, apart from himself, / A vacant slaughter of anything
but normalcy by the / Hatchet, handled breezily, elbow to elbow / In jaunt,
in chase to make requiem all his children / For subtle viewing of calyx there as
I see it that makes / A petty notebook aslant off against the side of the window
[Full of petty, snoozing things] bring a nook on the azimuth as you thumb
another cog, bring it past an inch or a few minutes, adding them you,
in my thoughts, though absent I may be as I this jobless priest / Peers at
nothing but fading light from its only source in the room, / Out the
window, I give, I give my pagan blessing with a blown kiss to layers
of gold upon the pate of the walls, your wizardry / Revealed. . . . .
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ORCHARDS
In the words of the perpetuum mobile
What copulation ist, spreads a linkless flood?
What could the orchard create without seeds
Nor source? Am, am damnable human. I make
No place to place my placeless, linkless, then.
I shove a retrospect into what lives commit
To as place, after all no place, all seeds folly.
Andlooking backa jettison for the figuration
To murder, after all, beyond regret, and I
Live reliquaries now. Best to get back to present.
Give me apples to work with, something a
Little further made. Color it with zeal. Peachy
Keen. I push and push my memory. What
Detours could tell me to stop, before I spot
The road to the farm downstairs, caught luckily
In synthesis: a clear frame for the chuffing ambiguity,
Held strained from my head like water, this
Strange, delicate place where the head stops
Turning back to seeds at the beginning of time,
And makes the fruit the steam off boiling memory,
But no such link to causa prima, more causa sui,
Deranged and slow, the paths to the orchard
Raining pale, refractory appleseeds up to the sky,
Initiator, like the turning of us along the path,
Yet to the detriment of natures firm rules for
The sake of bawling grounds the beginning of time,
To be swept as though by a powerful hand by
The cosmos, our perceptions feast headlong
Thrown like silly comets to a better seeing maw
While the normalcy in retrospect we obey
From earth, though it much express a bit of tooth
Chipped off at the Good Fucking Lords first
Bite into sounds of something further made, singular,
Not the apocalyptic infinitudes of possibility that
Make us after all hate a present whose
Mundaneness floats over the unthawed glance
A wizened gizzard made at me on the bus, while
Whittling away at some wooden pick or straw
Saying a saw about his tired hump. He was doing
What we shall do, once the time comes to reflect
On the times spent, since they are mostly life
And what it is to one, at this point. We, rescuing the
Flood, taking our thumbs to one and every drop
Like a sponge. Rescued the lucent water from
The bobbing prison headlights as the reverse-rain
Broke yet another spastic unsaid, the sky giving
It its chemical spindles of memory, like noxiousness
Emitting from a spilled beaker. Some tosser of a
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Physical impossibility would always break something.
The orchard rests in peace, and strings adorn
This grave of apples, the bough thin, the weather
Weak and cold to waken thwarted sensing, or something.
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ELEGY TO FROND
This is the creation of an isolated frond amongst desert
That once wasnt there, yet on its own intelligence is, will be;
Which cannot have its rightful matter sans this cranium.
Just have me be this there, for my own sanity, be this
Just sometimes a lushness to this ugly spot, sometimes
An eclogue this, for my own free spending imagery
Because I mean for it to, do want it to, it will
In words, comprise the scream of a lost child, instead.
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THIS IS AIMSROELD
Aimsroeld Sedtodlr walking across phenomena. He is there. He is the magnetic train, the rolling and
forming of primordial snot, the doing of do-do etc. and the big brain's accident if ever was to speak
and to have spoken the words, yet apologizing for his crafty art, jumble, mumble, and all this damn
mundane, people. Duct-Tape carnival-suit moans ad infinitum, suit is mask, mask is of fractures,
they are happy fractures, they are bold as carnival, in motion, in motion, screams of digestion, laconic
sun, beatific-terrific, even, beyond source-growth, beyond beginning, ending cuz, well cuz, well, cuz,
duh, human, a human aiding innards, creative innards, purge, quake of purge, and arbitrariness, and
senseless breaking of the air really just groaning ta patch up da groin of forest, strait of rye, grumbling
rock one might see and call plum as imagery, felt and forgetting felt the hard stock life took o' me
once, judging, corrupting wire, synapse, aftermath horrid, reticent as an un-gust, a blow felt but not,
an infinite, just wonderful ignorance and a just wonderful revealing of sandy shores abandoned, for
example, by the tide, left as musky trenches, protozoa, guck, gack, and the foreseeable motions of
these refusing to pass besides ever-slowly, known but not : : mountains passed in very ages and
suiting it all together without a word in a carnival-world patched and patched as it can, tho! not
quite round. Duct-tape.
: BLOKE BROKEN AT SEASHORE, 1
an aggregate of feelings parting and returning,
a sum doubling over and over, hovering and hatching,
dead and yet breathing: pondscum: or: low tides leaving
thatches of seaweed, and some bloke broken standing
at the shore. an animal bellowing in the distance, a fast
track to the thumping damage, real, real and unafraid
the catastrophe bungles itself into brilliant life,
ransacks the mystery, rummages for pills, damned life
is in the riotous keys on the riotous piano, but is dull life
on the pond, thinking on the pond, patches of green,
amorphous pods of algae, assembling a diseased quiet
with laughter, trying to be honest, big as a trouts
leap, doubling and returning to the place of specimens,
and the sea and the bloke back to race the contextual
glittery sun on the low tide, seaweed sparse but
also breathing, pills unfound, dead as damed life that
is let to music: then an explosive manner makes
avalanche that goes covering the entire world with
ash and burnt slime. some bloke standing at the shore,
broken, deemed useless by the god. the sum scoffs
at all whom approaching swerve eyes by its affected
sore, its lacy core of squirms of hedon rot bubbling
while the animal of truth bellows in the distance,
considering the thing about the stuff of affectionate
reality, while storms grope: something gets birthed,
then feasibly a person makes itself, and the rally
begins once mre: something should be returned to
as the showers soak the willow outside: i see it thru
my window, play with rain, play with rain, i say
to me, but dont: i leave that atom of a story,
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all the smells of an abiding, reassuring cosmos, and of course, had always - according to the
doorkeeper.
[1] Mr Pagmy :
THREE MONTHS - In The Ward I was there it was where I spent my Summer. Slipped often but no
bannister, cut weak. Or shitty shoes, mate. Left me when it rained plainly on the ground to the
ground but I saw that all only from windows. In The Ward there were many but in That One, had
nerves. Did laps around the halls with a balding crazy. He told me he liked basketball and read the
Finnish papers. But I never even saw him finish a sentence.
[2] Baby Status :
FOUR MONTHS - Heard tell of Prozac but never till now went on it. Heard the pell-mell music
now just memory. Memoriam etc. It was throughout my ears like it all were just two polar saints.
And it was like a ghost. It was all for directing my awful verbiage when the time came to glow
insanely. All seepage though and into like some trough of a field of slop the mind was then. Even
more, now. Since wanting more. 'Memory'. Natal almost always remained, I recall - 'Baby Status' So what. I crawled on the floor. Whoop whoop whoop. Barely able to stand when I did acid in a
college I couldn't stand period. Did acid like everybody else and left my body so as not to witness any
sort of true, pure disintegration. Then it was Prozac got me off, now it does, and at least I'm uplifted
for something more a reality, less an effect of White Lightning [MDA] - when I did that, last time,
fell in love with the worldd. Who knows why but can't love be more'n that yes it can.
[3] Iyambidc Pennamtersh : alligator eats flawwers [NOOSEFLASHE]
Fresh Dionysus lifts ontogeny,
Up into the glades ,as this recital
Looms as storm, over marsh, agony
Of life, chord, bang!, - alligator: vital
Teeth chomp mishmash all a blooming homestead's
Reassurance: left is no familiar
Notion to bake in the mud now as dead;
And yet around blind mist, the orchid-heads
Float along like trim and saddle up
A mainstay in the feral colony
As rain is there to dance, so then this scarlet color,
So then this progeny. So then this remnant life.
So then I make an effort, fife-dog, it's a wrap[rap], , , ,
As like passing clouds. "Pass the frankfurter." SNAP.
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: THIS IS LUCKY, 3
Wall beige, next, a sound: tapping cuticles of a sitting lad,
Followed by a similar reverb throughout his lair: his tiny walking
Feet as Lucky gets up
From an assumed though unmentioned
Place before he had squatted without airs. His important portraits line
The unremarkable as the thready carpet walls of the place
Sans definition but with halls. Then an empty, screamed
Blank shrill and silent thing suffers into view like
A gouge: upon his destination to sudden stairs at the foot
Of the flowers banked up in one of those Vases Lucky
Treats his caution: big wails apace, run man,
Direct a thing: he thinks should he
Be talking to himself an aged prisoner of griefs gotten
By others out the window. Distance
Growls outward more like a vertigo shot and
Nothing ends but a blue shade as
Quiveringly abrupt as anthems blend themselves
Right Lucky treads with a held caution over
Where is we is when none is here or there but puppetry
That pants as purtyness: silence a cudgel,
Rainy nevers slip onto the place.
Lucky tries to, is, for some
Time :: for must he reach the stairs
To meet Mallarm: he is believed and seen and
Dressed as lonely igitur and where a created river
By the name of its being there
In talk like this and fucking tragic, well,
To become in pieces, places, for to shy out to the moor-
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Fastest tail agate-like trending its voluble-skill all in secrets and hemming at these
wastrels whom roam difficultly // spidering merely this is a grove
Of trembles, anticipated lost, moving bright and suspended well again // erring in the marrow
too bright and glaringly tho // but suited this is a ray
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Filled good by such whisper, calumn, breathy danger-warning // it tell and tell // tell
these hordes of wards // they listen early for the desired mistake
But also form you on // remember chalices, balloons, dripping candles from heights //
of dented chandelier // ornate ruffages, then
Boom // hateness // rolled plaster // directly // the ray corrupts neath imagery //
cordial platelets // desuetude makes the maker // tho //
Tremble hips // go back later to the beginning of time // that is the begging of this
pome // to insult that perimeter // essence justly
Of the Just Was; tempered the waving ray goes from wherever it staid and unhappy
gelled into noxious quicksand // the slow ceilinged
Referent // breaking things like a chore of hints // telling indicatings full of wallow
and bray // fecund resoluteness is // the so-called,
Renting writing // stilly the mast gluts under fierce, implacable wind // of wounds // I
felt bleeding in dryness // I distanted institutes
Crummy with crime // I had nothing to do with times address and PO box //
rendered nasty nifty nigglings nested normally // knocking
Knights out // with a look of a stab // just need the ray // charge, to charge that
nasty nifty // lemme wrestle that angel // pls do is said from
Some weird holy place // intend direction again // this // ok // I will be honest, this is
me trying with words to get that light again // I am
Trying really hard, I confess // yes // the energy is felt in doing so // truth has a
feeling to it // I eschew the referent to the poem itself
To the waters what have captured a bit of that shine themselves // the knocking birds
nested normally and bothersome // as well in
Their tweet have it // the rocks sleeping hardly against the tree // nature is the
embattlement of angels // ordnances ring suddenly //
There is the indication of rain // there is indication for all things // always a signpost,
nevertheless a place we just decide to
Remain nevermind about for good until // it desiccated grows black in roots // on the
outskirts of gunning sparrows nests // cheap,
Cheap // sinking pustule in a stream of that light darkened // thought that the shine
// it was not the shine the thunder was, nay
Just the sound of thunder indicating shocks of lightningbolt // shockingly never to be
seen // thunder is the signpost // the source
Is a weak king alone on the chessboard // the people, wards, calumny makers // are
in the place of chandeliers // this space gets
More and more absurder // the plaster tweaks off in significant shavings // the
chandelier changes to a thing that cost all the wards,
Calumners money // it is a material you get for some other unknown thing // dollars
are the signpost of culture and class // the ray
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Has me think about things and directions // It is never seen // itself // it might be the
plaster-clips // I have no idea // the thunder
Reminds me of power, as I casually think of it while hearing it need the dapples //
that in the wake of clouds are vastly disappearing
From the top of the stream // the birds cheap and cheap // the angel remains
unwrestled, nay unheard but in the mind of the breath
Of the looking clack! of thunders heeled by rain // by trances of rain, and uh // cloud
// its all very dark // the shine goes away, the
Ray goes away // first of all, crux is honesty // I kindly break the fourth wall and
pose in front of eyes // instead of these ears of talkers
That lead me on // they helped once // they helped me get to the stream // they gave
me a glimpse of the mannered place they were,
Which is why I need them no more // the bravest thing is to tell something how it is,
and anticipate from that clearer nakedness a loss
Of whom were fodder-helpers // I betray nothing // by leaving them I make the
point they, these listeners // want me to use // maybe
They are the audience // I have no idea // As Paz say, I plant signs // perfect, that
// that is all I do // everywhere symbols, everwhere,
Everwhere signs to point the way , , ,
To the wearing ever. And then thunder. So
Some sad unresting fear I know The Maker gave to you. You,
You did not desire it. You did not desire to get up on your
Feet, having no choice or death, walking to leave a dead
Self on the side of a dusty road: her skirt
Leavened up, for the last time
In the wind
Like a sinisterly fake breadloaf. It was unmoving
In speechless wind like a substance, as the big white van ran
Away, signaling the last of their blight with a bag of murder
For her she takes and makes a mythos of herself by taking;
To blind and gag some other part of her goldeny bones,
To leave the treachour here,
To wind a drugged yarn when dragged back
To rehab, the cell-holders all in agreement: : Fall apart, you.
In this room. You remember. You remember how we did that
And did not listen to the whole story until the head that held
It [yours] got draped around it some thin sheets tied noosewise.
But it all this would somewhat like genocide
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And, dichotomy and unleashed intention
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at a tundras pace.)
[we find a separate people like ourselves, in their meant coves-throwing stillness, chill, from out the least of places
a corner might make to mirage away from sniffing
senses of those live and well, a fortune we
who come up from the depth of dust will train
our eyes to heal. o the when and where our souls
had once forgotten and abandoned, thinking nothing
of it given chance, we would do this
and replicate, or strive to, idleness,
boredom, cravings for the yet, and yet, and yet,
and this for just a chance to once again
see the world we madly loved, for reasons we
never knew, and needed a new life
just to see, observe, that first wrong rightly,
and maybe chances after: to so bless
us, the people, in rewind from ends, with
why the value for the life of us
was badly, rudely, and in dejection
mistaken for a random inkling: of some sublime:
the least a part of anything we were,
when all we ever were was the sublime,
unhidden then, protected in ourselves,
unhinging in the atmosphere, and free
to recognize in us what we deemed impossible,
till death hath roast us all beyond our keenest sight,
dissembling sense and vision. we were no more-we were in heaven, an ideal to get our kicks
for one last time forever, when wed been souls before.] So,
#juxtaposed, 4
For this you give me tied up in a coverlet. It was
delivered while you were hunted, on a horse,
an antique trundle noisily dug into the silent air,
and you as a specter as you spend your speed
early along, journey as well through the mind, the
waterlogged gripes of memory and misdemeanor
settled, - the only thing that nothing matters,
for you had always had the pill to slug you off the
planet. So prick the sides of the rouser in flee at this,
so he pricks the - damned - mule - back from dragass.
A hope perhaps to see the quicken of feet quicker than
wind could mangle the unstependous quavering folds
of his peasant robes, the thing in coverlet beneath a
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mishmash of protected supplies and miscellany,
always: deadened a thing in the sightless desert shroud
and eaten by dusk, swallowed in the camouflage
of dusk: and you dreading yon treasonous night, I bet,
madder yet to steal it oneself and bungle the bet, left
to be searched and found and hanged at that. Looks rainy,
I say, and it does, as I hear sounds crack up and shift out
desperately to their nearest complex sound, a delta
diagonal through the innumerable trenches, upping an earth
of magma with a single charging plunge they themselves
conjured, for themselves to bring and disappear beneath:
a flute, a tune, who is the traitor, who the bizarro ??
Through the malignant thoroughfare, human passengers
glumly took themselves to bed, not before tasting a
little foreboding, a flavor, then, a passing light
snuffed, so small, off seen by myself in a window comprised
of patches of background buildings, wrecks, and trees
silent and calm enough, kowtowing to the elements, a way
easy way to beseech a quick fluster for when the bane
expresses itself, and will you leave enough room to feel the
pitch of atom, higher, in a clack more than the sales of
a spy could shrink to barely heard and all experienced thunder,
conspicuous miracles, mind-numbing zones, alien routes,
all fighting to be seen and these
to which the more strategic pitch,
the wager in the mind, was settled, a buzz as high enough
to bruise the flourishing green, but subtly, coming,
subtly going, as like something for the trees
taste ?? For welcome is nothing, has been so far, to come before
joy; for yet the random warinesses a stirred heart commits
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State, until the aghast light shredded people: but this is crowds
Of nonsense in my hated head only, glittery and sane upon
Observation, but to me a glut or clot throbbing through
A stroke; my body welcoming cannibalistic razzmatazz,
Is blind
With effort, somethings eating us. And she asks me
Under the sheets, What is it dear, I tell her not of all the
Wasted years comprised within a milliseconds intricate guts
Dissected long ago to mine for stamina, to prove my energy
More than the roaches of thought left alive under the fridge
: HIDDEN CAMERA, 7
I touch this density and know not what it is
I touch, to germinate unconditional eternity
By the stream by the cove where once you
Came back twelve hours later to see I had
Not left: well I had chased in all the precious
Time it took to mangle and call truth what I
Beforehand lifted differently, as what aright
To make and lovely manifest atop inelegant
Skulls, truth I disavow otherwise, leave a fly,
Bled part of it as my only lesson for this vanity,
And wish nothing changed, on perceiving it:
Otherness would faithfully populate and call
Something of the thing observed it sphered
Around perhaps to be, in those trillion eyes,
But was not, and this fact a secret, perhaps
The only secret simultaneously known and
Unable to have revealed to us however hit,
Battered, the cosmic mutations make us,
Humanity: spell out, in twigs and roughage
A gospel of the spleen: a fantasy in tune to
That truth outside who suffering in gardens
Of quip and fakery, though entering the air,
And then upon us with their separate flower
Expresses the belly of a sentiment needing
Wrong or else collapsing the holy makeup: it
Is seen out at the grocery store eyeing for a
Remedy, which by touch becomes a poison:
And I observing the collapse of my universe
To visions I have had, leer at the quadrants
Where lonely speaking tends to fickle wind;
Where windy strengths of mind buoy name
By name for a thing, to its place experience
Fits in well, though perhaps not going there.
Intense focus acclimates to the tendencies
Of whatever had been before we took it all,
Made it different, such as perception stains
Reality with some opinionated rat's eyes to
Milk the subject out of meaning's madness,
Nor is this juridical mess altered to explain
By hampered men intending to make a fist
And let the needle enter: like another might
If you left the door unlocked, which happens
...............
Hardly; the rest of my hands called a weight
Enough somehow to be, what, a rock of stone
Instead of metaphor, sitting upon the flatness
And daydreaming still about my giving person,
Respected by the hunched branch of this tree.
I am Inflamed, rite by rite, by religious weather,
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Itself a second's worth of anticipation, a murther of energetic
Body to seethe. Or to adopt a seasickness when you wag forth,
Once shaken hands with an unsure emptiness taking its part
In giving one of who you are to muted inklings of that wonder,
That self: find yourself a referee for mutilations like biting nails
Too harshly, leaving fragile exposed skin to brush up and hurt
Against the cotton rimming your jacketpocket. A yellow moving
Truck passes, stops, goes out of sight of the door I see all this
Clutter through, then comes back into focus closer. The woman
Opens the door. Some lady scratches her ear like an art exhibit
And ignores everybody. The cop, poor fella, he is gone. Two old
White guys open the door. I hear someone ask to get it straight
About my appointment with Don, my therapist. This week. The
Wooden table is ridiculous, as is this, what I listen through to till an
End: a song again: I listen to this garbage quite the more carefully
Than they who, uh, who ask the question about the appointment,
Appointment, shrink appointment. I have so many of those. I turn
My head around. It feels to me like a swivel chair. I am listening to
Myself saying things for a price: it is or is not like a gone cop not
Come back like the yellow moving truck did, and disappears like
The way one day I want to disappear: a long last aspirating thing
Of barely any importance, yelling 'soul' from peaceful distances
". . . . . ."
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RESTLESS HORSE
Endlessness of the listener, quotha,
Each in his turn, the nature here a thing
That turns all in its wake, not that of time,
But not as books. Nor is it darkness, of the pages
Between. No not a lagging organism, here;
No not a leech but for the gatherer's brassiness:
Rumble in the man who listened forth, between
The sense of the sense he did not know he
Made, one did not listen to the prattle, Wordsworth
Listened, the poem didn't to him, and that is why
The nature is forever in the beauty, purely,
Of what wantonness. Ideal
Is not in one who turns aside upon enough, but
In the comedy of that, that is, for one left to meditate
On what must be taken for the Spirit. And yet
This uplifted phrase, the Spirit. Naught of course
It couldn't do, the ideal for us,
For this end: appreciate knowing it: rather,
The phrase uplifted from the house of magma,
By a pinpoint, rather, the poem itself: and all the soul
In everything in what a phrase commands to wish
Is there, no degradation.
The smiling of a nature, not for psyche, in the man,
Upon him, and the fulness of his dreams,
Excluding no essence, prepares the phrase,
Leaves vine-to-the-very-door a practiced truth.
Those leaves I shall not strike however, those sour
Leaves, the fruit upon them however, no
Distaste for Milton. The gatherer of his resolution-To reveal reveals the reeling here, in this,
A work of nature, and a work of a man.
The organism, swift upon the lathering of the wake,
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Shored as ruins for a Beckett himself to keep
Of mortal fear, derives, old dog,
A plaited mechanism: the method, the plait between
The ache of canines: in the mouth, that is,
The mouth, there. And the
Ache is in what all things say to us, which
Is not just what nature does. It is all. This
A tincture of the suffering in questions
The trees ask only, first, the rest, however
Much a display, regarded, should be equally
As truth. And so: the man whom
Totters throat in a howl: a final grace for
His ideal, deeper than the glance, though not
The glance upon the pages, not the-Hymnal of some page upon the rafters of
A longer expiation for the house, the rough
Scream of handled wolves their daemon. When
The trees, when the brush and stick made
Themselves for beavers, peace trusted that, and
In their own---Lethe---of recognition, might
Dissolve and justly the song of pure,
Animal things.
And yet, as for when themselves the trees
Were trees, the final
Song gave to the bottom of a martyrdom,
A significance the wind knows. Spring far
Behind. forever, forever behind the phrase,
The phrase no lagging nature, as was said,
Instead, the matter of a rosy cacophony,
And, more brownish, the mix in the duff
Of leaves across the hike, themselves,
Themselves no Summer, for no season
But the Spirit-wind upon
The back of
Atlas.
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O young skillful,
Lovely blade,
They are-Your wishes,
In the doors of vine;
Once caught in the dark are out.
Out of the slab, sprung forth thereof,
Tell us what is meant
To be you,
In aspirations, do you
Speak of fury for your season---?
Captive blade of grass,
Your reason. For the change of living,
Of fields for the urban stone.
Surely flowers stand alone,--Baleful, the thoughts that come
To scare away the flower too--O small tuft, you keep you blade,
You keep your blade in power for these teardrops
Of the sun,
.
A SINGER FOR THE CURTAIN.
O bold grass, revealed from the lowest means
While still the World, in ever-changing course
Do populate a common green, each complex,
Measured soul a blade made WORLD made simple
By the need to stay the same throughout
Each shy and soulful blade, throughout
Becomes at mass---they at rise upon the field,
Upon the colorless foundation, and spread
In one vivid tone, about the stocky hills
That take full vivid breath as winds
Upon the hills, an intrepid Spring, brief
And centered, to take every barren span
Of every field, further from it's Winter
O bold grass, shy and upstart blade, renew
The brief name of modern nature's Winter
As no such turbulence, no such lowly dirt
And root, but as a low garland sway
Climb through the stones, express the bowels
Of each valley, lone vivid, modern band,
Tell, spare none your ambient garden,
Spare none your multitude, spare nature
Swell, woven in the valley, in the hill
And cloud, and, slowly climbing, your sequence
Shall grow heavy on all fields, and soon
That cautious segment grown shy in the wake
Of a new Spring, shall build to wealth
As daylight is an echo
Arriving prompt to sections of the World
And spreads an equal-measured shadow there.
...
And I am left
With shuffling words, have managed
The raunchy briar, closed
And twirling through once-timid thought,
I have grabbed and seen at face this,
The black briar of constraint,
My hands shake with blood, aching
For bruise, by thorns in daunt, and
At younger years I bore the fear
Without a second's beat for consequence
Might've strangled any clarity, any sum
Of briars, yet some the grass.
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......
for all is a joke,
even the bullshit. the only thing thats bullshit
is a thought on it; the questions
that one might really try to ask and answer are
for oneself only. dry
the tears, give this dose a try,
boy; do not question what i do, however little
the knowledge of what me you seem to understand.
a question is no punctual thing; the answer neither.
the difference, indifference. is not a sickness
of too much punctuating
the point enough throughout:
but not to others: who might see more meaning
in allowing breaths, as a softening of the need
for wind at all.--to force breath is not intimacy, but in the drive to tame
makes houses out of conceit; if seen as a conceit,
that is. houses give tender to your peace, not to be sick
with giving occultism. however much they give-you will return in a scoff
as epically stiff
as any control. they are as unreal:
as what sadness: one who gives knows the more
with painted images,
than that which dirtified meaning
houses for them. it is a trivia of congratulations i find
in even syncing up the pace of my thoughts
unconsciously with the water from
a sink in the bathroom. this sheet,
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forgetting that all is not forgotten, all is down,
all falls down, all falls down to the place,
the place, the ground a language for the launch
therewith into place as no longer threatening,
no longer from the brokenness a whisper of
useless portent. judge not anything. see wisdom,
not anywhere. see the locks and keys, see
the keys. and if dirigibles magnify themselves
and spoken break, a murderous dighting of
the word that soldiers through, o face
of man, o warring merriments imposed and
stifled, stifled when accepted after, after
words between hath lifted meaning from
what rose, what cornered image now, what
winds, what whiteness, blueness, sacrificed
to the folds of storm, the petite not fluid time
of sense, that makes one shake their heart
forcibly. if i am a mohammedan then tell
me in the room of doors, i suppose; made
of doors. and if i sleep, do not make them
slam, for you would wakest me. and sleep,
let sleep the eyes, and let me do so while
they blink instead, leave nullity as mellifluous
in waking. and do not wake the wake of it,
in builds of shiny portent on the handle of
a gun, not the barrel. ones mouth can handle
the barrel, but ill leave the words on this
to quiet the scene. there is no gun, it is
not loaded; and there are no loaded questions,
only loads of hate, hate towards the meaning
of trivia at large, if implanted in the real of
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the world as it flaps down, down, down,
up: token of the past: a lifted relevance this
time, and adjunct to disciples for the image,
long gone into the forlorn. maybe tracts
of the irretrievable come rounding back
to their source, so that all may be in the
softness of folds, the folds the calyx,
the calyx, each one a shrug, each nothing
a trivia giving time for one to breathe in
what flowers only mean to them, and
should, and should in the picture one see
a torment in its obviousness, well to do,
this poem of knives: soft knives: limited
and on the portico to wives that wince:
no widows there: the sheaves clammy,
the snap of them a shadow of the winging
sheets on the line and down the main
in droplets of movement, caricatures
of haste, forgetting in abasement. and
ministers naught; no arbiters; no fallow
in the fallow. speak it plain and see the
blueness in a darksome: corner the wind
as if it were that meaning to worship,
the design to grace your deign, your mental
polyp. speak it out of 'buts' and 'howevers'
as if in the trickle of this---sickle---no time
wavers, despite no immediate pulse.
no pulse in death; trickle death in droplets.
see the womb in each tearing of the sheet
in no sum of fluid folds, no fluid, seemed
swiftness in the seams that pass, like a
nightmare, like a granted nightmare to
the grace for it. like a solitude, and attempts
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Is fucking white. To be conscious and not think
Wouldst be more like
A shawl over open eyes. Or
The sense of leaving everything behind
For the sake of something---better---afterwards.
Something that does not
Involve much thinking, I'd say. More like, music-Found in randomness (?) but without the scariness
Of confusion. For example, as to
How significant oneself is, whom in being 'a self'
At least has an object of relation
That is, the really big nothing of
The sky, and the really tiny something of---him--But what is size to power or efficiency, these days (?)
For that is the anger, knowing vastness
Like people on earth know
Themselves, but without a real reason
To think it insignificant. Mighty pigheaded
Of the cosmos, it would seem
To us, to think
Itself anything less than terrifically meaningful.
But meaning is---sensation---and in death,
One is as meaningless as one who has played
A joke on himself in life, to throw the card,
To marry swine and buckle phantoms, riotous ones,
Who---destruct, because they buckle, because they are happy,
Because they are tender, but too tender enough
To refuse the word for them. My own 'lights out' moments come
When the words fail even the slightest atom of doubt
At prevailing with logic that is as sound in the mind of God's
As to be infinitely concurrently occurring all the threads
Then no longer---breached---with a need for the word too much
To what is much---just itching
To scratch a name on it!---to use the gentler one and not refuse
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To do so and spend perhaps
A moment in the mindful blackness
Of a pony-boy.
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To find out. Forgive these
Unanswered questions, chill and
Rotting at the edge of
The core of yourself. This very esoteric
Biting, renegade search, in spite
Of everything one
Of them tells
In me, complete with another me,
To disarm that fact of life
Leaves me uh ruled
By which phantom?, who knows
But, always present, waiting
To figure me out of hell
In galloping chords
Of what meanings music
Gallops to my action less verbs
". . . . . ."
The hands on the guitar in the dark I see pluck rhythms
Lit between my sight of the incoming train here
With sightless image,
And drummed on strings as I passed
My eyes from there to there, watching
The subway cars pass, deep in reflection after five
On nothing in particular, maybe,
Hurtful thoughts. They are all I have anymore;
They do not travel lightly on fingers on the strings here,
However. They level myriad chords out of tune
To places, fazed ones, less able to be relished: truncated,
Lost in a disgust for the mundane, the mundane that the true
Me finds most peaceful in itself, waiting for the trains.
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And yet my mind waits for something, some typified
Thing, here, in this plucking of the fingers that I view
In my minds eye, crossing between the temples
Like some absurd tennis match, back and forth. The
Hurtful thoughts impel bland reality to places
Much in consternation seeking for their source,
For where is it:
Well, for one, let me tell you,
Let me inspire in this a common gift,
And relatively dwell in placeless hovels
Through the passing windows of the train. I am only voodoo,
I drag my days by by the hand across
The strings that sting. Leave me to my sightlessness,
An only respite, and important if only for
The vulgarity my realness is in, to it, the trance
My soulish fingers crack in strings across the glass,
No vulgar, crass mistake, no out of tune,
Perhaps, out of turn, not quite appropriate, perhaps,
A thing, a res for my deceits and flaws
To test themselves:
The hand plays it,
The hand, it plays a ditty for perception,
The fingers on the hand against the strings,
I see the image flicker with
Each passing car as the 3 uptown
Slows. The hovels in head, in head
That tell me of all my things
In heart, in heart, and of this tired
Mind I say, I say:
The commonness heres uncommon, everyday
I see these strands of image, everyday
I see me blindly through these strands, I seek
And find, and collect for myself nothing of it,
And deep in hovels in my mind I shove it.
And deep the hand goes in to draw them out
With music.
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.
Stronghold, face of other to bespeak, not break;
And yet to stake as well this western cloud,
A measure stays, not to resign the flower
To in its slack observance tone a bent-To thee in these meant phrases, drifting as it passes,
Windmills on the main of it, while down,
While down the elemental grain, in swiftness, wind
And breath commingle breathlessly on-To stole my shrunken heart with ease of hours
And motion, and words: an allowance of the token
I see, blows out this drummed cacophony. O,
To hope and rage within thy bosom hope.
Stronghold, who-Proceeds thee not, if not
Your fortitude your own? To wind you out
His due for bread, it is my predilection. But
From thee proceeds the hour
To quench the windiness thy dismal heart
Runs forth on on what beckoned,
Striated sheaves
Of gulf, imaged places of departing, and cacophonous.
Where pains it? Tell it not me, for not wells
It there but you, and to thyself
Knows knowing's cue the more, the stronghold thus,
The kingly beleaguer. Seraph-wind for gusty dust,
Caught in mine own hand.
To thyself know: gusts in an as
Few a pattern, drain nothing much these days
Of where the passion rattling out in missives, goes
These days: the rote of wizened life
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In lungs these days, instead, do drench
As much the flower drafting on my thrill; no stronghold,
Much as thee, who gains
Its witchcraft on the windmill, turning, stain
Of language and beguiled humanness, to brain
The hassle, make benignity of it
To laurel this his boy, this weltering heart
Of youth to sturdiness in the creaking, waves
Of interest, left to wing open on the eaves
A reliquary for this flower's kiss
Across the floor of thee and thy blessed shape
Of patient heaving, breaths old as time? Hath you
Not your own magnificence,
Poem, poem for the man; perhaps,
About a bit of him that hath his empathy
Asleep in dreams of wild response? You dog, to make
Atremble what's conceit, yet never that; he hath
His step a likewise pause as yours,
You ghost-i-the-bowels, you house of dignity
In fear, and fear what of this poem
No father knows, nor sins of him dependent
On directions of a wind that will not heed-But to flowers, beauty of them, shrinking
The despotism of what lord in what wind
To fit through cracks in this proud structure, and
Only to move weeds, just one, this flower
Of a weed, torn to there, from thence
To suit the father: lofty bourn in wailing: shafts-The western bluster knows, to make his grasp
All and never vain, but sidling, humble, falls each
Kelson of the mill in a slowness place-To hymn the courage towards a wiser space
No youth could know, though I
Experience the pause, and know the step.
Hath him (I speak of thee)
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His own good planks to breathe, and well, sustained
On the magic?: a single hold of zephyr, strongly
To depart, as mine futurity, mine leper-state,
Folds in departing for youthful proudness to conceive
Of one in separate quarters, different flowers.
....
Knowing is yet to itself no shrift
For these my eyes, these clowns, to muster, no;
Beat, thump thy chest to mind, and leave to rounds of silence
While I drink this water from the bowl.
Nor language of dissection but the howl,,,
But the appreciation of an imminent
Ecstasy, a loping seraph-wind
To turn thy ruddy cogs and maketh bread
From where flowers water, grave, gaunt
Myth of knowing, rather would I know
Nothing, ever, never see how much
And when it goes to wayside, never worry
Nor relate, but in my sequels of a lovely
Hermitage, pleasantly disintegrate,
And die as happy chaff, and brave in that.
Of a manic grace is this, to fit the looming
Prescience, this imparted smile. And yard by yard
The hoarse croon deafens forth. No wind as yet, nor ever
Could, as anyone, concede windmills a place
From which to rudder thy imagining round
Fully, and forth of grain to flour, flour
To bread? No thing downs here the calyx,
As well, myself the flower,
But that calumny, stronghold
Of the wiser dead, in each of us
The mind of wind a pleasance
For our ignorance
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To as suasion penetrate and melt into the scene
Of one, lone flower there, dragged across the deck
Of a weeping mill, the purity, the life, the place
Of thy wealth, and cherishing the boy.
.
This is not for to figure out, train for. Theres
Much in whats to come of the battle to erect a side,
Just one: polarities make the mixture askew, draw
It all together and nearly, being in cahoots, wrest
My hands from your shoulders: my eyes, can you
See the desperation in them: as I speak contritely
To you: desperately: I have words that in havoc reek
Too much a stinking fug for me blowhard: dont
Cough as I talk: let limbo be, this one struggling in the
Middle of my performance to erect a solo: gibbering,
Dismal thoughts, damn ye, and damn the men in
White and black, who get off coughing all the while
The train, w/o knowing I ever spoke of them or to
Them. What designs should we, the precipitous,
The navel of souls, start from: what side, that is,
Should we stand on its hinds for to boggle the
Architects: watching dashing filament spew out of
Their brains like as if gunshot made to glitch out
Wariness-sparks speaking diggings into the air:
However: itll be refuted, you know this: the side
Will, being the first: I say this, my hands deeply
Gripping your shoulders: my eyes nearly black,
And chary with the burn of tears in reality a burn
Of the inevitable refutation, a sadness: thats
My logic for you, and for you, all of it is for you,
This damn head but the lords fugly earpiece:
I cant, I cant make dullard the beautiful hand,
Strung with popping vein: I will, would will against
Comfort for all eternity, for the sake of not enlightening
Anything, least of all the novel navel-soul, implicit
Con, drumming its spark like a baseballs welter
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attacking the background behind
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And drips too truly. And I look
Alone: and alone he is to phrase this for the nourishing his
Debt to some presentiment. And then Ill leave. It was awhile
Ago it happened. Washed from your throne draped gloomily
In the hooligan-traipsers of a thought, one, like as the plumage
Off a launching bird aways: like as, they had the color to
Escalate morbidities and purely linger, drape, give a mood,
Hovered on top a giant ease of fog. You hosed off it had
Been sitting there, the hollows in the fog where you were
Covering a quadrant of land below you, forever and ever,
As if itself forbidden to claim sight of, only sustain the throne.
Nonetheless you upon hitting the muddy floor decide to
Remain there. Without your glasses. The ground turns
To an ill terrain of knots and stone, once you get to
Walking through the thickness, moisture, and what gives
Is only the ground beneath you. Shoes saturated in
Mud, but something not: a substance like a glue,
A disturbing floor just of mud, no stick, leaf, stone
.
So write the hope down. Let the myth coincide
With reality, like a chum: I know how to do it. Im
Crying, you see, because the World is so immense,
And I love being a thing in it. In the universe, or
Whatever. The vault of life we are stuck in, what is
It, really: examine it no more: were all stuck, but
I always liked celebrating that: then, a crooked
Half-smile through the tears, a bit more of that
Myth we subjugate to sense, or whats linear,
Or beautiful: I turn my head slightly to the
Left, again teary-eyed: put my cigarette in a mug
And keep writing: whats the recitation: knock,
Knock: heres to moving on: YEAH: Ill be at the
Edge of a cliff, hanging my hat on the chilly wind,
Wishing it didnt have to be this way, the vault
And whatnot: well, what of it: so were stuck in
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This place, theres still a contradictory excuse
To love being a thing: things are just great, a length
OF them just more great stuff: length, width, see
The size of your abrupt pecker, the improper metaphor,
Here, as no metaphor: for us, that is, to beg
To unzip with rage and suck down: glob, glob: bog
Down the miserere, instead, and find, we write since
Its a thing like us. A thing without filler, ever: no
Matter what the metaphor is, man: it's all irrelevant, I
The remaining concrete: but wheres the cliff: I dont know,
Man: just tangle yourself in the oddities, myths, for
Now, making them: we each can, just a matter of doing
The phenomenology justice, by being thorough:
No sizable pecker beats a sizable poem: my words
Sex delineates a spongy, wafty carnalism from
Whats mere sways of content, now: the thing is,
Say the saying, and for awhile I thought that was
Enough, and you find that to be more than saying what
You said: whats wrong, my lips ask me, pursing a
Bit: but Im not crying nomores, just lifted into the chill
Like my hat, into the waft, as if hangers were everywhere,
Flaming things to wreathe around an uber-flame: the down,
Below, picks up: as it always does: into senselessness:
But then I pick my tune that way anyhow and
If you dont like it, you can smash me in the face: but
Everyone likes tuneful nothings, some weirdos just want
Bigness-o-schlong to represent big poetry, that the small
Member, shriveled and with crazy popping veins can't be
If the poem's huge, that is: and that criticisms wager, a thing
Of dread for you who thinketh it, a member of the cult, a plan
The poem has, too, along with whatever rote the writer follows:
Those who have their fannies bunched into their pants with
Slights, so much that the nuts loop between they legs: Im hanging
On, for now, absurdly observing things at all: the fault of
The seas in its vault, its big waywardness we want to replicate
But we cant, at least, with cant: uh oh: another
Saying of says: dont miss that, its the representation
OF cant anyway and has proved itself neatly, the
Wordplay being the binge on obviousness but the
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Representation perhaps more subtle: so why do you
Continue explicating: I need to turn my music back
On: hold on: Im still writing, about the now, my
Tears dry, my life as large as my dick, my dick a wonder
Made of spongy refuse, a sticky pillow: so: what to
Say of the drafty hat: its the styles the celebration,
Even if youre all mopey nshit: dont bother to make
Brothers of the missive-myth, its all a crisis, imitating
The crisis of a sea that I look out upon, from the window
In my mind: I hold it up to the sky: at the cliff: meet me there:
Irreverent, ah!, the half-smiles there again, suppose its
Because the musics back on, initiating transcendence:
I always write on my bed, makes my knees a bit cramped:
I cramp my hat: my hat is made of water: my hat I give
To the splashing wind: the wind smashes against my
Faceless face: I guess I have a different idea of whats
Depressing, but being faceless is fun: melancholia is
Frigging awesome, and tears of sadness the most liberating
Of water-wasting: Im happy when Im sad, sad when
Im happy, cuz I think its a fakery: happiness, that is:
But what of that: the hat:
IS it relative to being punchy in the face to hang my hat
Over the ledge and watch it drop down into a huge thoughtsea? Well, maybe. But Ill rile the ambiguous detonation
OF sense-bombs with saying-saying, either way: everybodys
Linear, linear and tragic, the tragedy that we dont really
Exist but try to: thats wonderful: beautiful: maybe Im too
Stuck in lament, but lament as lament is a cliche, as a
Liberating experience, just fucking fantastic! Seriously, its
Too much to just expose your nonsense, make nonsense
Nonsense: I hide it in saying stuff about what Im saying that
Wraps up my little GOD in a bow: Dont know: cant,
Without cant: I babble, make a babble-tower, break it down,
Shrug amongst the carnage. Can, Id prefer can, just like,
Can do! Sos to make the chum of myth mouth out chugging
Like a train of inconceivable thought-monster-teasings
Cute, like a damned relinquishing to matrimony, honeys
Left dashing the cans of their just married and all of it
Representing a marriage of sense: so: the music,
Lyricism, is the funny-stuff, the celebratory digits tell me:
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And flesh as I: and as all I leave as parcel, is not me
Wholly: yet my reason
Is to search and find it. See here the viciousness. A fiery morsel for ransom, maybe
somewhere, somewhere mysterious: or bloodied metaphysic, thought circling cheap hands,
The most consternatedemblemhere. I am an organ somewhere
To be used once cast fromcrevice, dripping, necessitous cave
Of a vague, tribal desire for to gun the light anyways
Amongst myself, this huddled verbiage round the bonfire in
Some dirty bin that warms the skin of this in the manic fluting
Of man like a hope thats a birth. A squawk of squall from creature,
Unseen, smug omens in the distance, by the clouds. A
Cornering of the oceanic lens, as disembodied light triply
Through a prism.I beg, not diffident but actually
In pride big as when it
Declines to able view, not far perceived
But powerfully. Permanent horizons charity
Gives these waters unction like the skys own flatness
That, by weave and weave, melds both and both.
And thought is all it is. Who is that gazing man,
Brittle teeth, eyes upon the shores Paumaunok,
". . . . . ."
Very like me, is very like me
How someone else might breathe, and go about
The day, yet I am for nothing that I would pursue
But instead balk it out of any possible escape into,
Into sensible catharsis, predictability: nip my spine, great
Linear feeling, ad nauseam make me like eyes peering
Into fattened souls that are not mine: have that
Disrupt over the melody like ungainly surrealness:
Your own, fine tune for the fat letters you sent long ago,
Embarrassing, now that you let stink the fodder-godhead
Of them: all you wanted was liquidated: you were left with
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Nothing, then, to want, unless it be impossible like particular,
Casual dreams had lying prone next to a nightstand: well:
And let him win the wainscotting and fair portrait behind his
Godly desk. Ferrari, shingles or bad coughs took care of
Quickly by a good, pertinent doctur: spunk of riches,
Go out fast like that very thing that stars your farthest
Relativity in the film, your most dug-in
Doubts, make it like a hoodlum after he done
Tagging a storefront
And devalue the chase Id like a wolf come
Sniffing upon and snarling, just a mechanism to lick my chops
At, and do nothing about actually tasting. Let the metaphor ring,
Let reason ring. OR be a friend. OR let reason be your friend,
Whatever helps. Just
Do yourself a favor and dismiss the voodoo already:
Crampd styles spoonfed you like you were a product:
Fearsome but clad in a malignantly normal locality:
With the very like you notions you think of about brainwashing
Ones hipster strangeness to the point you finally find cheerios
Delicious: that wont have happened without hearkening back
To some random memory I am now going to remember in words:
My cat got sick and hid under a set of drawers. I took him to the
Vet and they put him in a glass oxygen tank but he died because
He had fluid in his lungs. He was probably terrified: I wish we
Had just left him under the set of drawers, mewing in pain:
Scratched, red eyes that speak in stacks of cards, let
The no-joke diaphanous verse-badness of new content
Fanged in, like one would phone in but with their teeth,
Be a sinking feeling: worry about it, what it stands for
Is not what it means: I saw horror: it was a commercial:
Ill be the eyes all red and ghastly,
You be the burning you see in them, apart and so then
Freed, you suppose, from your own magic convulsive
Repeated coincidences emptied conspiringly among
The hoop of hunched men about themselves, yes, all
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About themselves, you say, yet as the say says on
You belt of pained creations birdlike, achieving nothing
That would fuse you with the draconian understanding
That wants you to fuse, speaking scary from behind
You and saying things that dont have light in them: well:
You go and go against the grain: see, that will get you
Seeing, but dont take my word for it, take the consuming
Loneliness like a bitter pill and call for mama but you wont
Get mostly anything out of it, maybe a few chickenshit
Laughters hung draped like christmasstockings everywhere,
Besides that, the divides were longer to be if left divides,
Staid assurances -are- as hate & love, a diva that is yourself
And what hangs around you, me, as I walk to the beat of
Clicking pictures from photographers, everlasting the thing
That is a thing and wants to be back in the fingers
Of your life, that wring themselves, usurp equivocal
Turning clocks, for the sake a delicate maybe get you
Spun: maybe: but I already failed at that sideless side.
I came upon myself and was deceived. A temper fell increasingly
From his flesh as an aroma of resent, or some compounded creep
Pheromones kept held in, till, following to my spot before the image,
I was placed by rage before him, and loosed at the cathartic height
Of my eyes, the smell too on myself as I saw entire universes walking;
As I was shocked by TIN-CAN forgery into believing, cradling hands
With what I thought I was. But saw not the man of, not as, me.
Though arrhythmia bore into me like strikes upon the tones
In gentle, savage understanding parting from incurious tin drums
Glancing hits. I heard a heart the tongue ran vibrant up
To query with the throat. And there went quiet muffling
Seen exquisite, finely molting feathers stuffing it with
Gag and stifle. The feathers gave up to resist, mediate it all blank.
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Forgive the other before he has come, to
Modern chance. I am not feasting, I am bare-boned,
Am like a questionmark attired in throne
Flat-breasted called a page, and lifted thus
To an ignorance unfounded so not there
Have not these limits the flavor of not being self imposed
But reactive to some GOD the likes of which descends itself
But barely levitating what marred purpose might have known
Itself to life but did not only fail to retrieve the time and place
But space itself the grand holy space that changes wisdom
From merest epiphany to the likes of branches dreams
Might as well shudder to aspire to the buds of yet they are
And spell a conniving name upon the skin of our desires
Let me say the agony a tripping over roots would take me
To and I will follow that to some new entrance I had made
Of twigs and bigger lumber for ideas to set afire and desist
At the main point of knowing this seems not something
I want to do but something imposed upon me tell me not
That coupled with clarity a consuming of that clarity in mud
As we pursue new martyrs for epistemology cannot claim
And dies off into the dreams of like melting down or giving
Up the SOUL experience portends somewhere out of dark
To phrases numerous enough to need no stop to keep on
Or do I by my darkest purpose claim the fullest metaphor
To run atop these big hills reason betters into nave castles
The drat of which is of course that there is no of course
To this but only redemption in solid limits someway else
Bourn up into the silly air space makes descry breathe
By breathe as being all there is to say so let me channel
Branches inadequate let me wonder wrong about this all
And trance a needle into some meant shape that weaves
A loud load keeping logic up in the air of all experience
That does not come but hilly sides do and yes we can too
Upon that scary clarity built up to pull truth by the hinds
As if applying the jaws of life to you in the upturned car
As if figuration were not solid yes it is we do not lie
To ourselves but it is GOD lies to us all for us lest
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We perish from the truth
Mundane moments of walking places, smoking or non.
Who cares. Im just right enough to write this wrongly,
Madcap promises hating on me some: but who cares:
This is not going anywhere, just like the headache I
Have because I havent had enough nicotine today.
But who cares. Im more maestro of the negative and
Always will be. Now to rend some eureka through my
Chest and unleash my misery like a traitor to the
Weaklings, upon the weaklings. You like lapping it up.
You dog. This is an elegy to the dream I had last night
About refusing my way from the gape of ambulance
Doors, asking where were my BOOKs, my PHONE,
And all that stuff we normally consume to get by. Bye bye.
Goodbye, Everybody! This guys terrible farewell. This,
This man pounds his own head with a hammer happily
Shouting things only he can hear, meanwhile a death
In the family means nothing to a random plastic
Bag caught in the branches of a tree in winter,
The whole world is bemoand frequently by stage 5
Hipsters, and helplessly necessary remains music
To the will to go on of all people: the martyr spoke
Healing, and despite all of this the kid has him kneed:
His cuttingedge spiritual disposition: in the flimsy nuts,
And all of time referenced as not much of an illness,
Unless it could be that of thinking you are the best.
Well, then, heres a hankerd truth come yr way: u is:
So forget abt everybody elses quandaries: mix it up:
Give help to people who need a hell in their life: u
Will always mix it up: dont count me in though: I just
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Am here to be a voice that wants you to count in this
World: when things mean errors, will nonexistence
Be the only perfection: will my silence mean more
Than every word written: do I want to carpetbomb
The shit out of myself with these fucking poems:
The answer is yes: a whole body of work but a dead
One, sitting lashed by rays of sunlight in the smirking,
Murky dawn, up against a big tree: Im free: Im dead:
Nope: but I have no idea what is ahead: nor if I am
Ever able to get anything across to anyone: the man
Eventually dies of contusions from the hammer, no
Wonder he thought he could be heard: he was hurt:
He only thought he could hear the hurt of things,
Which is a no no: the death in the family was his:
They dressed him up nice for it because you are
Supposed to do that: the fucking plastic bag was
And is as much dead, not a single iota of life there,
It being martyrd for the sake in vain the other seer
Dont but live the better and more lifelike: the man
Just wanted to be a plastic bag when he grew up
Into the death-thing: it is an illness beyond hipster
Trash to have broke to the world, then, in that wide
Spreading of better life for the people, each a poem:
This music in particular says go on: yr the best: so,
Theres that: the time it takes for a new usurper to go
And make art is all refereed and sorted and delineated,
Patched together into predictable quadrants or niches
All fuzzy with demanding the zipped columns that take
Us places, as in seem to, but really do not: a kick in the nuts:
I dont care if you care about the sky, I only do my job
And lift more, extra, clouds up like weighty things,
While forlorn remain the rest of the blue, stuck frozenly,
Harnessed in some serene finish too capital
And embeddedly correct to be anything but
Garbage hanging around. Nifty secrets are shared
Meanwhile between the clouds, who know better, better
Than to spread themselves thin over the
Local colloquially-respecting silent chatter
Of borders, powerful ones unto the unwed stains of blue
Like some subservient shuttling rotter,
With blanched cheek, helming still, despite
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To be proper spoils, bound we are to that place a dream
Too fictive to be found, yet it is there, like a racket of
Findings tiring out the drive until the hand-a-helm remits
To expectations of beauty. However beauty is, I know
It is not wiling out in the low streets of stain, because
This understanding breaks our understanding further
Than willing consciousness, a holy, liminal beast: let us
Drive on, take this all apart, free the mane of cosmos
Lit up in the agate of itself like true spectacles of
Great void: feel and you shall come: you are the atom
Of the flower, in the flower, a brawny studdedness
Relates us back to the beginning of whenever we were
Fraught by the mysteries expanding more than sound
And space, and time, like an immoral drama of the
Blessedly absurd: let us take apart where we have come
From, extract the colors voicing through the nearby night:
Ditch the residue of res, the dream, the daring spite we
Have regarding no that split our minds into actions
Reverberated answering, throughout the echoes, but
Not the echoes themselves, an audience of noises
Colliding briefly then: may crash again: here, I am so
Apologetic, I say sorry to the sense I am trying to make:
It drums deep like pianokeys on the low sonic nature
Triumphing like glints, perhaps, of what is the whole
Picture. We drift like shed leaves long ago across the
Snow, to no place but where is beauty, and the design
Realized, we go back to bed, before the extraneous
Things get important, which happens while we are
Away, gathering dust on our bluesy hemispheres.
Our ways of eyes are glares inscrutable the feeling.
But we masquerade and set down the cages for the
Day, to hold the falling day: it is snow outside, but
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Claims the feet that track upon it wildest dreams
Could not have decided, if accomplished, outside
Of manifold blur and trope and exegesis, explaining,
Rocking like a chair in the back, or emulating sheer
Explosiveness till you yourself exploded just to survive
The merchandise of beautys limy tail, its very end
A societys end, and truth the final say a thing untold
But told like showing a secret instead of telling one.
...............
"Don't tell everybody about your dreams / They're too amazing / It'll melt their minds" - - The
National, Tall Saint
"Confess, confess, you dog!" - - George Gordon, Lord Byron
The devil to your vanity! I will live twice as much now so you can have
A fat, familiar slice to relish, or to predict about catastrophe okay? But
Really, this is an attempt to mollify you, with lies: you have no sense
Of control. You accrue a blasted planet of myself, like a shrine in the
Closet of an obsessive, made with stray hair and nail clippings, over
The years trying to usurp the rest from me. Your duty is to have all of
It be you and of you and for you to amend and polish and straighten
Out, to give to me: well thanks. Fetishize the crap out of what you do
Not have in the meanwhile to distract yourself: or see otherness as
As precious a thing: Accruing Sphere: let you rain down your sorting
Out process as measly, measly gifts appointed me to say Thank You
For. Perhaps I am blind but there is only the Grand Nothing to prize.
Plucky, frenetic, crazy with turnaround these are days as eventually
Jam us together. This
Is like happy mistakes wreathed against art making the artful or what
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Come of milking a happenstance properly without knowing, us a natal
Self given wider berth from the worry of catastrophic vibrations living
Squanders: you think into caves: the prophecy of soap wants to meet
To bump uglies with you to destroy me to an erratic swan song, along
With me lose all that freedom is at present: find this in the woods: the
Sadistic yelps of wolfing wolves at their fool had at the expense of dirt
Roughen up edgy soap: as a reader of myself you cling to the qualities
Of soap, as the wages for my edgy incomprehensibility you thoroughly
Stultify as flat as ironed clothes: as the thing wolves eat, that's a good
Example. Know the drill. As I once did maintain prophecy: it was like
A raze down of what innocent pieces of thought on The Modern Logic
To a fantastic choir of dismissive chortling dismantling blocks built for
It, ironically. And at that I quit spidering intentions into elements, leave
...........
Them fierce manipulations of bolus. This is some command to clear up
Things: just concentrate the manicured and farrowed absorptions you
Have given me in speaking to me in code, for the love of GOD; those
Daily Living Exercises your you reviled and scrunched into a few reified
Complaints just camouflages the necessity of them: no brainwash, no
Altering blood or stanching of passions to nil scopes of anger. Not
Merely, no, do you cleverly avoid cleverness to play the idiot. That
Is so as to if you did not know if you had halted soapy demons or not,
Neither make nothing sensible appear volitional. Go crazy somewhere
In the superstore if you must: you pretend to browse for clothing or for
Groceries when what is growling for you to acknowledge is
The Very Suds of yourself and your accursed individuality. Or
Things you do not have; do they make you 'hanker' too? As I
Might glint a want, so do you undress, the subject out to sea, calling
For the rapid demonizing of a previous place at this point the narrator
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Has surely forgot. Maybe 'I' can marshal up from the reddish quell of
Nil some ghosts exactly like the place where I am calling from, lamed
By naming, by the naming of things to come by those who freshen up
With soap; like I name, you think, and name all day, just to have your
Mouth washed out with soap. However they punish gathering
Up clues to a fortiori drive a point half-home, you think, you
Should appear like them, famous shadows crying out crazily
Of less consecrated people, regaling the sumptuous soap
And not reviling. Minor bruising along the jawline after the
Bombs of war go out upon the land unexplained. They soak
Up under the eye. Where did they hurt you. Not a question.
Where is where. Or someone uncharted by the humanity
Of flaws, the first perfect person who might not need to be
Clean or cleaned. My absolute canyon growing by the eon
You say to yourself, To fit in more the feuding, existential
Roundelay of fair tassles blowing in the wind all circling is
Made entirely of ruins, chipped castles, deals we thought
We made delayed, and human interaction, as much as
Cleaning yourself would need a clean bar of a very soap
Of self. I am that missive unto your barbaric cleanliness
As breaks the tar in crumbles from my feet, say the narrator
In talkbacking verbal handling and so worn from elemental
Battles, bombs, and televised eruptions of glassy personality.
An escalating thing, like entertainment is: but its all a wash
In that it exercises by the rims of flesh so flesh might look
And slyly respect you and your utterly mental soap, as
Water retches leakily from a suffering nozzle. The floor
Is a swamp. It is a real swamp. You hug tight your width
With a towel that barely fits, and slip on the floor and
Almost break your neck. The soap discharges to marble
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Bit. You know, past the beginning of this poem. The road is
Not hurled out onto the scene like some rafter fallen onto the
Head of Generic Unfortunate Human. He dies. And is never
Until I mention him, like now, I do, again: and then I think: I,
Well shit, theres A, theres B: theres a difference I tell you b/w
Perfection w/r/t moments and being where you always need
To be. Hundreds of miles away a man is struck by lightning,
Throws his hands up at the blessing. Hanging out are throng
On throng of desperate feelings unsaid but said as a result, way
Down the street to here, where they get heard and hurt being
Said, too briefly to be anything but some halfcreated trepidation.
A dreamself is schooled at home, writing his essay on a house
The entirety of which can be seen. The blocking of a scene. Was
Good. It was all so surreal on the beach that night I thought I was
Sinking. Into the wires reality bruised into being. Visible little
Holinesses, scalping slow and rotten all material into these daft
Cartwheels of reality that break down ceremony, any, to
What? Irrelevance? Here, this: for the sake Ill say it for a stand:
Take a stand: stand up and have there be a reality to that: you
Know: I have no solution: just gabber. A subject-satellite, listed
As atom-rite, is like the physical manifesting of mentalpain: listed
By noter of notations: wish, could throw out clairvoyance: my own
Grandmother saved my life from beyond the grave and beyond,
Thus, time: she knew what would happen to me, simultaneously
Stopped the situation from being my very last one: scariness: oh,
Shit. Lie in bed tho: sweat through sheets you find impressively,
Wowie, are made of feathery time-locks: burpd smoke of minutes
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That wiggle forth into reckoning. Dont recognize delirium like this,
I mean: they dont uh make delirium like this anymore: is it even
A truth: be the second more you throes of self layer into sweet
Heavens hellish part, you know, the one made of moiling silence,
Retributive vagary, something unexplained but then explained.
Design my fate like the question I didnt answer, find my trashy
Self, wire some money to the martyr of the world the world does
Have too many of, besides you know the ones not actually that
But softish crybaby souls on the re-up familiar, bodily heats buzzed
Fellows argue the actual pain of over, maybe too cold, too called:
Almighty with fingerpointing: bolting as the reason for this poem,
Ran across the strand of a palm of a palmtree Id want to see,
Rather than this redness-glaze, amazing though it is: I need a
Bit of warmth in my life. Dry off on the offals towel, for now. It
Needs no other thank-you but from GOD: a cause of nerves goes
Happily scampering up the noted body of me. Anxietys chord, ah;
That hellish, invented wheels floor down the invented road of to You.
". . . . . ."
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of all things mean, the all they mean sometimes,
bowing at eternity if a place at all, a science,
a meandering reticulum absconded unto, degree
by degree, the nice fathoms of night, is a thing, as
grows a heart from the heartless pastures, as
grows flowers from the layering
snow of that evening land, a place that is seen with
an obtuse shining eye from that corner of nature, and then
a spine is suddenly native, oh, there is a bridge, a normalized foray:
it squelching out the distances of possibility. The it it is foretells in
ripening snow
and, decreasing ether-mind to its model
thought, a spectrum bearably misty, yet still, in the heightened hodgepodge
of feelings, equally as corruptible as repels from corruption be lies of
his good majesty, defensive and dawdling around on his ambiguous throne, made up
in the present tense, though, hearing out these ornery fixations on to-come,
removes through its crashing weaponry of blind predictions anyway
the things of prior tenses, equally blinding realities of all and dropping them
somewhere else: these empty fits make for being there and
lilacs breathe, despite the freezing weather, empty fits the jabbering,
intoning criticism of bored self a recognizing of the throne itself.
our folly sits by judgmental virgins
having the time of their lives in a hammy harem
in the meanwhile, waiting for their heaven
to hike over beyond the little stream,
to stitch their minds together to endure
the frightening meanings dealt a soul a furor-fhrer, whom
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grips to the desk desperately just to deck out from primitive assumption
a new intelligence of what is said. All the birds scream fables now.
Atop description of it sit men who have their great ideas,
They scan beyond the usual quells of finality to do it, fit
Their own ire into restless boxes, look away towards what
Brought them there, but from another routine, strip statues,
Quitting the lamely normal, to find an idea-as-direct-being sans
Hooded carrier, figleaf over the junk; something rather drenched
In its own small white particles of thrust or swerving in and out
Of error so as to work through it, feigned
Coronation for a knowledge, a party by yokels for eternity, just
A sheet, nor special signatures interpreting magic for them
Could smuttter out of detail, nor rake up into rank definition.
Lying down, coming to a stop, in avoidance of the artificial
Yoke that is mis-breathing, dispelling what at first has
No proof it is not there, like grief that celebrates a lingual
Freedom from commitments to attend the falling of a reed;
Beyond a saying that is not seeing it first, among the limy
Reeds hanging, each reed a man, to themself a flower for
Arty sticks to be jealous of, stuck up higher though sticks
Are in regards those brittle virtues life makes bones out of;
Yearning language be around them, fit around their logic
Like an inverted print telling itself on some black canvas,
Sand thrown and stuck to invisible glue, people write about
Their spot despite being around it, persisting multi-venues
Of possibility throve while in the room waiting for the death
That will prove what spat out to be the accurate collection
For a possibility: for their act of placating themselves, with
A meager fist of dust, abruptly-quoted figments, shadows,
Down to their obtuse hypocrisies, to be received as gallant;
To be themselves in their mystical heroism, a solid play-act
Sold. My dismay and better versions of it are in the waiting room,
Look, here they are, a requiem for loss I needed for to gain some
Pretty impetus to forge hammering out forgotten work here, airs of
Drones, bang, it boils my head but soon fits itself to the main point
Of 'it and all that is to grieve for a gain, because I make it furious,
Stiffen it into ghostly concrete, see parking lots where turning keys juice
Up the car: to commit one imprisoned hope to the page is to lose another
To rage, just as to gain the spark I spake again I must involve these men
Of multi-kinds of reason, for a nervous gain I lost, got nervously by them
Again to top the wicked thievery be loosened just this once into
The Real World, a bitter spirt of it is my contrition. That one can
By the doing see, as pull a magic bartering out of some new hat
Is one thing, and not impart a reason for the sight, but I do know
Not not to apprehend enough to satisfy myself by embankments
The imagination sidles along, pure mud is not enough, is at least,
For bodies, scorning habitat and breath for hunching hell, a thing
Thronging for sense, atop the definition I
Can say. One gets happy for the loss,
OR that grief, and pain, is happiness
Across the lucent board of oneself,
Exiling to embankments of meaning
That only are and were descriptively,
Because the words are there before
The reader, cleft of cause, at the door
Of fancy, grief for gain is beautiful,
I grieve not for a loss but hate the gain,
That I have improved; I hate the stink
Of it, the stink of embroidery softening
In gaudy talons, verbose wires of gain
In falbalas, to mock a happy life with
Ignorance of otherness, a pall of a
Thing that makes sense just because
I make it so with words that grieve
No loss, not a loss, but in summa an
Improvement for forever. Celebrate
The wrongness this means out of the
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Hat pulled rightwise, and tidied up
Succinct. I have many of them. Add
The consistency of belief, then, to
Surety, and flat to round, and find
That all the hells an empire of a hell
For wickedness and cruelty to relate
Their exalted acts, to stun logicians
With magic nonsense, a snide beg
Away from telling me more I might
Intend to say would be atop, as like
Atop a tower dropping, things for
Not their purpose used in spite of
Purpose, as the flaming themes of
Humankind, a kindly, droll profusion
Of sentimental clods and oddballs,
Heretics, and all them sniffing climes
Of clumsy wrongness, an attired finding
Focusing on the word, not definition,
Of the thing found, not the sure position
Where hence it is of use, but opposite,
Like grieving as one would for loss: for
That is it, as definition, but atop that
I think there lies whatever I may call it,
So say I grieve the gain of an ideal,
So say it and then say it so again, to
Find a missing thing of my declaims,
A fervent hoot, a lesson about eternity,
A mock of meaning, a serious mock
To say that something is put to a use
That is not it, that is used despite it not
Being that, for an opposite, foiling chance
To figure out the message saying us for
Ages: an alerted paracosm, a delight
Of fingers wishing grieving more correct,
Wishing language more correct, or
Wishing the devouring mechanism
Remain unharmed by name, and I
Am armed with shame to make a myth
Of silly pride at prideful, barren pith.
One can get beyond the getting of her prior,
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deference reveals as simple sums / of adequate, felt regions things of sound that we have not / begun
to fester out of our mouths / and flee with to the point of silence and the pivotalest regale / of that
which does not return / ah, /
But emanates a new place for spread silence, mine, sulked and sitting so long on its means :
The reason, not number, I do not settle, nor
Abate for whatever reason, these,
Nor do I create like GOD a moundless
Risk of a hill and hill atop
The ground you float on
She lets met tell you I am ready
For action to take steadiness here atop this hill,
Against a muttering ril,l of trees wondering.
And the trees. The ground you float on,
Above the load of disposition atop this hill,
My face looking at the rocks in
My own stony way. Fly into the extravagant
Melee, no, dance of characters
Charming her eyes apart:
I barely see
The love that is happening to
Me, yet its wonder I make child
To my rolling ambitions, stumbling
Into different slipping ideations by
The day, more, more and more, like a hungry mouth
Of the trash compactor lessening black bags into bodies
Like in that movie GOODFELLAS. Know there is
Much more in the setting sun, willya?,
Upon these fleshless rocks a body locks
In, breathing in and out saintly roaming things.
And trees that give me to seize a pestering ant
Upon this my hill,
My sides -do nil- but
Cooperate about eachother, yet not in, as she wants me
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Have. The benign father takes me there to view the
ANIMAL SACRIFICE. I wow at it each time, entrails of
Such eloquent tangles as I would have be mine, yet,
Yet for such a fine transition, body to form, form to
A functioning ambivalence moved without hands, what I
See as telekinesis, originally, this mad, unseen charioting
I cheer up all those slabs of mirrors, raining down
Like atoms, each a perspective, say, youll get there,
Flying past them to the same old rotten luck,
Straight out, fired like from a molten bourn;
I am projected, blindly, forward, racing willful
Stars the length of comets, conscious stars-And away off into ampler dimensions I try
And scare up the spirit to afford, you know,
For when I get there, from where
Well-worn, whatever, meaning life has left
In it stopped to either dig its hooves into the ground and
Pit itself against me or maybe just peaceably wait, never
Knowing I left it way behind, until it realizes-Too late and is eaten by subconscious dusk
A little kids BIGWHEEL would not fly fast enough to
Escape, down halls I spoke too wide to be adhered to
By plastic wheels, matter in general: however welcome
At first, these physical objects, stitchings
Of some omnipresent trick?, or at the-Least reality, outside of time, is somewhat in
That mute indifferent sob of space I created;
Let me hike like an idiot through it till infinity
Becomes as long as this uphill wilderness is,
Persists an empty echo, multiplied. A second
Step to tread ahead, and then, the moody doom
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Wonders beating rays upon the daze of
Sultry mazes: flowering out confusion and
Then borne unto a World of flimsy air, and
Barely there enough to take a breath, clan
Of devious marauding slighters, blighters,
All I want to do is sneer at their delighted
Stealing acts, they have another chance
To make me soil my pants, I dont, I just
Haunt the open ether like a marionette and
Seize her by the ear, you moron-drone, oh
Flimsy air, bless us back to Christmas will
Ya do, and make us see the extra you, you.
[5] do you have the powerful feeling for sale
beneath the ragged wretchedness
your coattails wigging out against the depth
pulled out the depth of ages and for ages
you are the living carnage of fakery
you watch the unreal die in place the real
pull the poignant out of your pocket
hidden you in your alleyway
I travel down the block of blood
to get to you you worst sort of person
Im waiting not long before you lope out
of the darkness with the dank power
a feeling I have wanted and needed forever
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GET THROUGH TO ME OK
I.
The day was scattered, sanguine everywhere, perfecting
Everything in ivory on the beach, back then, and we,
Harassed by sky-glut gulls, had, as I saw,
That lit up noon between us, a bright one
To feed the drawn netherworlds in us we
Could canvas for awhile, if we wanted,
Awhile the eye of the lighthouse winking off
A sentiment. Though, not red-sanguine, like
A mewling sun not pacified; though not a runaway plume
Of that same sun, as driven blood that dives between
Your brain might stoke passions into parable, estrange
Your tidal look at me and understanding it.
Just try to sight some scruple fighting in the mirror,
Find realness a passion, then know valence;
Subdue those alienating, 'merely chemical' tones
As similarly, by dint of sight and memory I clarify
My own explaining, here, in an unanchored
Head. No, nobody,
Even I, is enough to set like the sun, much more
Would I, the audience to your smile, demur from
Seeing that light light the globe as I do not deserve,
I am askew; my plaintive vision is a balmy trail;
Like knifing Aztecs to that spheric God, would not
Blood more than the mind
With sacrificial waste. That day. We spoke,
Just to invent us further out of blood, as something
From paper to ontology: the strife on strife of living
Souls unmuzzles and gives breathing depth to you:
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But no
Threshold more could a
Bitching vulgar thing
Conquer, make beyond itself
For praise where none is due
Than where you did.
The vile, moral cleanup for reality's
Bent, as being harm for beings,
You do not undo
The way you do with heartpangs,
Lively though wrung counsel from within
Playing its speechless part. You
Think true seeings are but dirty truths
By the trillion to eschew away and fail to,
Nihilistic angers shuffing again like
An oracle in rags, clot of pain
In sensory admonishment, ton
Of bricks,
Whatever the stake you drum the calves
With telling switches of burnt bark no more,
The opportunities a day possesses
Yield more to you than you had
Left there prior: the windbeaten seed you
Assumed would shatter once ripe leaves
Began to stem, attacking a cruelty you hoped
So long that kept your sleepless way
But these, all the way you thought
To but dogged illusions,
Heroic daughter, contentment is not as
Unexquisite thought: some valuable swine
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Of bedfellows once, that time amongst
The horror of our thoughts, alone
And side-by-side, listening to questions
Raining outside, drop by caustic drop.
In the bleached light of hospitals and wards, lonely
Wayward letters copied monklike in a spasm-cry
No match for any Sisyphean Blankness to detail
Across a wideness the size of our look at us
For 4 days by my side like someone who must,
While morphine was the lackey I entrusted with
My pain, the storm now like the guts of ordnance
As I shove in my amplified elbows from their
Arrogance, into some hunched lassitude, against
Less. I won those days by what plenitudes
Of luck as would barely have spared me; more,
The drastic curlicues informed the haunting somewhat
Of my injuries: I should have had my yesterday, my
Been, once was, of things I never wrapped up,
Nor could have, if made the stock of some daft bier
To hold my casket and leave strewn realities
Upon a floor, like toys; but life is not child's play.
The storm is a continuum of graceless haughtiness
Inflicting stains upon the metalworked window
Like proper crucibles that stalk me to the marrow
With very fear the absolutest clod were but a mania
We chance to call the flesh of situations and
Regrets. How that word is worming, is as worm
To burrow holes into a stomach of the thing.
V.
In the descent and gloaming of any tragic day
As all days are an empty fiend that weren't
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QUESTIONABLE SYMPHONY
I am upon my cup of coffee despondently
Eclipsed by myself is the silhouette of another
She makes herself felt in that dark tar.
And the broken muscle ebbs to life again
As I encounter of whom is long deceased
But for me in moody poems I drudge to life
And cornered by these absolute, long days
Emit myself, as thunder pound my ears
Nigh senseless
And the caf awning flaps unfabulously,
And rain douses the backs of my moody ears
And behind those ears her following phantom.
Well I am here in my indigestible
Panoply. Join me.
You, famished, dry the little on your tongue
Through your resistance. Here have some
Water. A multitude of reasons had endeavored
To sprain your hungry
Heel, hell, beyond that, after all. Not just me. What
All us plunder from sacred memory who live, go and
Re-write the era with, and fall apart within,
Speak, maybe, or mutter at; demand with
A listless wishingness it just go.
The massive hole in the middle of my face
I speak out of is run with pause, run like
An old stocking. I am
A rip of doubting or
Of a doubting tooth; or was not,
At least, till writing this disorderly nexus
Of somewhat a poem, a poem not worried
With times qualities, who was
Where, when: but with why! In
All its tonality: I am
Too much, too much. So there: again,
Everything is married where, says the bird,
The leaves are full of Eliots blind
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Just to gnarl the public a tad, and
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To whoever listens. Look, we say,
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Reject it would make uh
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a mob of feathers
Clutching to surrounding
Whiteness
Left Wing Right Wing
These feathers are falling to the floor
They are a long ways from home
The anger of the robes
Lifting kickingly
Bare pure feet speaking in steps
Curl of skeletal wings
Barely able to forego movement
Flapping multiplying feathers
That shell off
To the planet a floor below
Drowned in water across its surface
Like something
Some beauty a skein
Collection of feathers for millions
The thing here too much
Too the summary of all pure things
To give moniker or label
To define what is to us here clueless
Would be arresting wings
Wider and broader
Than constellations.
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But with a whiplash I suppress at first I
Discover this: all this flaunt and insincerity
Behind the wealth of tears I only have now;
They are only what I have now of you to
Bless this memorial repulsed by universal
Concentrations of petty stars acting as if
I did them harm, when angels hate that angle
Of belief. They prepare me to imbibe, water
By water, atom by impervious atom, a think of emblemnothingness beyond what is impervious, a think of doubts
Colluded, together starving into moot twinkling supernova.
In finding out this fact and yearning for tears
I am like a chump with his dramatics woven
In half, the fabric of this pain impaired like a
Chump diseased to lax an eye in bitter seeing
For the lag of forsythe of the face, clothed
And beginning me henceforth as half, a waste
And unharmonic wastrel wasting his reserve
And, when prompted to mend the facial paralysis
That is another, bigger topic of a truth a sort,
Did not: who took his time to make a drama be
Nothing but an attempted flight, a performance
From six stories; hers a needle in her arm.
How I did mar your life in so suddenly
Firing you out of mine, asshole contender
Of mere failing where you did succeed,
I left to hang upon a wall as if I was proud
Nothing but more wry eternity fixed and so
Then human, with an end, and lately not
Informative, no sign of meaning troubling
To dilute the angels of the world with this,
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A thing that takes to arms the very clouds
Of ecstatic con-tent, wrapped in soothing
Buds of good humor and enacted waves
Of pain between: so sorry for this grief for
I have only myself as evidence to hold
Against a death my own, now that her own
Is done.
Of anything but blank wryness intact, as I
Still live, and mortify my own steely values
With doubts aplenty, harvesting contempt
Boweled deep inside a wretch failing to
Undo his own hideous impulses
As floats my head to entrances unreal
Life made for me to deserve, as if I did
In just surviving, enough to stanch regret
As, head behind my head, I floored you
Out of history.
As electricity fades fabling as if it mattered
Anyway, as if this three inch tall, hunched,
Uncontrollable, trainee jailer of each of the burrowed
Fears here I drop mightless into meaning something
That trails throughout the heart, there on the bed.
Throughout a heart as fragile and contorted,
Perverted by neglect, and not my own.
Without a look back at the ruination. Ha. This,
Emblematic of the staunchest perch breaking
Beneath the bird, and hands of wind betrayed
By sinking temperature: I hath lost my friend
And nothing matters: I am of the windy weightless
Brood my tears dissolve, dissipate into: into
Grooves of acidic loss, my recommending gut
A dogs empty bark, and I a scarecrows face,
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In some stomachs, an
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To put one under for example for electroconvulsive therapy so they might quench the
Self out of its insatiable pondering that mandates and mandates:
Suffering shall not be the trade, instability shall not be the trade
For some everlasting insanity, boringly withheld, as in, why would
We want that option: I want to know why anyone would choose
Insanity over pain: pretty please: an answer thus would
Release the cosmic solution
Withheld for no ultimate, shy, grand reason,
But to make an otherness mad, leaving an
Ill-equipped lone ranger to amble towards the white lights he thinks either express his
Ignorance or tame it out of imagining: I am she who is to start with at the beginning of
Everything as if en medias res, to loosen up locations for a res notorious for its being
Endlessly tweaked, forgetting its where, priming new ones as old ones rest as litter on
Some teeming ground. If you can, be along with it, as beautifully questionable a one;
Not wait on whatever gets visible through the settling dust, a variety of hexing banes,
Presences: ignored but made of a soul of a familiar mediocrity: an unsettling mirroring
The states of your furtherance, or statements I tell to confuse you and that get a kick
Out of razing us down to aching diminishments, we particles we never admit we are;
Hassling flames like a mocking burning. It is busy with burning laughter at a sluggish
Evolutions path to road; tricking us into aping its own criticism, which we sense: we
We think are ones of skillful consciousness, as long as one makes of everyone what
Is judged of them and nothing else: the while nathless remaining merely infant slaves
Of comparison: and unsheathed prolepsis: for to defend the ruptured hides of sense
That whisper, violently, of yet undefeated insignificance our heavens of unbreathable,
Lecturing winds try and verb to steam, never outdoing the insulation of skull: o truthy
Cant and o pithy prophecy! Attach one to herself and fix the carrot likewise to crown:
Be held in the placeless realm of what is before her hanging by the deplorable string:
Magus or traveler to come here, as to travel would do: unless, by the turns of mission,
Defeated, never knowing we insensate druids of sheer stone yet for our heaviness no
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Forging thing for paths anew or GODs salvaged from the desirous burning out an ego
To acknowledge: it is our turn for a pathway out swampy semblance: kindred magus:
By the way it always was and without fail is kindred and is clarity for us really a clarity
For the tendency. Go us from the outer berths, go us telling a thing holding some ideal
Miscellany, far away, almost past the planets, us not knowing of the befallen collateral,
You, about in your meanwhile of a soft human business, going out to be alone with the
Evening, out, like lightbulbs aware of themselves by slow dint of any punctual natures
Imprinting like any pattern does, but as eyes upon some bizarre, deep, inanimate node
The object waking to see would then search beyond, how to own a gesture of a hand,
For pleasing events that make itself be pleased. Go ahead, grab whatever handkerchief
For the weepy awkward GODs behind a sentience of the lamp you abuse too often for
It to not take pleasure in finding this conscious portal, a chance to switch from a tool
And silent status, made for use and only use, to certain poltergeist: or would you not
Be what you were denied to you without permission? You, to have been called a clay,
A shaping to be shaped, a body welcome to handle: by you or someone else. You get
It with luck: it is as much you were of no hands as of no reality; in freeing whatever
Limitation it was you milked out the galactic sinusthud, you, a famed offbeat of the
Heart, all grown already, eyes black as pitch sorting through a clutter of office paper
And paradox, tend to your dreamed tidy widespread airless blend, then; finally usher
In the vast curse, uncivil and fat, a rivaling, antebellum curse thrown fatly at the advent,
Some fetal reality, particles that lessen a limited deity to sparest borders the universe
Expands into to own further, sucks freaky helium out GODs nameless balloon. O poor
Wizard atmosphere. An automatic space but no physicality, extant stillness. You notice
MR MAN himself. Stunt it with your own growth, till the oddity is undone untragically
To very aether, a lingering hearsay of space, alone perhaps; becomes itself a stunt
Or spookstory: calls to everybodys excavating self, as if!, wishing no global rejection
By what amount to a populace of trained gophers doing their gopher thing, hungering
For dirt ounce by ounce; as though it were no better to be stuck in the teeth of animals,
Faithfully eager for a fellow into some darkness, beckoning with seeming to be, just like
A cliffhanging pest that wants your descent into the weird logical caves
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Fashioned with stalagmite, stalactite. And talking pools of a darkness
Eons ornamenting drips into a type of what it is, unseen and not once
Explored for it is too spun with bats, the way too wormy. Unfortunate.
It dwells in its own unseeable mess, it is angling out, is leavening a sort
Of schoolyard power understood and ignored anyway by the universe:
A source of fury to me as I think it, who rode the rays of light to their dim finish
And that time slows for: the light of stars, to keep them alive, from the view of
This marble wracked with garbled tribes filled with those who wink at GOD.
They who do not recognize they are a sunder of their place, and yet treat it
A home, enough, at least for their environmental discharge; or is it us,
The reek and rile of cultural pollution of that soul we cradle in chests?
This is quiet chaos like a dream about riding your bike with no hands.
To revenge with power is to see the seed and plant it in the same dirt,
Wedging into it like into the electrical debris you find behind a television: that
Genre is atheistic huff: a universe of pesticide upon unhappy looms that scare
Up various resentments of a birth a virtual death or for the death of
Itself a use. A faulty form by universe that made it for no sake, at all
But to distract impaired atoms on some blue, fecund ball, unspooling itself and
With a brief perfuming magnetism scented by our thoughtful beings and noses
Towards its limited mystery for to stun humans, to a bunch of frivolous nowhere:
A fulfilling of apocalypse after so long trusting lore about it made it enough. By dint
Of looking lost and witless and material, find yourself, broad organism on a mental
Curb of sidewalk on a rainy day, drops
Dropping to the pith of your own waxing
Skeleton, find a way to relieve yourself of these troublesome,
Intimidating questions: this or that first cause, fickle
Source. The clime where answers tremble, the masonjar on that top
Shelf, is not like source and if it went like a source would be treason
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Now as much there as the flagging symbols one heeds barely or just does not
When they daydream while reading a book. They relieve the pilot making to
Hark out of a pride their own. A shakedown on the insomniac still asleep at
4:00 p.m. and his pet brilliance in a place where they live and where the fuzz
Came by to question, holding a ziplock of blurs. Frustrating this image to life:
What was obviously an organic translucence that began and began again, Go,
Git!, you know the blurs, these famous battles, and how they work, like battling
The back of your mind, a sin for the simplicities of fact one as who is chastised
By ones least bodylanguage, would assumedly contrive her be aware of;
They will to and how, ironically, in forms to crystalize, regarding epidemic
Spheres of atom, spanning like wildflower on the magnificent fence,
From the place they are supposed to stay put and profligate in tangles, all to,
To be, act by the art, where the fence topples aground: onto the usurping fields
Browned and dying of a sun too seldom on them. To survive alongside my debris,
Feel it a sort of handsome honor, I go peppering my convincing state across
Us, who step humanely in the feces of it: of a carnage, and which is all we are.
Hm. Something wildly oracular, someone describing herself through wilderness: some
Faint tintinnabulation, sound of birds, and she, another you, chasing to impossibly nab
Ruckus from that unseen paradisal flock. Or will you gather humble grackles as stir on
The pavements scary question about its flesh? The grid betrays all this longing and
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Mourning and stuff: the concrete street makes a wrap of its relation to the ashen folk;
The street, trying to hate itself, and through that, not exist. March down that long face!
Were all this more than some sort of marring of the facts, I would not crystalize what is
At present the entire observable Soul, and count to mine own imprudent number, call it
That and all over, but would make stones of my regret and wheat of sighing emptiness.
I do not even now know what I say just that it is humane and forgiving. I want you
To always be the repeatedly humane surprise of feeling, always being but so perfect
A fragment all the stock of universe reclines on out of reach so out of hand. This is to
Be regained, as it should be. The uncaught tablet of the sky a lawnchair for the lord
Which, in being given us so to observe GOD and to say yet we do not, to fold our hand
Of cards and along with that any sense of arrogance at this we might use to gamble in
The ugly bar, saloon, amp us out in the shitpit,
Pine for microscopic relevance, want to tie in with larger fording places and large scary
Bigness: after all how else to abide the thick show all day: everybody connives around
The rules of shadow, being and being not. Garbage. All blurs blur; become, fathom by
Fathom, a dateless locomotion, travelled long to get to the beginning: in fact it was got
All blurry to begin with. Woven thorough then too dizzying, they go fast
Alive and multiply out of your catching them, your hands clapping over
Truculent air and a trailing liquid, pissy collateral, fun ruin: over
It, done. You try to go and get closer to that reaping, as if it had
Not happened: like of unsatisfying laurels but just for you
That surround your meager contribution, or seen as this.
Getting high is, the harder the drug, a chase to get high on
A schedule. You are anointed a first time, then blessed with
That never again. But that you chase. But it is burned right into you
And is a very season to feed a curious remembrance, any, outside
The realistic high, the blurs incomplete blurs,
Leaving parts of recollection a perfect window,
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But there it is: the trope of loving flaws: let me gorge on that
And supplement a reason for anxiety with a defense against
It, oh, the rhetorical jail of everything withal a proper nothing,
despite the raucous angel-tramps are afire to 'split' from wherever
they sleep in my lamenting brain, and be themselves, whom
yet I freeze to keep alive, in fact: these soul-runts a-wheel in stasis,
all together, hapless but extant . . .
in silent revolt of wherever I said to poke, poke
and reveal more intellectually yielding portions
of an awareness of what is really a spectacle; said
I was what made prey
of them, and unto the eaten sides of meaning, that movement wanted them, or had in it
motive dastardly: well, despite, I get them not pivot ankle nor release breath but linger
in their seeming like peerless paintings, yet without an elemental beauty the force of this
a quantity of convulsions, produces, but likewise just to ease me by their inverse like to
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say, It is not this, you think we are convinced, when you give us something else,
hell, you so release us in your hatred of our possible impairment from the ornery,
ordinary tableaux all literature licks up the scraps of, wanting more: well, like hail
to ground dissolves, I make a go at song, I mention
'beauty' not to mar it dead but to meet my distended,
dreaming uvula with it in screams that yell incentives:
imprecision triumphs, sure, but does cold spang at an
appointed place from before, between oneself and
one's agreer to him and his ways, however
messy they are, thoughtful
hand to his, myself happily questionable,
extraneous to song, the song is especially
forbidden: o my ruses of my egomaniac
somewhere twanging the gut-strings of
my gut I stake as centrifugal to that humming core of mine
moralities make of self, and build of a self that I can stake
I think, yet it is only when to my health and plain benefit
of bones, that I or anyone might give
the ego to a belonging maybe ruse, or,
perhaps the notion it is ruse is the ruse,
and this, as in, 'belonging to themselves'
meanwhile someone makes to aside
the praise of self: so wickedly a dose
of sudden evil: unto this lollygagging:
as if I strayed because I did not know
its universe. He gets like a stronger
leg, to favor one side over another,
and whines for criticism to dissect
his fall to nothing, respiring to feel
it, though. We're supposed to deprecate
each other, fall when meeting with rhythm
and stating falls, like politics of the flower,
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awesomely: an echo tuning round the rocky walls
of spite, and at the mouth of meaning,
barely echoing this: There
Is the king of the place, and whom is place as
Right as rain as much as lives outside the remnant
Of this endlessly placating reality we are given,
Like something always riven we sense riven, torn from its
Whole socket, spoken more the lack to us, and the desperation
Of the sadness of all knowledge, hissing always to end itself
Yet budding a new tail for the metaphoric snake. It is bruised
With offense, a dull unknowingness fed up with wreaking its
Irony. Cloaked in misunderstandings that shrink to a digestible
Bolus. We as the people who doubt, we have our simultaneous
King, of place and materializing as the place itself, like numbers
Out of order with their name that still mean 2 + 2 = 5 as validly
With a faked connective element, like wires training
Down from heaven's doorstep to this one's, this Earth
Well driven on its own without the shreds of meaning.
As such. The king is one of weathered thoughts, uprisings
In colloquial attachments, the downy familiar made hard
From a long time roughing it in the brain, clustered in a
Look as shamed then made of them the few true diamonds
Of madness left awash as spittle of baying speaking. This will
Wrench us from the clumsy clues of being, while a lot inside
Wrenches back as if to give back speech to the unnamable
Clue to let us in who deserve to aged speak, will look at speak
And in their strangeness fend for more clues, more ransom
The tones of it, the conglomerate about the shitty fire, then
Smack dab, lose their need to wander more, when leaping
Into spacious need, these ulterior psychologists of the mind
Report their findings from the place without a king anymore
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WRITTEN BLIND
[1]
The figure says I will not fuel your state again
like how you like it; my actions intend louder
masochism, sure, but rather regarding
the always quiescent layer beneath that
layer you have found to suit your misery:
is a boiling of that fallout: to its least and pitiful
nuance, until the subatomic declaration, though
not disappeared, is not to be heard a phrase of: negativity
in their hellish hell of weakling decimals: as opposed to
any elated calling of your name upon this, which would
loudly stomp out the last communicative miseries
to their final ember: a call to hold your hand, and by
those who cannot be without the heart they love, booting
out the black. You are a piece of shit, ramshackle at this
point, like a strange shed of self that needs renewal
of its cluttered space. She says: slowly, in a grace
almost, by some deceiving slowness, You rake in
horribleness, gleefully, like a pot in poker, whether
of Earth or you. She says: you take your cares and
yet make them gambols of a Yorick as much, while
a breeze is love, and common all this is the commonplace:
you suffer, and forever will, if you hail it with the necessity
of a cab down a street of other rising hands, from crowds
of those evil, who want evil in their breakfast food, so at least its
form retains a milder, wilder norm. Excellent sufferer, my esoteric
husband, clustered in theories of the cause,
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and what seeds of self, moldered by the end
of seasons: and the trends of possibility:
no help to replenish a banking soul away and quickly
to his safe place, where the ignorant dusk of his spirit,
hobo of the sun, stinking, walks the length of the railroad
with his jaunty click of the things in his pack, indulges
as he wanders, well, that that was what he always was,
implacable and betrothed yet to the tossing acids of
mysterious things that had nothing to do with him, these
and more led him to the maddening equations for why sold
his this or that, betrayed his that and grieved his this, these
tangents missing tangents, forfeiting all rights to the veins
that throb and gladly open themselves, to empty into
this bed, hearing, funny, huh, as the last sense that remained
drew off, in the resting thickets in the backyard, a last trance
by the wiling crickets, singing ceremonious for motherland
to his own feelings. The figure says, my answer is
you cannot waste my errand with your fleeting hopes
of suicide, for you shall not run out in vain, outside, to
meet a wherewithal aced beyond the galactic toys of your
galactic will, poor soul, and ensign, unto the remedies
and plagues of truth. You sit in plain view of these things,
proving pale and wizened the petty schedules of reality,
a failure at changing oneself: the flourish of her gown to
tempt the nihilism of men, and most of all a taboo subject
at the table, a significance for others that in being so
betrays their insignificance; or an apocalypse kept under
wraps by the government until it is already too apparent
to the public. You must make things, shape your situation,
still a reality in itself mutable only if you live through it,
In terms of success that is; if cut short now, awaits a cool
failure, and not even these very words change that
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controlling this universe. I need yon mother
differently, inspects myself, expecting trivial
and stoned thinking it was that fraught
my own withering insides, quaffed need for an aside
kept secret to myself, without a bearer but myself, not
these wrenches thrown into my throat, filled with illtimed goodbye-words. Lift parable in your
hands and I will come still, shy she says:
the figure begged me, this time, lost
too much in desperation to undo
the pallor of a dead face marching in to sight
of my inevitable consciousness, a strange
figure, this, but not her, whom is not here,
yet in remnants emptying me like as I could see
the lifted world before my eyes as real, littered by Devils,
marking my truth of enchantedness that turns like a glass
of milk outside: no not my mentioned bricks of content,
self-aware jackassery: no not the most commemorative
rose upon my sight unsightly, lost of any hue, fried nabob
out just like a lightbulb of some different crashing sense
worsening more with age. I will kill myself
and make that that.
I will kill myself and monitor from above the
wretch I was , consider how
he that is myself goes wrecking the angels after his last fall.
inter me, yes, and I will love the mourning
with all my selfish self, honestly, and I
will sink into the deepest couch of rapturous heaven, going mad with
the goody goodies, all of us lengthening across the span of time, and
yet, I see not you, not muse, anyone; so then would realize my hell,
or worse, would
realize nothing after all. Gee
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[2]
Yeah one is a story and each caught
itself before eventually making sense
thank God. I space out my finicky worlds of reason, weltering
their curious way towards a farthest inmate of the truth, but
for the truth, for I, trapped in my thinking prisons,
leaving only as time grows old
and tracks in the snow disappear
with come spring, metaphorically.
so try, try to call Herr Muse to the fore, make me more
then soldiering clouds I dip out of, evade, sneer at
like someone obsessed with the conceit of being
a seer, polemicist for all humanity, and for the sake
of little tears I fathom that fly down inmate cheeks.
I stifling them to ingratiate unto the public conduct.
The lame imago of an answer wordlessly that
treads into its own missing nature I do not
repel but pride on, as if this proved me able
conduit for the dead, that is. My thoughts
wrapped in neuron-murals, caftans, dreams of art
hosted somewhere on the surfing highway
of all this mixed feeling. That, we
drive off somewhere to find, do not.
The face of joy wreaking its beautiful
havoc, mutilating surprises
to the caste of burns, low castes of hurt,
pains, and antidotes, ghosts of antidotes
that undermine our dotage unto baby
Christ make us a thorny child; spent dins
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infecting heads,
losses compounded by
warfare engaged with the common cold.
Bite me. Holler to the mess
upstairs. It scares
me just to think of anyone bothering
his temperamental ass. Call me,
I won't be there. Will be but focused
on the leaves of withering,
some perfection of hurt in them, unto
fierce running, permanent types
you joke about in high
school but who oar past all the pleached
rivers that confuse life's aim to nothing, that
I see despite red flags and warning signs;
those who carry on to their post
in the broken dark of afternoon,
which can be done, if lungs
came to breaths already there: quickly fading
assimilations of humanity, each word,
a blame to give the circle of life.
Talk about tonality
the quivering monster says, to pretty boys
holding ak 47s for the camera. This is mine to make
a sickness of, so Ill just trade the day for night
but keep the time the same, not have it process
all the Suns favoring our freeze of organ, brain,
at this conceptualizing of the impossible. I am
locked together in with my gods and romanticize
my decent-enough farewells of the most high
waving a kerchief from a car of the steam engine
and repeating my toodleoo. Fret this enough,
its meaning, that is, and you might have a blue
guitar: to keep your own attention like a thing you
cherish, complete not as if you compete with such
feints and things subtle, evasive as the eaves above
lit with torches of change. Well, this could be that;
the aleatoric mustard is a mollusk-daemon of it until
the sense is siftingly made, then fresh and
bright at first sighs of the coughing cockerel.
Vivid the light at such a witching hour. Man,
I could just snap and do this forever, you think,
while the commodity focus is drifts back into aging,
morose blurriness but like the way wine gets better
with age: it is like and so then not like at all a note
hastily written from your doctor saying you can
overlap apotheosis, take a leave of absence from
schooling platitudes awhile, just to fortify your
truth and test your vision. I make meteors to dust;
the planet of myself, old, the dinosaur of dreams,
of secure observation of a posteriori riggings. Humanity is drunk
with millions of gifts besides my own. But nothing lights the way.
I continue to make plans on my deathbed, while
the sovereign menace of mortality convinces me not
to get up for food, nor to piss, so then, I starve, and
soil myself at that last hour. But, look, Herr Muse, there are
wrinkles in the soiled sheets of a dear sleeping one; the feet
hang over the bed whiffing an intimate stink hanging out inbetween whiffs of countryside perfume. Man, we
really must be intolerably ponderous, Herr Muse;
must ruin ourselves one by one on the metronome
of content like humanity does. Each oscillation bears
the weight I want for myself: is an end, the heaviness
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of swinging rhythms acutely telling me two sides
of this black eyed universe: sees me figurative, of matter
and the matter. Meanwhile the fat of chance nearly rearing
into fate from the other side of the universe, over and over
again. Fear painfully squires to me, its limpid
master, limping along hunched, making toward
the jaws of the joke this is, and all of life. The joke is
by no fearing region of doubt manipulated, I figure,
but the setting sun seizes wisdom away like it had
the deed to it by big, nasty bosses of the realm, thick,
naughty hands, somehow just the right size
to dominate my ardor in a single gesturing
grab. And so sew into sense habituations
of we particles in my head, or rays, or what have
you. If at all we really were then all we are is but
for the grace of the past. The spark of no light but
genius darkness lives, rather, genuine and afraid,
because the blessing is all the victuals I take,
to health and unhealth of my child-neurons. The
invocatory mezzo of the milky way lent me some
abstract human soul once, as a favor. Like the music,
buzzing I was with myriad Yellowjackets
feeding on the absence of my flesh, I was in
the stupor of variability, my mind already
swollen with anticipation, thriving like the old
tracks of a train with weed and reed: stupor, that is, what
is the mark, or rather a kiss of change too changingly
to be from one source, one pair of muted lips, gleefully
swinging states into a run of that state, like stockings, until
the understood is but a retinue of negations: the result of
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of inferential import, my own.
My very special one. I cannot regret, nor few
and far between but not at all wander different
futures through my head, nor alter the behavior
of the moon on that cranial surface.
I am in surfeit
of terrestrial materials, and make no behest or blame,
uncorrupt the marmoreal sledge into deeper marring,
with ordeals, and any blame for death to hand to you,
dear eternity, especial character;
and often with visit of the truth. A sense of new
reams of lines of thoughts about everything,
from the source of tiny connections mastering their wigwam,
magnifying breadth: no: I will send that total thing away in
micturating on the lovely, lovely weeds. Dont they look
so lovely, scented along with the moist, brown, lovely air?
as big and brown as your eyes, the only materials that organize
my patterns into something out of habit: a landslide agreement
without speech, of ones love for another, is as brown as that;
properly the sempiturnal transparency of truth
of you, I do not waste on these elementary hours, for I see
another fecund man in me nod a way: for a have and a have
not: for a prospering thought: for you held for a moment like
the anxious breath between scorn and redemption,
between the nigh and fay far, and feign and creation
of what must be feigned, to exaggerate accomplishment,
like appreciation of a shitty meal; and like the indecision
of a million decisions on the list,
by a glance and glance, that make
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their way, do I pretend to be the last say on the said.
I place my faith in acreages of ravel, out of swoon of
the light through trees. The laugh
and sauntering away of that ordeal of confidence, you
know, that confidential thing, it inspires, makes a myth
of sundered boughs by thunder with flits against the
fall sere, as if the drifting leaves were mirrors for the
thunder that make me in seeing you, recognize,
for an instant, the face of you always.
[4]
Not here in the corner of my iris,
but there, living and growing
and fiddling with a piece of lint.
Attempting new territory is difficult; to make new territory
of my lopsided ravine I already have. So I build a silly fire
with wood I gather before the snow can make it useless.
I believe, if I don't
come and beg to you,
what sheet of nascent music
for you to remove upon company, could I boast
of and bear my soul to hear, and so others hear
you hammer away? To supercede al intravenous
doubt and to comply with my beheld esthetic
irruption in a room of strangers, mousy
and begging for harmony? No thanks.
irruption or rashly: I am facetious and expend
energies on a bike to the store for cigarettes
just to spur your joke of silence with blown
smoke: I am dearly placeless,
am almost forgotten, am the future
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merely in manner, derisively expounding myself, or propounding
its ownership of silliness, a piece of cake in a field of other pastries,
and operated on by tragedy enough to almost make me beastly,
almost stir my chest to grope without hands, to pull the needle
from my heart, or what heart I descry: well: unclamp my ass and
clench tight my square confidence of a square, a dork of meaning,
a motley or something of ambivalence
banished, like embarrassments galore
felt at a party you repeat and prove again
to the people who were there for your bad choices before,
bearing ringing witness they to you catapults of fault, spat
primal in everybody's face: emit no more of these things, if
sweat you must stink of: and murder this aping of social
stakes dashed in the moment mistakes make one gulp to
face the faceless reasonless. What would I do without you,
dawning day? of my pet newness? I correct yet into a flaw.
But shut up I say, conversing to myself and my anxiety like
a mediator. All the while from my high place I give a thumbs up,
to my therapeutic distance in the nosebleeds. Picking their way
on me are 'they' who want one be like them with them, but piles
of dirt I am, up there stowed in the vanishing brink of the very sky.
so let me get to throve: let me instantly line up all massiveness
of ego, to have it shot, by a fatuous organizer, with compliance
in mind, however; oh reader of brows, bold me up.
I will not be concealed, by bush or walls, building anything
of the soul. Away into an ocean trying to make up for itself
I stretch, to aid my knees, and respect my climactic origins
that wait too long for saying to indulge,
and the audience to level with the end perceived . . .
what do I look like I am made of money moans
the father from his armchair. I dont care. At least
the streets have taught me well. I jeopardize others'
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This is way thick woods, man, I dont think I can array my thoughts:
I live on the outskirts. Move very far especially when a bump in the night
Creeps me out: it seemed so far away when it happened, so craned my
Neck to see where it was coming from. Delight my flabby scorn felt for
You, I dont care whether you cheers me or not, or read at the table finally
Without a single regard to my feelings: I was walking down the street
Made entirely of bumps in the night: I was collapsing my era unto the if
Of someone elses silence, my entire collection of years of surrender in
The oasis-searching and rebellion in the greed for pain. My own rules
Will be these rules. I dip my sunglasses and crane my speck of dust, I do
Not have an amount of meaning that would relegate all beauties of random
Dust to their ermine delusion flooding bumps into the night like big blood,
Rue. Fuel for entire rapscallions putting the car into drive and driving
To get milk at the store: what a bore is the guy who tells his creepy story,
Hes never an oops-cloud: you mistake, sure: but then what: naked,
The surroundings are green surroundings: you pump the music so as to
Plumb a meaning suddenly totally relevant to everything Ive said thus far,
Even though really this is entirely, evilly, evilly droning to the place where is
New thing after new thing totally solitude, this total solitude: ruin it: go ahead:
I dont care. Im just going to bump the night myself, its the only thing on
My side that has not given itself up yet to the poignant fakery inhabiting
All and everything that is the WORLD now and the strings that pluck casing
Off the skins nameless riotous blues: Im just really sad and it scares me:
Is it a thing for me to say something like, I am a weird hipster, so like me, I
Know, youre just a guy with some disease of the mind, he might say, to
Me, but, I just say, shut up, and forget the time and encapsulate the moment
Like it were a bump in the night with its own rules for twined flesh together
In a lumpy softened briar-year: this all amounts to trying very hard to like
You know, confess to a bunch of shit: I am solitude sitting on this three-legged
Chair in the corner, facing you like an answer to be, waiting to be told to see
Enough of splashy squashes to remind disgusting uses of language to embalm
Themselves like corpses, later dramatically turned somehow like the hands
Of a clock, to delicious, wrong pie: like seriously wrong: I am hungry for human
Flesh: dont trump that. Dont try. Theres nothing less sleepy than myself to
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Myself, so mistake the clouds for random patterns of moment: the moment
Is all one: to me. Well, delirious thou, get thee to your spoken school of skin
And greet the light of answered questions. Clarity, finally. But for what huh??
For the woods to make this shitty with incorrigible encapsulating reflexes, eh
Whatever: I thought and thought until it meant something tomorrow for us:
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