: STOMP AS FLUX

but soft i hear a stepping thru the milky days,

a wolfish prig to ease me into my mistaken immanence,
ease me far from what he - damned other - wants
to press and leave himself while me my withered wizening
grows false with shrinking belly, sloping eye, lack
of smell besides a fugged room with determined
smoke - he coughs, a newborn ignorance, for a sec
giving the nave, thoughtless runt a scare, while i
review his trodden place and print my own fair morsel,
grant his distraction be awhile - o evermore ephebe -
despite the grand coming, public as a promulgated
nastiness is seen the intimate espousal of - new views
of nvrmind, well i expel drafts in the wake of hoggish,
prig-pig eminence: he thought i was not, simply put,
immanent, that i could not have not in my heart but for my
heart: a worthless undertaking: that is, to scribble errant
beats, to formalize fly, figured language - a foray and
a fuck for none of this to give by i, sneakily eating
his force and drumming corners of his doubtful head,
receding miserably into doubtful being, thoughts as if
randomly buzzed to make a gaunt man of the lovely with
bracing: a still and quiet lack awhile of a quitting anxiety,
and choir by choir a redemptive silence: to i: yet to he a
bank machine: uh and hidden in his junk, a need to profit
on a intellect that makes a stomp itself that i record,
not myself make: our imprint - everyones - is tuned
to its own frank is-ness, not business, is a log of stuff
that in its power was so long an alienated light from
dusky days when we or he the prig inserted un-there
conundrums, hearkening to be a force grand as word,
as quake and stilly quiet listening to pouring rain,
and i hath rubbed the clit, seen women not merely
but wonderfully only, as that, as the stomp a surety
wagers by itself, no need for man, for logic is a
women, coquettish, full rampant of desire and to
squeeze a revelation to improve the trials, not make
them disappear, language is not magic it is meta-record
of the indescribable truth of everythingness, of wild,
of wear and tear and uselessness - the only ground is
wet with dropping tears upon the painful cave we all
traverse and that to find the substance of our shadow
on the prolific wall, terrific as a hassle thrown into the
heart as something of a natural clear seeing without
making, making seeing what is clear or rather why,
and lasting out determinants to fry and fizzle like a
groping beauty for her loss, absurd, debased and most
importantly THERE as beans, beans for books, money
that you make made up of thoughts that are in front
of you, he sees a front, only, maybe he is X, too careful
in the searching of him to find anything in himself
and too nasty about failures to grow, or is that i, what is
me, or i, you, he, we, frenetic baseness - pronouns -
shapeshifter - ghost - a thing to grossly handle the
cracks with thickened blood: with my austerity i made
a family of isolation, self-party, thoughts a grand commitment:
the thing to reverberate in the mind of man is uhhhhh hh
respect: respect shit, yea, how small i am is not really a
depressing thing, it is a humanism, doom is not doom
nor is immortality a great big grace but a lumber of
years put to waste by weary tears that shed more
trials than god can fit in a day: we only have shiftiness
to vibe to life our shifty natures like a sketchy tuning
forke: fork ova da money: he is saying, he is saying:
i need more stomps and footfalls: make me praised,
dont care much bout rest of shit or people, even tho
they are literally everyplace and most valuable thing,
or are fortitudes of silence?, no do not even say i, or
i will force an anxiousness to wiggle thru your watery
cracks of vapid selfhood and benign derivatives ye see
as something of yourself and better for yourselfishness:
and: gratify the mull, restore the stalactites, make caves
i say to myself, without to him: make caves!, and oddity
a beauty beautiful as twirling gowns randomly w flowers
flowing on them as the decent girl twirls a golden world
out of respite with herself and lifted ease within a difficulty
made of beats of hearts and all at once, explosive unity,
yes, whoosh out those rest of days, focus one on one
with this systemless design, erratic, bad, mere, dumb, dumb:
a health of scenes that fill my chest with fluid, random girls,
well, thank you: a drainage, a sizable masque, but worth it:
the musky druids would be critical from soiled beds: and they
would with porky reddish lips wager - pay - money-fy -
raw! raw! is the collegiate step
that comes: whether or not we know
with quantities, levels, lists and
spells of identifying for each
thing: they go off on me: they spit spittle-threads as they
attach molecules of thoughtlessnesses to the thread, a web
for the seeming anal, merely those with time: nobody thinks
on their feet - anymore - random impression, like girls and
gowns: i want to at least see the solar system before
returning to sleeping within faults of rock in cave o cave, and
i want uh to rage apart the meaning for anything, nothing
is useful, is a cheap stance, meaning beams but nobody
has lain eyes on a sun of stomping rays and burning lava,
we have no temperature besides to heat our head, but
nobody does nomores, nor do i even want to step into this
style of writing which inters a nameless flaw for calling out
my own displeasure with a keeling self i want to rid of me,
you, u, yu, anchor pronouns make non-gender god, note,
just a note: randoms keep spilling like disgusting guts of
an asshole i wish to make perish, thinking worth into - uh -
dearth, so, this enclitic decision to remain impotently aware:
so yes i admit i toss my secrets to shit shivering
life out of a stomped spine by something on
reality some annoyance or hem around truth
so that i am safely in my cradle, complacent,
delicate as the lives of millions throttled by gas
or jumped with explosions to another post, away,
the killers say, the killers say to hate a Baghdad
or three, a million, genocidal proclivities, inborn
conceits, a Jung Un for the faithfuls of his fabulist
reorder of the cable leading person onto person,
something to see so as to protect the reality from
a wrong encroaching, but what is my goal?, a
rarity made nice with aced bludgeons on sense,
remedial destruction, truths dead, but we are here,
making stomps of lagging permanence we are
received for later, yet, i surely never will have a strong
imprint on what to me is sand breached anyways
by water to flatten the besmirch of toe of foot and that
of heel, the correction, mere flexion, stanchion of
marching foot on foot for AIDS, that is all this is really:
or: kidnapped partitions made that way to protect,
i yes know so little sadly little and unless i am there
i could never control the world i want to save
unless i need saving, i will not save, nor politicking
gray my youth to dirty sunder nor implant a booth
of honesty within my already unrhyming hearts
tender, currents of blaspheme and drove-utterings
to slam the uterus to pieces words entail, fight the
tail back to jeans tight on the ass, piece of ass,
groan, fabric of society - lofty terms - thrown like
to bring confetti to a meaningful stem or cell
. . . . . . . . . . .
This more than I have has requited less
In you who beam it, a look the same in me
When in myself it weakens; while you press
On as giver to a balking sea,
I ornery and ruffled call a hate a giant crimp
For us neither to know nor understand
But in the other, which it goes limp
To fly a wheeling wing to land
Upon together gentle as the age of water,
Sound of water of the lapping creek instead,
Who himself upon manipulations, buoying lichen rotten
A zephyr wags the zeal so long intrusion
One of us or other armed to fight,
So then we stuck around this translated
Place and found in other footfalls
Our own location
. . . . . . . . . . .
Master Spent, it is about time we spoke,
And Master Spent you have a wealth of me
So that I barely am, and force what is to be,
So that my little mind is in paralysis awaiting
A signal and a sad one, and prophetic as
The bullshit I make hover as to print myself
Upon your fog and roar throughout, and empty
Scream. I live to set my teeth into your context, I
Convince myself, that you and I once were
And fathomed down to our shoes the same,
Deafening landing to the spot our ground-
-Had made as one pure oddity and grace
That handled equally the hatred and the pain
We forded roughs of and together granted
Millions acreage of thought to bite the luster,
Master Spent; and corner the retreating
Pairs of thoughts to one and only one with-
-Which to dance, a funny company, and still,
And special with being inducted to the council
Of my brain within my brain, the bodies of-
-Considered mountains trashed for little joys,
For small, I caught the bad in big for you,
I smashed a curtain closed and sold a self
To garter me and just to think you would be
There to understand, at least, my ghostliness,
My cords of muscle leading at my hip to legs-
-To feet; I believed you to be ground, a real
And a respite and a class of what had been,
That is, as real as a first light upon a very
World of sand, and passing time; I thought
You, Master, would not leave and yet you-
-Have. But that is how you teach of what is,
Uh, whats other! By that departure I had known,
By loss, I knew your consciousness, apart,
Your great existence in this odd sort of me,
And so I sing to trees and dance within a heart,
Which, if penultimate to strings, amounts to dirge.
I know not where had come this mental purge.
. . . . . . . . . . .
He left to go to the lot hungover on a shitty sunday,
felt master of himself barely and in no sort of control
in any other way, besides an endless optimism
and the sun beating endlessly, for days his fellow
as like the sun on his fucking collar, begging for money
he had none of, for things like crack to hollow cheeks,
for a soda or something, get a soda, it is a few
yards away from the apartment they couldnt pay for,
anyway, hes getting off on berating him so he left
and lord knows no stingy man would ruin his account
to zilch for someone elses smack, knew the guy
for years but I mean come on not this again, I will show
him a smack and happy about it he better be happy
about it, to steel himself against the pain, even the slightest
awareness of some depressing shit would infest his
buddys body, so, he had given up, like you cared at all
to nurse the oncoming sick sick sick and lorn hangdog
face for drugs for long!, but, he went to go to the lot for
memories with him still hailed in his mind like a populace
with its last chance at redemption freedom autonomy etc.,
he recalled his brother falling out in a bathroom and
outside to be seen were a few shitty playground things he
watched as vacant as all this that had gone to seed,
like some odd tricycle that looked a bit rusty and dangerous,
anyway hes on his mosey when these faceless kids
inhaling dro figured to accost his candyfuck ass
and he notices the collecting of them round every
escape and starts to run, this was not his first time
being mugged, and all the while he lets out the beast
as the little kids later charged in a court of law get him
and beat him limp and upon learning they had sinned
made their own escape, left him writhing a little and
bloody, the sun all there, his brother himself, and
all he wanted substantiated in that otherness he needed
to kill anyway, if they knew, the thuggy kids, he would
have thanked them for his senseless death, for at least
the man that wasnt him perished as well, was gone,
all greed, all terribleness a better death and worth it
for the bodys goneness along, and the clown with a
serious man fell out, the light out, lights out. The world
will not realize how necessary is this examination of
the frivolousness of people
. . . . . . . . . . .
My grey service is dim and grey and old
I clock in and leave it at that that is as unhinged
Despite a groaningly hilarious attempt to see
Past the usual three steps ahead and haunt
Myself that is my heart over my brain a thing
Held mutely in some alabaster crate sans
Windows rolling forever on the split of small
Grandeur whining for a simpler creature
Make it on par with itself out of ignorance
We as sorts of intelligence forgot how to be
Ignorant yes we did and drank the ether
Straight to dregs and thought them done
And everything figured as the opportunistic
Man makes wheels of windows now an
Earlier remembrance gotten to spike the
Rambling zones of a head caught in harvest
Of absolutely everything just to make offering
And giving back to a vast unconscious sea
The facts we lost by gaining and softened
Courage but we lost never the angel to drift
On the mighty vapor the sea now too a gone
GOD or sortilege of carrion space an earth
Apart from us we see each day as common
As the diurnal lapse yet stern to be never
There for long like fields of pollen described
As there as ever had been any man or
APPLE dropped intensely on the head of
Some reasoners gifted stalwart pursuing
Some dying brain lit up again for courage to
Breathe a simple breath to null the doubt
By now as rotted as an image here to be
And gone as much as any image gone and
Yet so yea my heart my heart yea I guess it
It hears some rattling to exist as will-lessly
As beauty inner outer exist as much as
Random feeling not equated soon but felt
Dumbly in some unaware berth of GOD a
Well-lit place or room the size of something
That is a particular size or is able to have
A particular size adorned with webbing for
Curtain and a lamp or two and jargons of
Books jammed in decrepit shelves a sleeping
Mammoth person in the corner he wills this
He is me he wills more titans for the berth
To relish forgetting I remember much
Forgetfulness Hart Crane that was and o
Yes he is quite right our ignorance we
Most likely should not worship yea but keep
As something reasonably there a vacancy
To move chaff away to someplace discrete
And fill that space of TIME to think with
Thoughts elongated towards a sea serene
Or something made of hearts a hungry TREE
That places distance there to teach the
APPLE how to be a brain inspired to cool
Swift paradigm and release more than sex
And yet all that is gone: no fuckin moment
And yet there is: just must get quickly there
And mourn the scraps haughtily to make
Them more transcend the limited guest his
Head asleep in rooms and rooms and rooms
Resounding and apart as atom undisclosed
And a sigh of nothing for you but nothing can
Mourn nothing it is everything a potentate in
The womb-room a scraggly janitor of sense a
Made man for the laundering of logic? no! so
From my heart I gather little scraps of dirt
To think I knw it all would be quite criminal
As I know only what I know and so happily
From the dirt I lend myself to kited pollen on
The empty wind that does not feel much like
Wind and it is all across a field the size
Of an atom itself closed off from the rest of
The world and so like myself nature goes its
Rounds and clocks in for the making of some
Beauty that goes off really soon and leaves
A scratchy nose and eyes shifting in sockets
I have little but that is already voided by
A predictability tearing me apart and made
Of some unloving link between moment and
Moment not however a thing able to be
Captured more like something you move along
With and think you know by repeatedly growing
The more bored with paging thru the book
Of patterns all of them all of them reflections
On the biggest sort of something a place of an
Atom rotting at the base of TREE like something
That once grew full in the hearts of penitent
Apes at least as the thing of people in them
Knew blankly generally folly but not sin a sin
To exist a sin to die we are stuck and absolved
Every day given the chance another chance
Another chance to folly out a right way at least
And buy TIME lunch go out to eat a few
Concepts dry oneself off as the pollen sits in
A field the size of a forgotten allergenic universe
O folly, folly
. . . . . . . . . . .
Held I held her too: the earnest body
A spectacle for us alone to feel we had:
Particular unsaid things embellished,
A gesture there more than needed, thought
I had seen a running of the hands out of
The meanings finest thread, through hers,
Through an extra inch of hair: yet
Who would outside this see this, not us:
Such small needlessness: would, if not
Such lovely capacity were so sensed
That only a skipping heart would
Make it truly intimately close for close;
That only that unsteady trip
Would manage flaws of movement
As we lay, by way of empty contact as
Quiet as the mind who made too much
A chance to crawl from grace,
And sketching flippant arcs from ruddy
Complex, made a faceless passion plead
For nose and eye, by which it would
No longer be? And would
My gratefully refraining scales make
Of me a clearer love, with which to lay
With head with yours, beneath crooked
Arms, - to bother to not anger after
Sense and imagery, which pardon us
Our lack of knowing them, in tides
Of fathomless moment, useless to unheal
With verb and noun and eye and ear
And nose, else make a thing redundant?
. . . . . . . . . . .
i have five minutes to write a poem
i am not cold because the door is open
there is cheap paneling and a blanket
over egg crate there is a plastic bottle
for to ash my cigarette the day looks
nice i am here and writing this is quite
nice as well and i am here alive but ah
would never know i would not ever not
a single person could figure out they
exist without immediately dying at most
i would especially if the day got really
unpeaceful you know would i realize
less would i be foggy amongst the war
if i suddenly heard her car and horn as
she blows in frantic and got me off my
big zone would the trees seem so still
then would the bottle i not brace to
see fall and would all of a murderous
anxiety stifle right in the middle of my
soft gut fed by bad food and hunching
too much a regular golem amongst a
detached world an open door blue at
that repeating my nasty echoing back
to its flat bane of neutral making in no
speech that no one had to care to be
human but i think that sickens me you
care to be human you would you uh
lark of a person settled in your hut for
a week or two just someplace empty
the door says but i leave it be a critical
. . . . . . .
janky at the hinge door and feel the soul
as yet the melody of silent aloneness makes
a farrow plow the dry tongue wag peace
peace before the barreling arguments
of men and women come mortal as a flaw
committed to be framed to ruin us in focus
yet a seen beauty never bad no no and as
sunny tree branches little weeds and stuff
growths and guts themselves from the lot
lug leaves of the ghetto this long porch
where police take a quick look before the
bowl quickens to a pocket they dont
see it and all is obscenely normal as a
day in underwear or a weird pinch in palm
the police they soul search here and there
i guess but i who is that is yes is where
the metropolitan sits on his expense tired
here he has lost his vice to wastefulness by
understanding truly what is want when it
is what he has or had by now a degenerate
scaly fellow in need of a shower and good
shoes and her a girl to splay the black wires
on her head with a glance into a sea of nice
and terrified love and we to live by means
and limits paying money for a quick trick or
just going to work nomores no expenditures
i have forgotten about i say as i myself had
reached my limit and bow my head a golem
so that lives him king her queen of angering
for life us mortal in the dwelling and to be
meant to spill out our humanness forever into
a chest and she welcomely gives hers back
and by this we might expand to greater limits
by wading through the soupy discharge of
love alone a banquet for the error a flower
a date on a full moon and a jagged horn to
spin my peace i see these pretty objects my
porch my home a warm breeze selling summer
and no lease no bummer and i not alone
. . . . . . . . . . .
quick quick describe the nameless before we go to bed
find rental cars bound to the middle of your honest navel
jest funnily drag ramming the sides a lot of ruffling doors
smirk a winnow lest BARD bangs sickness in triumphant
ghoulish explosions to drop the airs again and choose
our quietus a single abandoned car you see is yours and
bloats you dropping digestion to the wreck of acids and
contain yourself as it is memories come out sans permission
your sex first delayed awhile to pay for fast food there at
the burger joint some such you care enough to not finish
and in the backseat you and her blow up with beauty a
very sickness to send tremors to the BARD send haunts
back to the beginning of the angle he had in you what
exactly uh was the channel wavelength we mastered o
tell me nameless girl what is this sallying forth to wiggle
as we eat up ourselves all night in the awkward moon
a plasma of silver and palpability amongst each breath
that gathered with each thrust to pull us aground as we
considered doom in the corner of an eye our children
in ourselves that cannot settle down all this a murk in
him this guy whom finding CAR begins again to stir the
poetry out of his lifeless husk a man begone always
from his acridity his selfs drift of savory pheromone and
key kept all the while he thought as he exuded smells
as he sweat it out he made to suffer images more
themselves begone and the girl forever bought now by
the clamp of some deep arm around her waist when he
made exit he thought again only of her face in some
field herself distant in strangeness turned a head by
neck to get a spree on whats awry for years i gunned
myself to death and is that image really worth a common
composite of various times and various fields all
vagabond all open to any choice for what they are o
and what has he left besides all these memories cramped
into a car soaked with age and vine around and wretches
of skinny weed and ugliness as like his own abstruseness
or the need to see and handle what doesnt fit in hands
or by page and page reminisce only on one purple dust
the moon begged her and him to see beyond into a depth
of kindness unknown since he has been cruel must have
to have been so long treated cruel they must have done
nothing it was he and he and he and all the car had been
was nothing but a rusty turn of neck in nameless fields
was nothing except a random coming sickness in insides
or roaming derelict over the shores of impeccable mind
and by this he was home and knew himself alone with
some humanity to keep him warm and working for that
place where kindness asserts despite the routine malaise
a bit bluesy as he had walked to his home raw and blank
after tracking for so long this meaningless object but
at least it had a name it was the BARD who shut up when
the man had rented the car the thing or object branded
with another thing to cite its swagger in the field of cars
which is slightly funny to be flashy and so shitty now so
gone to seed and where has this boy gone he is making
dinner he cries a bit at the stove his head is an entire funeral
. . . . . . . . . . .
i am made of old water that speaks in hearing
so then i hear the dappling waves of what i seem
as attempts at happy quandary i greet elevated
such as to brave perfection while in our sticky
chains to rant on the one hope to give up what
is to the big sense of what seems a better ink
to spread the pen or brush and take them as
own enough to drawl and drawl about what the
dickens is this if it think and yet not be some odd
writerly conceit a stomp upon the blessed vacancy
of artless mugs and dirty sheets that silently all
blather sense of themselves and call themselves
alive all the time each day more than pathetic
fallacy an open space for stony insensibleness
to drag the knife of psyche make a slit in the ache
of seeding crocus outside and japanese growths
in the quietude within that i hear myself hearing
and bless these dumb ordinaries as no sickness
but themselves by line and line a canvas that has
a mind and thinks persistently yes enough to
make the fool wise and yes by this i call to you
in return i call to test the breach as not but a slit
i say we have not thought that thought itself is
not finesse swiftness artfulness it is the style of
reality if any lord of grace could wager it and so
i make to call out wicked crowns those sheltered
within their taken poison living in the poison and
all but deaf of what is it they do as i am too i am
as poison proper the worst kid i belittle rapid glows
of chromatic intelligence in mugs or trees sheets
and call none of them a thing that is alive for i we are
in a palace of concept and yes there by aching hands
from shard to brick then fulness and release to
the granting prettinesses ruins raise to shelter
stuff as gone that would not be themselves there
nor heard if held in the screen of realitys things
i want to make embellishment the scroll the future
the unending syllables the paraded quotidian
beats hard there and appreciated impressions life
makes tend to gloss over so as to protect us all
from the shockingness of liberation in the best
degree when all of us that is point itchy fingers
to spell a sanctity when truth is common truth is
to lacquer sense with painted thickness over as
it grunts to trust this ship of fools a feeble lot with
poverties of logic swinging at their helm or even
a poison of daydream a superlative course or
mantle suspended high no we are here only and
only we as all of us attempt to drive ourselves
asunder and yes lead a path but no path is and
like a blip blip blip we crash wave on wave
and endlessly the stats give up the ghost only
to serrate the edges of life grown peacefully
to flatness with a true knifes edge just to get
to the bottom of nothing it is not that speech is
worthless but i want to hear my hearing not
cut through air i want to cut bread for my neighbor
and so yes each a tempered misgiving believes
the nocturnal absurdity here to hear hearing and
this only to not permit all else to have a bit or say
elucidate the senses by removing their snarky
persuasion their heavy coat of paint on some
eternity that has had itself made poor but true
which anyway would be at the bottom of nothing
of madness and pure solemn path of rooted eon
to a ground of water and a wetness dry enough
to dry beneath the feet and wetness to disentangle
throats for i am in the space where nothing is met
and justice lingers as a foreign devil in some heaven
while what has been is thus unspoken broiling to
be spoken even just to justify or enjoy some interesting
faults along the rim of the absent hole i cannot connect
as the shrugs of earth sink like the steps of a dry church
into a moving ground and miles of travel before this
question will be heard as one who hears himself hearing
as one who commits a page to inculcate the doldrums
the water greets me with its hounding lips to
make me bracken yes but a thinking one i spell it out
in pride but for myself have none as my chest goes up goes
down like water sans the rest and i my breath
and only breath to dwell a real better than some
hibernated skeleton the wind would flatten out
of desire to bring back to the brig not even a corpse
to maintain a mountainous point to keep demands
met by all for monarchies of selves drooling for themselves
to spell the name of water and be GOD forever while
embellishment will always sneak away into permanence
while the new rule becomes the old and the crown
extinguished and in place a new class of mortal.
: SOME EASY NVR
[the math on trees, the lake of man, the rotting squirrel in
barbed wire, the old abandoned warehouse, spicy italian
stereotype, goaded word, drunken altercation, sober altercation
[at sterile office birthday party], something too lame to be
weird, keys on the nightstand that exist, loads of grey matter
looking like puke on the sidewalk, often-cited wikipedia
entries, lofty grammar, bad moon boots with the soles torn, a
big porch, the sun, cancer, rituals thrown to the dogs, feeling
new in the morning, a trash bag weltered missing the dumpster,
empty compliments, a hurt look, someone picking his nose outside
of a gas station, forced normality to the point of plastic
ebullience, two people loving to argue feeling like it is not
worth it, a thing on the side of a house, a guy in a room
brooding in a fiery bed of tears or something, garbled
discussions about Schopenhauer, a perfect 10 farting through her
tight skirt, someone by saying nice ass, a contrived sense of
beatitude that wanes with each passing day, animals eating each
other, bats out of the cave, a tortoise shouting, a bug crying,
a lunatic hitting head against wall, some guy at a party talking
about perception, a rosary, sound effects, special effects,
flowers in a vase that really light up the room, broken
champagne bottles absolutely cloyingly poetic in the bad sense,
neptune changed around to something of a portmanteau like
neptomb which sounds more like napalm or at least looks that
way, how to see whether a word looks or sounds wrong?, an
aloneness aloofly asks his absent nephew, dead now these three
years today, shuffling papers, eyes falling out of sockets
randomly, acid rain, the awesome power of something or something
the like, GOD dozing head down at its desk, a person who smokes
too much, letting an old lady onto the bus before you get on,
laughingly hilarious quasi-redundancy, the pyramids, the wonders
of blankness, an egyptian packie owner glowering behind
fiberglass panes, three teens kill four, some fat father calling
people on the news talking heads and leaving at commercial
break to shit and coming back to his seat at table gruntingly,
fake comebacks, ruses, roses, a girl who likes poems,
maddeningly revolting pockmarks on the surface of mars, subject
matter, paragons disestablished, new criticism, writers,
thinkers, doers, sayers, none of these, all of something else
that is not that but that causes a man in his forties to crack
up in wisconsin and buy a ferrari he cant pay for, someone else
really far away using parataxis as a writing device, poetry-as-
surprise-attack, unquenchable thirst for beer, making bacon,
cigarette break, foul smell emitting from break room, honest
conversations about nothing at all, heavy-handed statement about
de facto racism, mobs of thinking grease at the edge of primeval
looking back at their shorn mindless protozoa, everything and
nothing or some lazy duality like that, carrion being thought of
as a good word, razzmatazz seen as too gaudy-sounding, seeing
sounds, ingesting information, losing information thru nasal
passages, a word given to return his fathers car in one piece,
people starving, fattened people, loads of china white fresh to
the inconspicuous port, someone watching requiem for a dream and
really digging it, an irish lass using her webcam to post
pornographic videos of herself to dailymotion, someone crying
all this out leaves someone different a special peer to suit his
own army of worshippers as like any feathers bleeding out of
biblical wounds, something defecating off the highway, landfill
turnt and twisted into something breathtaking, trash, garbage,
allusive newspapers to the latest attack not witnessed by those
writing the article-scripture, a thumb broken, a tick sorely
there in the skin, a triumphant bedazzling of apartment with
antiques and dead logs, wrong things said by lots of people for
awhile, a new spin, a new tornado comprised of debris sans the
peaceful center, all debris, all madness, all a difference and a
persons waste begun in the prolapsing rectum then celebrating
the release the internal organs communicate via moving and
shifting around the gas and pressure, an old lumbago never taken
care of, a paintbrush used as a horsehair lacquer for the
shave, the phrase a close shave, a manger under the christmas
tree made of vague shit, almost pain, someone greeting pain like
some faithless crippling stuff that gives up in a person, music
playing in the background of a modest hotel, people seeking
there for themselves an intimate space for sex, wordsex purely,
magnifying the zone erogenous, lucid, crazy, heroically
personal, inspired practices craving solitude for while people
disperse their distractions like gunshot my way and yes and yes
all of it pleasurably widespread as the end of the world, and
neither here nor there.]
. . . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .
WOE AND WOEFULS,
feast on twilight
devour the poorness of the mind
leave only sunglow aerie and meek
in the mornings orange dripping
only that that is left
i have in my big sclera a little chair for me innodunce
grey fug of brainmatter worrisome.
some channeled instinct in the swamp
of mind. dwells as hog and wolf.
the smell of hidden tentacles.
moon is bleach and corrosive
it is eaten glows the mind has tossed
this aside, flaws believable.
feeling this is unheard of, robust,
a foregone yard in need of priestly waltzing.
i have in my sclera a careless ruffian, mourning snake
each leg of squid a viper each viper eaten slams
the breed of such laughing nevers made of yawls
or some shit of a looped price paid forever as we
as pigeons to breads and lunatic unaccomplishables
and comebacks lost and not but wolfwash
we is she the one on martyred people for the plaques
what is it she wishes of the vision i burst all guts open
clench tight my asshole for the we become
breaking bread for some shit i dont fathom but is there
and made of urge urge urge an age of simple ash
and dreary trees the light thrown casually on their hollow.
hog wolf black church bells for the automaton of recognition
or some absorbing into the limits themselves very different
from the stuff of million flowers on the pace of pride they
themselves are made rich by their own sappy righteousness
which blooms in my mind the greed of lucky folk weird
with offhand unworthiness this is both it is nothing and
also more nothing or just for the mean stills of time i crave
it is for me only i write this i need to keep in touch
with what has for so long been departed
so long gone, so precious in leaving to clothe me
in sheets of halloween phantasm and direct steered into
the bench blonde with light from the lamppost
that does not exist, how could i love reason when
it has made me niggard for the finest hope or
invisible notion of its no more of hecatomb or reviling
i am a polotical prisoner help i made a death live again
i ran and ran naked in the sun i never saw or scurried
like a small cat in the name of all that ever was or will
i will what sucks bring me back to the good shit again
shall i?
why?
because i am made of amber and am truth inundated
with so much to make my carriage break beneath beams
and lumped in saints whom have their own still mouths
i want family, i want more, i send you basic whams
that trill in the distance a manifold slaughter of chains
they are wrecks of belief and scowl for the urge that plants
an empty energy in significant paramour
to make lair of his suns he as i switch pronouns
like a brazen teacher made of oldness reaching in purrs
gold light on the methlike fascination smoke the living
bare death like a give into the gut of chores done for the good
i write this shit shit shit i spit on it
no more dont tattle on me
you lump in my god you chore in my facsimile you
origin uncared for nor plucked in fear of riven
or cost by acquiesced bets for the parochial lady
as it rains diamonds outside of the entire world.
with a morning shifting, moving
like one disturbed in bed
it is twilight is hunger and dreamy space
it is aloof a stare comprised
of screaming
sit on the chair young one dismiss
old words after the dust runs leaking damage
into interested yawns of unkillable marks
made to kill ye who takes it to business to hurt
yet what do i say to the white of me eye
what peeping must i do to see myself friendly
what would the soggy suggestions manifest
before my belly made of empire and draconian
sunglow wants to please it please
as like huffed glue the breath taking
time to mar deceased biding death to rock
a man alive with pureness and entrance into bluffs
of form drooling lackadaisical the dreams dead by now
or in debt to life for themselves being alive
and in service to this the sun is also the moon
the roots into my heart are doors made of dark staring
madness for a frigid understudy or solid slits
an embodiment of rather filled up scars of hiking light
up to the wandering lessened reason for the bruise
dismissive a cranny skipped a dolt there in chair
bold the work goes to the pantry for choosing the
aching bread as i mumble in the other room she
dresses her children she is going to normal she
sets her teeth wishing the molars themselves
smile or wend poise out of just a flash of seeing them,
others broken tan in the mirror of the sun as the moon
licking errors to belligerent lifts into boors with cameras
assiduous they blame beneath motherly mask to go next
and then plenty breathes for the fumes of socking the eye
ranted as stocking a regular port for lusterless unbelievable
and crazed with pared hours from the dough served listlessly
by the cracking bone, another bonny train, another lot of
corruption, baking filled in slits and voids matter tongue
romance lives yes romance a penchant she has to care
. . . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .
FOR MR. SLOTH,
jaded, a single crack a sign
the writer lets a bliss become half-bliss, touching
tiredness, they whom respect of giving all could only
honestly redeem the awesome rest,
to favor critics bloom a better study out the object
or design inside the lusting visionary, they whom love
art shall beat the beauty subtly in themselves in other artists,
and nurturing analysis to better more his peers, he
wills something questionable, devoutly there,
a maelstrom in the key thats wise for wrong,
an ample rarity is had for all, who in this time
will love themselves to death as i had dreamt,
one day years ago i felt this coming,
i mated with its ghost and found there nothing
at nucleus but repairs of nucleus, as if
to turn the curtain one had to make just
the drama of the searching, finding fears,
impelling self towards belonging, all of us is
grass, an alienated personage is one
in the crowd, as i defy a symptom, turn it source,
and quake with my booty of desirables,
while artists WHY WHY WHY themselves to death
and bless the work, upon a salience to
mark the big wideness of their portal into
reason for the madness made of this culture,
this earth of searching lonelinesses wanting a
carve off the cake, the knife bloody
and serrated, rusty and magnanimous with
obeying our frustrations real consuming for
the sake of something piss poor as a sale for pennies.
trust on, for more will give up making love to
that disappointing ghost, and have real jobs.
the rest remain. that is their earnest sin.
a stint in failure aint enough, it goes and goes,
and all of us is grass cut by some weird lawnmower
made of rain that feeds us so thereby, a matter
trembling like my thighs that sit themselves in
daunting ownership, convulsive mistake, true ruin
and infinitesimal success that proves a rite
for those who wish to sell a million dollar piece
of art: yeh welcome all with equal hope, see bigness
everywhere, in everywhere that ones are across
globes of blobby, peripheral selves, meeting
or no, quiet or large with speech. my spectrum
while sore with stretching will stretch my follies into
soaking spheres of grass as round as paradigm,
and fantasy, and honorable relief, sound judgment,
purism, blockaded badness, an army for the
fallen, a hope, free umbrella, free umbrella, free
umbrella, and let the rain march on
as beating hurts the blood through stranded hearts.
. . . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .
A RUNNING JAGUAR WILL MAKE A LITTLE,
faster than i am the man i will become,
he hankers affirming needs all that luck can give
he masters his blunt objects hurting beneath
his passiveness a wrath
his roar languid out the canopies
like something damn fervent for a liquid sound of the truth
thru a coarse filter an emigrating shame
from dusk by light to follow stipend pounds
a heresy a choice to bang hints like obviousnesses
hunting goes a little sound of the jaguar
a realm that paces along where this pome is
and mates with that diode that perceptive sphere
that lone carnage bright midst a days repetition
he is the desire returning like something
like a vanished bolt hushed before the commiserating
company that blurs a hag for her dear mysticism
he always holding on the twining brushes a filter
between himself and the miserable realms
a spotty pragmatism
filled with equivalent abstraction
if even looked at kindly would be praised a drift
before the wind surfing across visibility wiping out
the terrific bastion of his animal pluming
a noise astounded for the buzzing flies uncomprehending
in the thick dungeon garden for the vicious waif
to breathe a space out of brokenness
into a thing less trapped by the infirmities engaged
too long for mustering hapless little joints to life outside
of erring drags all along fury and a dight to please ghosts
he is not there is not anywhere what
then do i speak of for him now i say she does jaguar
blood blood food torn open belly a mastiff jaw
a renegade a thing which to guard
would be to let down with what people the weak
and riding horror rather sits to penetrate shame into work
and nada enough to quieten lockless considerations considered
landlocked there is a forest there a jungle trepidation
unrelief a pressure a need stressed
i need for him and here the jaguar deep in greeny plenty
subterfuge somewhere back in the middles of spheres and
arrogance too long taken down i have no singing
left theres monstrous enough to fix here better keep going
so much for an ever-engendering expanse
so much for infinities of wisdom
so much lollygagging on this porch without
and within hungrily unhappy as if that itself to express
would desecrate to shambles the rest i describe
i drool over litter over the bad nights layered press
and focus a foreign delicateness
open like the bellyskin a fort of taste and arbitrary
delivered by madness by anxiety cannot expect escape
everything hurts forever
in the roil of jungle and crunched space
and fear permeating everything as rise the sills of canopy
and ornate architecture of put leaves by an untamed creator
of creature and space for life to live realized
for a spent interaction between mumbling animals ghosts
of grunts and words an endless imprimatur sorry
for the wolds mistreating in the vowels flowering and sifting
and bracken and nature generally
and feelings generally a fusion a poor landscape infringed
upon with fears of fallen languages for a buzzing grope
waiting to sting itself into decency i descend back
the sound into its throat from where whence of the cat
and scowl at myself for the unwritten
lines of discernible mesh discovery all of a piece
all of a piece a corruptible ah ah uh a regular nest of noia
an error unblessed trying to be blew itself into frequent
a genius why of a way a rather ample blackboard
to spray into fire and life to leaf thru pages of dank jungle
repeat for myself piss out the rage and
with it the man i will become
. . . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .
SOUL CONTROL,
i am within a world that i forgive
each day, and pant along a solemn rote,
my managing refuses to betray
what winds may come and which may seal the note,
and still, this ancient seraphim i see
that kills a force, and dumbs me out of breath
to snatch her flitted wing, taking me
forever in her baring of my death
upon a waxen image, broken, alone,
affixed to grandeur, barely of the guard
i keep myself to win a marble tome
that hides me off, they snooze as marred
inbred illusions of the things i know i put
into a world that i forgive, as yet
an unaccomplished wisp my mind makes to gut
of everything i possibly could bet,
while in a flash the thing recedes, i chase,
give up a life or two to pander god,
and stiffen if it gives me bits of grace,
and lurch upon the push of something odd.
this world is word, is strange to group the syllable
in plenty, is a name for nameless care
for what i cannot blunt away again
into braille, numerals for comfort, swine in twain
of handfuls of a world that turns a back or two
and misses parentage, the boy is hung
and swings at six, a rafter to portray a managed mind,
but if i am so kind,
let this recede along with wicked angels,
and let me go again into my desolate
empire, let me breathe to have a waste at least
in hands too sucked by fleet things and wrong truths,
let me go. let me gore. let me sing death and throwaway.
begin my harm today. its liturgy i follow in bad company.
for who is this that means to throw a wrench
into my hunch for birthing commonplaces in a place
the much beguiled an image for the fortune of some
plastic prince, retarded king, fucked queen,
a princess shorn by heroin, thats whats there,
and all my care for emptiness yet squandered to
an orphic defeat, eager for the doom from time
immemorial, a dropping inch of water
into the pool, and then there comes the tool
of swarming mouths that want a cancer seized upon
its vocable rendition of the vocable,
its interest in the siege when blends my acting
into life, and i am made a style of the man that hands me gold,
i reach a pretty hand to mold
this miracle that know not what it is, the size of spirit
and in volume of the river beckoneth me,
no turning back, not one, not three,
. . . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .
BROTHER DEATH,
face me, brother death, and find me lost.
for i have made an utterance of you.
farfetched whatever channels back, the cost
of leading nothing to the nothing, crew
of maligners, sadless bags of crate
and dust in there to haul to its importunate
glance back at what had always been to hate
of feebler joiners, peripheral, each so fortunate
as to be shoddy as not the blazing pearls
i thought wherein i could have made big price
for something other than an empty brag to girls,
a need to have a gift when there was ice
as rare to be in summers of bad brood
as almost a misery in a positive time,
when i had still been body, mode, and mood
therein cramped in the fastidious crime
of talking more beyond when it was late
enough to break the night to terror days
reprove the night for wearying fate
for lusterless afternoons, tardy lays
after the urge still done to compromise
more ceilinged energies the mind worsens
more as come me thru my very eyes
and i have made a proof that coarsens
everything and all beyond a talk,
a say, and endless melody of being
right among the fogginess of rock,
left a prison for me to go on reeling
back to crass belligerence and forward
assumptions as to characters of men
ones psyche makes, a brave, a coward,
a man insane: within a furnished den
he lies about conditions swept beneath,
and follies pencil, merges with a sounding
clamp whatever aleatory sheathe
to properly infold a curse abounding
twilight into new erratic properties
that shag the day a day later than breaths
could make alright, some prime impediment
displays in speech i talk out of dismay
for being so long coming to unravel real,
to break a source, not ever hunger, deny
deny, bear teeth even to square the test and
burn in vagary, multiply your anger, dullness paid
for being to long coming, brother death,
brother death, too long a fumbling
stretch or period of evening time the world
forgot and curled into a curdled breach, which
while it saturated all else, was uninspired,
left, put back on the shelf after a pages petty
reading, redone later for a penny, i am worth the
sulfurdust i brought in barrels barreling, and
on this jetty leave a homeless parable, garbled,
jarring, stormed to acrid acrid stink and lifenegative,
bemused, apart from feeling, circumspection
on the trivial triumvirates of edensense and passing
passive boredom recompense for lively deaths
unsoothe, and dry a wit begs one: forsooth, my
lovely arrogance is all i have today, the puppeteer
is tired of bedraggling my body, not a tear, not too
deep, not fear i have to face the faceless,
when all i have is anyway so graceless.
. . . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .
THUMPING OUT A DAY, A DAY, A DAY,
consider the day: an accomplishment
in any case, its twelve hours being awake
is followed by a time we have to dream.
if one is careful to live, the mind recedes
and one is living truly, sans a mind of
horrible miscalculations, and so deathly
boring, riotously blank, so recede the
rights to freely think, for the sake
of being people to their jobs they have
captured, with a meteoric pride to sting
those less fortunate to function. by the
thrall of misty days their habitation
displays a tiredness, a fanatic turn to
lull, while others hurry, twitch a nose to
release a sodden fly, commiserate at
bars, are they at sunup less begrudging
of needing to be human, or are the less
able therein more honest in the slouch
towards respite, needing more by having
too much of any sort of feeling for the
day they let pelt them with incisions into
mind from the very wanted blankness
others easy take and strain until bedtime?
and what is this a smell of? priesthood?
amicable courage, understandable saving,
hating the awry? no. we all are tired,
functioning or no. we feel the mist blow
and penetrant with wind assail the sun
into its forgetting. so much of sense one
brutalizes merely by forgetting such
and such. so much for the birthright of
a will determined to loose itself into a
world of somatic diligence, as mind
grows rusted, antique, unfounded,
anyway mistreated. and yet is the mind
a curse. is the mind a solitarily crouching
beast naked within a jungle of blurs and
stains upon it, stoned to bloodiness by
fundamentalisms and pogroms and
tribunals, nobody cares, not a soul for
the day gives to its essence purely, and
history is the most of the infinite we
have, the past, that those have been
before who have hiked up into realms
the days that follow now can only
threaten into slavery, with a present as
palpable as nastiest oblivion, wave it
goodbye, the intellect goodbye, the
passionate raving, the idols crashed,
wave questions bye. only in the sultry
afternoon we seek anything but what
we do not realize we are cramped
within, do not think the present has, truly,
been, do not believe but what the past
typifies, explains, and we as blinking
priests bless a courage to get discomfited
and full of self-blame, rearranging the
intense mosaic into a better picture of
the fathomless: o pharaoh of action, wreathe
of fire the crown around the head of him
who doubts, let you go upon the new world
withal its cage of all us in a cloudy present,
the past, that we all us had been before
we had as individuals held aloft above a
casket, tenuous as trash, breaking into
muscle: forgo all you who live in
blankness, who see no kings that have
their immortal hands holding your frame
above yourself: celebratrate the fall,
for none - can - go afoul. here is this:
an empty music sang, better than none
at all. it is all meaningless. and that is
breathtaking. there is only more room
for meaning. consider the day a planet,
one, withal the rest of void. why not put
to test its insignificance? why not bleed
impressive meaning from the mortal wound?
why not crumble all and everything for the
sake of intellect, o pharaoh so dear? why:
. . . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .
RECENT PASSING,
are you from new york on the stoop of estaminet
in hellish manhattan emitting recent crucible and
alive with personal famine he with no game for a
week after the death of his a prior displacement
lurched thru seeming an arid sphere like something
lush but no it is the sad nature of his wifebeater
under the coat squatting lighting a square burnt
as it is sent his very teeth obliging the negatory
heights the man feels gross for his happiness a
squandering or amorality or a waste of mourning
negative negative some dogs fighting as yelps
fill the street angry with sunsoak and no deliverance
no move to the village now he vied for blindness
to be the way he considers his tears not a bad grand
still as still stillness reconnoiter with the suits under
overpass landing a gig for some futile bar a mattress
soiled with sweaty parlance a language for the
doubtful peasant himself so landlocked so poor so
underaged to have died he thinks passive numb
drunk and unimportant with feelings a big weight
smoking more than ever as the confusions
antagonize and the dogs hurt themselves stupidly
and he watches like a dazed practitioner his objective
thousand yards studying his cold gyro eaten with
regrets he will not end in some rare afternoon climax
no rise no spasm not wide language for the sins
for the perturbed cancellations of feeling the thing
for a son of grace only to find himself uplifted
and scarily without reason his fault the deal was
a bad sorta shit happened damn me all to hell o my
god what had he didnt have any didnt make a
scene felt bloated with iceburglettuce drenched in
stupor by now a ghostly demeanor now aspired to
only lift his eyes a bit more confidence less pain shit
this things my thing this rolls a murmur back into
a heart of sludge and mess and sold self and fakery
blunt with himself he despised the good feeling away
and one day it returned more hopeless despondent etc.
and mean with worry the man pisses in solitude carrying
on in his hovel only languishing only living more or
perhaps if i am king of this poem he lives for long for
forever even maybe he never dies maybe he is a thing
wept over by some bullshit upstairs that cares about
the sanity of this inflicted by loss and loneliness a
premature disgust with self leads to douse one with
enduring falterings turning to his rig to settle down
only one with the pause only to embrace that for the
good of horror at his son that had once lived and
by his hand to him could only say lived once, once
upon a time, he left to hellish fantasies and moves
to harlem, cheapening place, cheapening pace, going
forward but just to satisfy the beau attitudes he the
man on stoop finds disgraceful that is that he should
not die along with his son i as god make a metaphor
of so short life denied on his hand from being what
he goes and goes towards nothing but an ill horizon
a sense the more knowledgeable a cruel immortality
a basic screen to torture one they to fly against it
never having death always in the static, bizarre lushness
of a horrifying forever i make it so it is he lives a death
and honors funerals they be his own he walks a slum
or two a street or two and looks for guns concealed
plies in the wrong place, goes wild, ailment unsettled,
and what so long displaced: he knew this fate,
he knew: he knew the badness of his sludgy heart:
. . . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .
STANDARD FAILURE COMPULSIONS AND COMPLEX,
of what should i speak to debilitate myself
just to understand what i would need to come back
what would need to haul up from enfeebled briefness
a long age for time to stand itself astounded
as i gather reap collect what have you of what of death
a thing a solidity hanging heavy by the breath and so
i hav driven to understand that by the words of a friend
who has seen little of me and yet he spoke my aim
who is as slick as a cat between the bars of the crazy house
and should i be as thin as that just grief the preamble
to a sense of the well leave me unsettled
with a few dry words a horn for the pain to drum keys
a piano all over the concept of pain pain to live in
and by that darkness deliver drive to what strummed pluck
requires a man brave man the brave man to speak ageless
in the long neon run a bruise upon the glow it is us there
hush hush you speak as to get away from yourself
you lion of praise that gives a shit that alien friend of fringe
between his cubs doubled over them from poaching blackness
and money take none be thin be starved and to die for
the good a maze filled with complications an uncertain shore
drafty and for the queue of life to stand querulous i hope
i hope i have not met my greatness yet it is before the time
i grant myself i have been an automatic stride of things
i waltz on the fake subject telling it fake it is known already
an age to dance and celebrate the stupid fakeness
it is a good thing it is alright
live for the shuffling vinyl creak
it slaps water of weird weeping
margent a gent is upon us
a good guy regular as beans his waved flag in hand
he says hello to the odd shit and it comes crawling back
to a half body half root of tree of fire fed to blossom
into some different awhile ago it was different thing a peace
no licentious howl no police asking for my license just regular
make a party make a mind for those you love thats what i want
but that has waned and a squire for beckett i am instead
but bless the awesome jungle of notes and keys would you
i just teem with subjects i let them make of me a frosty therapy
because i am the stolid dew on grass wanting to really be
to really inhabit a gross fear but different i prepare
to test myself turn a magic eye upon a commonalty a tribe
i of ruby stone delectable beauty eat it hoggish warfare
big wash bilingual meanings meanings for the sloshing boat
connect urge with some different space some thing thats not it
bleed a day as night connect finite particles particular ones
rousing as bleak purpose for the fair child in port a nice one
i want something that is not what i want that is exactly it
how absurd and base how trenchant a concept really it is
for truth is only an untrue untruth a
thing through the cracks yea
bled monsters skimping on the deal getting beat some shit
that would be enjambment or some wrath of meter
a fumbling chick for her keys
singing like notes before upon evil
her skin shattered with panic she is
for the dolt to dirty she
believes she is toast he makes sick music of his awfulness
but that is another story i suppose i could never make
besides what it is beaten to death i cant make a need of
things so bad they twist my look into a stupor of overwhelming
rage bless this for it is confusions highest death a seizure to
start again to trace decrepit circles dusty with hummed matter
trade the homeless for tacos no i do not think so or some
giant making a drumming anxiety in the big forest
or fluting birds stopping as she lies in a gutter o yea
after gunpoint couldnt persuade i bled distance left the plod
of giants a murder for my true flowing to color with bad words
fuck fuck see the explaining shore lapp slashingly seas
down to fall out in a bathroom needle in arm
bad shit is bad shit would be cruel to turn it well i suppose
so i remain slick thru the bars
like a cat in heat bleak is bleak
cant make that good
as i make assay of my normality
like smoothe jazz smothered in boring in the egyptian limo
taking us and everyone in the world to the place where
everyone has really black raven hair for some reason a port
of air or airport different from a port in air like stevensgod
a portent rings like keys of piano to unlock the car
but on the trees and splayed out in the gutter na dont
dont think about it course through veins said that before
and regular as peach the patio is a thing that exists in the sun
and a bowl of rice is a weeks worth of feeding unbelievable
only the rugged thoughts given worth to the regular
could bless the running tires of the poachers vehicle
with dark bloody blood or something like a patio in the sun
and blood flowering naked confusions spread luck
over the butter as it itself spreads over the magnificent toast
and that is also what is the rapists victim: so: how to feel
about any of this if any of this could be sense how furtive
would lucidity be how would a runt be a giant but for
a logical rut undue to dig out of we must out of respect
remain totally raped by the entire world forever to spy
inconvenient saviors at the wrong time of day or in a spell
of naught we ignore as seeing backhanded ourselves
the nefarious troubling thing that chases to save all us
beleaguer that point will u until the unit stops being matter
and zero counts as something not what sense whats it into
a whole void makes battle cry with the indecent flagwaver
who a cloak over the bloke make sheets of deepness
grow a fine fire round the knees of space cranegod that was
sore explosion trust a name for your wreck you are backed
by what you have learned i trail your honesty i dont know
what this is is it i astounded at amphibious the learning lurch
through bogs of content an expression of the brain i would
be happy to make an amazingness of this regular shuffling
of cards make a savor donned in priggish pollyannafaced
mandibles of shoulderstrap and golden godlike tassels
and maybe at the hand at victrola to spruce a tune up that
he made alone for the big fucking ball later he wants wonder
he wonders where is tha cat now i wow myself into spectacle
a grunting harassment of oblique nonsense grey matter
of the brain representative of wanting get beyond fire blossom
something changes every so often usually everywhere
i will knee you in the nuts yu clutched my bosom she will
fuck you up berate your teeth with her alive spunk a foot
into them methhead still dumb mind a broken man no morals
just in need of oral not this time kid please risk your death
for dignity i will do not worry little voice in my boggy head
a raise asked for will not be ogled over so keep it secret
for the big fucking ball is a new mythology of invention best
do what i have always done risk everything in order murder
commands me to death in debt she wanted a raise she
was waitress walking in parking lot at night that night a freak
watched her and how to make any of this like a cat thru bars
or a lion protecting cubs or tunes of space clutched in keys
pianos horns people on the way to black hair as lordly straight
as INSERT FAMOUS MASCULINE ACTION HERO ACTOR HERE
oh no more carnage more nerve against loving logic logic
sexless doe was too good for ye ye dumbfuck thief of reason
you deny deny deny yu die whats death again i thought
it was a twitter of birds magpies in trees singing empty vowels
made magical with syllables a melody induces calm science
of the mind of matter geraniums of confusions spectacle
atop a halting single
eye a march of judgment letting itself pass
in the merchant for his silk to east india a trade a stock
he doesnt need a raise as much and isnt all of what i said
before about protection really and conflicts of that with
being caged is not what should be done what is wanton and
irreligious with flustered newness unsupposed as victims
who think home is a drive away how should i feel a celebrant
for the wicked tunes that hover like a languor of smoke
above a terminal filled with people cigarette in hand hundreds
of them i am them all of them i am hundreds of people i am
also myself along a selfish way my girlfriend wants to break
up my asshole wants to stop clenching itself my dick wants
to piss pee out of its main vein i am vein i am the despicable
capable of nothing that is exactly what i flaunt with teasing
impossibilities posed like happy emptinesses a wound to charge
with idiocy blood diluted a simplistic train wreck into smokers
new filler filler filler make it better cant deny the seen then
deny more shit leave everything out of the box theres a seal
a holy vaunted marriage
of all with all which is amoral there that
id is what obliges us murder and corrupt hate the world with
me now so normal to do that nowadays as if such could be
a rewarding schedule in the place of daily prayer wish the world
dead with wretchedness
already a blanch on the balance a
burn of the books a tool for little
by little an anticipatory strangeness
something a loss filler filler
filler repent repent repent ignore
ignore ignore hate hate hate but live
live and die well please i
beg myself dont let the arguments a dilettante provocation
wept by seeming drowsiness drowning in judgment the victrola
is a spastic glittery paradox of water not water but that is bc
it is filleted in the wood of word and want stupid cur of biting
reason at my heels it chases me like a savior should a savoring
breach of chance into definiteness a solid hour of dug splinters
by the thousand carving ye hand into ye head a music dappled
with slaphappy water you will one day never see again it will
just breed,
and tailcoat your life out of existence it will write under
whitmans leaves a whispered strength a mandible from depths
is my dream a phantastic bourgeois for the ill wrought mighty
to gild to make a broach of weeds to snip furious trash to use
a benchmark as a place to sit your ass and moreover to finally
howl unexpectedly and to the rhythm of shared thoughts ad
infinitum for the skylark is the
tree and is the bush the skylark
is they who launch after twitching
a wing to the next place to
get jugfuls of water to the bearing down man on thrones a
scandalous touch of greatness assumed tho beneath a great
man i shall take him at the talk and fade into being a guy
into assuming flourish to charge with a big lance going to
the immaculate ribs of furthering fortunes blasted handle on
to that a failure must i focus i must focus deranged and
distracted sell the point as to how you feel now says i tell
your feet to scream with itch master the smell of burnt plastic
and nicotine in the tray this
bed this lonely isle of the piss poor
so much we revel in the idea of the horrible all estranged
so very that all of us must
create i must make a point, i must
be earnest that is all i expect from
myself filler filler filler stop
this self talk you banter and cluck
like a rooster brought to life
within a space of matter outside
of the entire universe the
brain of shoulder tassels for the ball what else who else but
states could recompense delays that i have sanded shut
for nothing is what it seems urge on my sober friend get blown
by pretend evil little tykes screaming achoos as they gulp
but thats a drastic distance from the point itself a drastic
distance from the point already made the made man hung
himself in the big palace on the hill citizens cope with give
sans take merely they waste money on ungratefulnesses
for the sake of complete mental relaxation a serene purple
place for ultimate feelings and untrippy concepts just a one
diameter one straight launch of the loogie thru straw or stone
from the slingshot or hurtling boulder from the ancient giant
now as time passes a distance distanter than any reason to
mar with quoting could resuscitate blue
lungs filled filler filled
and pleasant the face the granola shithead or shiteater with
his grin likewise oh do we all hang from the banister tossing
our schoolbooks at the years end vie vie for the freedom
of the near sexual appreciation of vacation and stoppered
glory at summers end more similar to blueballs but consider
the tripe people put out as poems is it
not still freeing or is it
if done for labels names identities
something more like a highly
deliberate and committed lie to life
fake it till you well till you
continue faking it but over time will seem to make it as AA says
my ame is alms to blather and blather so sorry for your loss
clich clich stupid wretch theys
interesting renegades out again
in their jalopy firing a squad
of gunmen looking for high up places
sniper at tower shoots pregnant lady
guy in trunk of car blows up
gestation nobody ever found the
jerk summer of sam zodiac
all this gruesome belligerence at
tha hand of a knife and all this
struggle not to give life up torn
skirts bruised hands in self defense
where to shoot the gyre then where that is to allay the problems
that are a few people out of earshot from the disgusting truth a
manic psychotic depressive lunatic harvard professor a sane
psychiatrist same difference dont hire the good hire the bad
so that it feels good to fire them and go postal yourself at the
havoc they cause we all everybody should just be allowed to
murder at least 40,000 people before we die is this poetry
it seems more like snooty edginess or some vanilla shit from
this vanilla guy renouncing thrones to where take the waterjugs
and marrying a frigid frump or shrill viper what to choose
between
i truly really want to resist
duality even by starting wrong anyways
or just being a contrarian asshole
is that enough to wear your leather
to be your cool guy to tip
sunglasses just beneath the eyes like a
cruise of tom that is i am being weird and facetious now but wow
the particles grey matter bleeding redly out of brain spank that
monkey follow that gator to the gallows hang a gator cheap punk
smell all that incense was incensed at overpaying the hippie
returns to the store with random
holistic shit and runestones inside
only to find that like the
tasselsman at his victrola for the big
fucking ball it all and everything makes
love with chaos and as
the devil dont change once danced with he as the tasselsman
beeps oinking coinages as like drowning before a trough and cats
fear chinese restaurants for obvious reasons well anyone would
fear always oblivion a chastener beyond chasteners what if tho
this whole thing has a core trickling down up to the middle of
wherever i decide to end maybe it will be a bad knee hit against
sharp angles while muscles twine
again working overtime to
repair a cyst all and all and
all of it more out of it than doubloons
to pay for anything do those even exist or were they just pirate
slang like way long ago random wondering of something adds
a risky fissure to what is already a quake of dragging syllables
down draining slow as syllabub wheres the maker of the mark
wheres the cairn wheres the runestones lobbied for by hippies
wanting to return incense and finding a new interest and topic
of conversation with the owner of the
store forgetting thereby
about being ripped off and a little
high gets ripped off again but
all this is naught bloody naught water
made of blood in jugs lets
brace ourselves to have recognized
the middle mark at least
let us brain the world numb sleep it with the fishes even tho
70% of the world already is i believe take it back to present
since something interesting happened in reality apparently
a screeching tire guess somebawdy wanted to put pedal to
metal hirelings abound but no jobs maybe that is why awful
murders are because nobody has filler for the time so it just
passes like molasses and then upon breaching the dirty void
one goes blank and shoots everybody dead what a wretched
world but i speak under leaves i am the grass they fall upon
i am i declare a hue of the reasonable segue denied for
brilliant heave and flow meter and dancing of the fucking ball
maestros control with a flit of candied flute or something
people good at what they are good at these days are not
recognized have a nice day i sat a cat down on the thrones
i mixed harpies i witched lava to life i went to my dume for
the duke of dunes wretched sand celebrant a penetrant blight
worse than locusts makes lacoste the focus hang the gator
segue denied to surprise description of present a fitting gift
to girt the filler together to sly
the ages out of reckoning more
than a skinny cat a void made of
horrible shit or something is-
-sown in my mind but once quoted is not that really regalia
shoulderstrap magee there taking a womans breath in 1800s
someone named HER escapes rapist for a long time failure
we must celebrate that we or at least i am intellectually
celibate i depend upon inspiration i take my wow at myself
for granted i grant a grand to the hirelings whom needing
work call for any type and in desperation lend money for
nothing nada a pin drop sounds suddenly like screeching
tires the world is a bowl of cereal the world is also a buzzing
yellow jacket against the walls of an old navy store nag nag
make it new? hah? the only thing left to make
new
. . . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .
is failure? o dear sweet god what?
your prayer smells like trash.
you feel around an endless body of water. i meanwhile
go on uttering for forgiveness as the man burns to ash
yet he was a man. that is what all remember before
the rain dance. let him have his critical period of life,
put a finger to your lips. i am filled with flies that greet
me as i pass into garbage. nowadays folk fuck too much
and love the layers of grief. roaches stink. but those
are just words. so are the queer shrill bats hiccuping into
abominable night. they have their own lesson, just as i
am stuck in a bathroom, stand on my toes, think of
something to bring to light, trade spate for sapien, live
to sit a toxin down for his mobbed glasswares all over
the carousing infidels, bleed crumpled up pieces of
[paper]
. . . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .
it is rain, and the dividing sun seems within
some deeper state beyond anything
implied, spoken, casual as nude pears
caught, implied, and left as what they are;
locates a tranquil center of uplifted war in the drops
that perceive themselves as autumn in the jug,
tossed worlds into the characteristic backseat:
a thread thrown to search not slay the fibrous
heaven made by what is rain: a weak throat
tempted still to make fable of the drift of drizzle thrown
with stinking moth-eaten robes and clothes, again
not shared, not welcome, not infinity nor fortified in
muddy consequence: i let the measurable delay
a proper speech to make a picture of that healing:
a crevice, a balm a center of a suns approach in
speaking to make one crave more music here,
an optic prim to slake a tad the tanner attitudes,
unique elaborations, misdeeds felled by the larks
of memory, always as unfocused as the hassling light
upon a blinking world now of the drizzle and staid
as rock of nonsense, bellied born needs for form
as recourse from a mandatory loping off thats all
disease, all makeup, all imperative to understand
and bind, each drop a letting not of but for the waste,
intended not unkind but full of dreams: serenity,
the state a hope, the sunlight not even the rain,
nor is the rain reflecting rain to plow a context
out of rubble, but rather pleasures life away into
thinking, wept seeping onto ground that dries it:
a miracle of proverb unfilled for worth, a massive
orb each, that falls not even secondary on the
secondary concrete that worlds fill up with,
that manners cry to see, that loafers denounce
so as to make their ease a point not unraveled
because its potency lies life on the floor, the ground,
the earth of incarnation of abrupt thru the abrupt
incarnation, existing thus beyond the words a casual
friend, an interesting lover or fiend to misery,
a cotton caught at bramble and felt in seethe in
tiredness, and that to feed frustration: that a symbol
for the hurt one feels in inability, in pose too meant,
in dwelling long too long and eagerly on pain,
a result itself not from folly but chance, the dwelling
folly. how and where do i forget my launch forthwith
into sorriness, configure a blessing or two, reassure?
it is as much to deify the small, small rains as sun.
a benign destiny filled with sharp platitudes, balmy:
and aims,
feeding a mere mellow peace
blankness tumbling down mellowly.
.
[All pinnacles of art and science are always on the lower beam
of the house, while what is possible lays on an unreachable
steeple. Opening one window makes us realize all the windows we
will never open. Art imitates life, but life often imitates art.
Writing is intellectual, painting is visceral. The visceral just
flexes one Muscle harder, the intellectual just flexes many
muscles softer. Gaining muscle is akin to Maskmaking.
The real thing can still hide itself behind a mask of its
absolute likeness. Likeness is proof of Gods laziness. God is a
definition that needs constant freshening up. The universe is
Gods masterpiece; the Earth is the universes. Religion opens
up a door that we can only pass through in death. Religion is a
Twodimensional platelet for eternally dimensional thoughts.
Earth is a recipe cooked up by the megrims of the universe.
Caprice in the nature of things is its only law. One cannot
advance technological progress without money. Knowledge advances
definition. We are able to define things well and solidly
because of duality, because of the small changes we see in the
same thing each time. Original thought is not dead: Enough
variations of the same thing can lead us to a completely
different concept. Humans have the power to defy their nature
over long periods of timethose who do it faster are known as
geniuses. Aesthetic organization is unnatural and essential.
Disorganization is only right for the forests. Forests have an
organization that we cannot see. If knowledge fosters change,
then why do we go about finding it through a method of
permanence? Time is infinite, but existence is not. The gateways
of the mind are theoretically infinite, but in practice they are
finite. An idiots description of a level above infinity would
be just shallow words chucked into the abyss of what we dont
know. Defining infinity means defining something beyond
infinity. What sounds like conjecture or hyperbole can often be
accurate. If perfection wasnt an extreme, how could it be the
best? Is there such thing as a completely positive extreme?
Extremism in the nature of temperature is a form of
imprisonment. Hubris is a prison that locks us away from any
true understanding of ourselves. Extremes are not a lingering
trait of the sane, although the sane may soak in extremes from
time to time. To be normal is to be a clich. Clichs are the
skeleton of a profounder thing. Normalcy fosters mystery,
mystery fosters searching, and the subconscious purpose of
searching is to attain perfection. Happiness is a form of
perfection. Parents haul the foundation of their childs
identity. Clothes are good for a procrastinating identity.
Clothes were probably first used to protect us from the cold.
Clothes foster mystery. Time is infinite, existence is not.
Self-consciousness is a form of self-absorption. Social graces
are always intentional. Love is a long game of convincing. Life
has no chief cause, just a bunch of peevish effects made from
nothing. Nothing is merely something with no tangible beginning
or end. Idleness is a fart we refuse to expel. The bulk of
comedy is the generalization of specific truths or the
specifying of general truths. I cannot put much weight in my
words. Some other phantom of a better idea will always lift me
from previous ignorance. Dreams shed light on the unnecessary as
well as the important. Dreams give definition to the
incomprehensible. Dreaming is the most primitive form of
reality. Art is merely a subset of science. To kill is to play
godto let live is to play God, as well. Restaurants are merely
fancy ways of attaining sustenance. If the World were run on
minutia, then there would be no larger catalyst to get things
moving forward. If there were no minute differences in the big
things we do, then all actions would look and feel the same.
Squares would make good wheels if the World tilted downward.
Life is like a bike; if you dont keep it moving, youll fall.
Life is the pursuit of life.]