In the visual circle of the moment, when everything looks breathtakingly still and sparkles and shatters into itself.
365 skies. Who knows which one we were under.
Remember the day when the spacetime dichotomy was obliterated? The great thrust of jouissance?
No gaiety here. An uneasy mutual devotion. Reconciling what would have been. Lost to time. A seemingly endless season of production. An agonising evolution. No rapture in looking away. No floating. On the chainsaw breezes. No punctum. No Mona Lisa. No hurricane in the bone-jesus tear.
So how do I write if not with the poison of sentiment? For I am, even here, in the asphyxiation of narcissism, vomiting in furious fallacy. Beauteous dirigibles. So. It was hot in the Guernican shade.
That’s how it was. To feel the blind splendour. To know the innocence of allowing. To direct all imprecations to the door. To honor the thing as it is. Waiting. Calamariform. To feel no mind. No transit. To feel the sting of money on your lips. Paper words moist and null with livid suggestion. They leave behind an indistinct signature. A foul sobriquet.
How to deal with the wind? Were there any defects? Distractions? Distinctions?
Such is the question. You stay in cadence
while I bleed caustic lilac
Such a delay of reason is enough
to burst their cupolas like brie bladders in a stifling and suffocating summer heat.
This line is the poetry of science. To walk. Through the barred window. The same scenery I saw with you on the train. Au contraire. You live in loco parentis, so to speak. In the incest they call a landscape. And what does this mean?
Screw the feet. Siphon the sun.
Leaking. Cannibal. Nowness. I flow, discharge a fizz of sophistry and caprice, burn in sour dawns.
Belly snail. Tomato. Eyes with filmy seaweed in them. Cerebrus. Loins of yellow awl. Elodea. Shade-grown star-chip. Crickets heating up in metallic casings. See, through the zinfandel patch, snoring on a sanctuary of temporary truce.
Let there be salt, sugar, aspirin, cocaine, polyester, ibuprofen, vaseline, neosporin and lanolin. Let there be semen.
I am complicit in a market, one and the same as that of a genteel god / a lurid model
ever to soothe my new antlerless head.
Eyes soft with tenderness, your gaze does not run. As fast as I could. Through the agaric copses. Past the charlatan who sold death to the pharmacist. Only nothing happened. Only I was there to remember.
Philosophy and all its shiny carrion.
The recumbent allelujahs. To pooh-pooh the planktonic. To mock. To march. To breathe.
Why would I wish to breathe the gas of a snowflake? Or the mucus of a wisteria? I am now the circumscribed prince, no longer eye’d to tessellate. I do not know where to run but to the future. The jostling unease. Discharge dripping. Around where the curl of road strands me in a daze. Where to turn, to whom to turn? Fluorescent evanescent. I want to burn, like brine.
On a heathenly note, a detour from the seductive implicity, viscously jonquiled, blurring slashes of dermis in the gray mists, syllables in bilge, open-hearted with miniver blooms. It being impossible to find the word. It being impossible to dry my tears. In the bellowing bedlam. There’s arithmetic. Somewhere. The mountain lions are rummaging in the rocks with blazing yellow eyes.
Catharsis of antigen.
The ocean of the useless, collective hominid amor. Giant patties of your stinking bodies are pocketed with sawflies.
Vowels of agua.
And a concept of life is rendered. A pinion for logic. To navigate and conjoin in a veritable dialogue of balletic contortion. Seconds of it, the assault of vibrances, a world’s fair or a Shakespearean nightmare. You can easily stare at a neanderthal’s ossific flexure. Slant it high overhead. Where others set plumbs; prairies. A rash prospect into habituation. An apologia.
What an idiot I am. What an idiot.
Then I have an epiphany. A new movement. Maybe it was a storm born of no. The gushing warm air, the still waters and the grave thought. Placidity. Turpitude. Songs sung with the heart at its heaviest. You wake from your stupor. In the urine of morning.
That awe. So easy. When the body’s here. In stadiums. In laboratories. In stifling gardens. The limbs all on fire, far from the mannequin bliss. The word that seethes on an opium synonym’s wristwatch. Chrysalides in the litterbox, green sandpaper for the eyes, which should be a gallery, with naught but aspidistra sprouting * I am
despite my intention of escaping
saying it / there / here / now / here / now / here / now //