a late eighteenth-century landlord of the Goat Hotel in Beddgelert

there is a sleep which mills in the woods
copper head
volume
ratcheting staircase alters caduceus architecture

antlered snake vehicle announces its silence
to the obsidian desert
touristas bathe near windows
or toast with blue liquids
milked from an intoxicated hermaphronautoracle

dunes become sinuous, sinuses, sins of the grain
ecstatic or vaux moosix
an austere eros of someone looking at something
but never saying anything
like in Stockholm

In an unfurnished room in Stockholm
two objects that look like Kai Althoff
are making noises like empty guitars not aeolian
in the desert of howling bodies
when they select ice cream
or notice they think "panzer commander"
when looking at some young snowboarder

you think Mishima already looked like an old woman
when he designed Saudi Arabia
for the King of Sweden's pony, Rompa

Rompa loves the dunes
and looks good romping in a pony dress
and war helmet

There is a great Napoleonic ballet
called "Let my Sugars Boss You.."
that had such an elegant balance
of syndromes we might later call
"Northern Nihilism" combined with
that crazy fad-ling "Bottomless Confection"

In Stockholm, I wed a ballerina who
had convinced me that toe-shoes
were the murder of the poor, and even after I explained to her,
every time I say I, I mean Osiris, or like
cheap green light bulbs from Spencer's Gifts,
like his wonderful dog, Gelert, or
the fact that after a life of extravagance,
I died in poverty in Paris, just saying
"Fuck it, or whatever.." "What a pile of weird, wack shit
that all was, but like cool, or something.."
Then, that's when the little swan girls come out
and waggle their delicate, feathered little forehead penises
where the tiny yellow beak pearls pop out
as collected by the dwarves of the mime-mine
whose favorite joke is

Mars "EL"?
Mars "O"!

Signs will always be bigger than a planet
and softer than a muslim..