Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Chnoumis Above a Bacchic Altar.





Surly Pound's quiet dance, each glissade
now a mineral irritation of null paperage,
mostly passe'. Did he eat foreskins? Did
he do the wild and Grand jeté upon
the swaying deck of a funeral barque
at sea? Who was he?

My eyes are solid black orbs, my innards,
white trees! Birds and Roses have commingled
their forms in my blood, that soup of
heavy levers confusong armors to murmurs.

Old Scarecrow Pound! I'll stuff you
and make you ride a coiffured Poodle
through the jem-trading districts.
The whole world is a noisome organ
like a liver that exchanges not for
nought in a hauteur of thought.

Who cares anymore?
We're all drowing in Mexicans!

I, even I, am the Good Spirit.