Nothing.
A pure thinking of itself would
Would
To will an absolute thinking
Of itself will
Would
I think that I think that I
Would
Will
To which it succumbs
A flower for the bad infinity
To follow
A contradictory unity can
Would
Will
A pure and absolute
Thinking תְּקוּפָה
Now:
Incastonatura
The melon in the rock
The scent in the hair
Obrogo
The thirst in the mouth
The hive in the crook
Hukkaantua
I will these infinite things to happen
But would it think
Roric
Exsestant plaw
To which uccumbs
Crobing the lither
And belworn
Under honor's lap
A kailyard
A fountain of fire
Under high greensteel cupola
The balloon wall beyond that
To hide
The labyrinth of curving maglev rails
A model of the brain
No purpose
Joystick
Think it through
Think it infinitely
Through
And what is done
Is over all
An enrichment
As in the humors
Their record
At will
To play
Contradiction
Should hamper
Its withering
But known now no
Thing:
Thinking + Making =
Thanking (minking, wanking, taking)
The unconscious is poetry.
It conscious art a transcendent ideal
Of pico-amperes.
I do not mean this.
I would will it.
Will all.
Its infinitely finite self
Of sets, settings, thankings.
Poetry must begin
In a system of transcendental idealism.
Beauty. Insanity. Stupidity. Lust. Honor. Decorum.
Here the hopes are jolly. Playing with paper
And candles. Putting up lovely windows.
We might wince at the sympathies.
But the totality can only ever be
Fragmentary, except as surface, as the temporal
Returns always to effacement.
The Structure of the totality
Can only ever be fragmentary, and thus
The fragment is exemplary, a totality.
There is no system.
There is no rule.
What is lured out is sequenced
By the machine of space.
It is space.
And to space all poetry
Re-urns.
Romance is a fire
Of contradictory origins.
Its organic disclosure
The coherence
Only
In the thinking of pure
Oppositions.
