Saturday, March 10, 2012

Palatial Quartome

and-, but-0r(ee
the windows as they have been told
were slathered out across the walls
like scattered cards
cants and colors between them giving life
to furor, pattern and witzerp

for if the wall is replicated
or replacated as wings they are never
symmetrical could as far as pushers plead
beneath in the patch of unpoliced ground
some measure of frolic hiding before
a wholesomely heavy and darker velvet dread
as if the devil were an agent of fantastic worth
yet small in the occupiers heart (the agency)
and his silly suit is that of an external chrome skeleton
of superpowerful magnets

flowers are dusted with luminous green particles
before their pasting in the book
and the flower dissolves
leaving a language untethered
to motorized avarice
the killers at the ball
having lost sight of their numerous victims
in the haze of romance and dancing
and virtu

one vast stomach like glass of many supple colored parts
has collected innumberable toasters
and inside they play like children
their suits and dresses rumpled
and into dogs they foam
and the idol whose surveillance tastes of wild
afternoon masturbations by chieftons
is rubberoid
a 40 breasted herm antenna
whose nipples produce such epic little gall stone boxes
hinged as how clams are hinged
Queen Elizabeth

Queen Elizabeth
replaced with a translucent horn
Moses inside
counting flakes of smoke
more telling
the whole building they wed
a bulbous cascade of rose petals

to forking thoughform's finality
in time
form encompassing logic
logic in the province of all only
provisionality structure with an eye
to structure
form outside of form within
only the way of the setting

is there logic to falling leaves?
Or the narrative of random contingency,
that contangency entles

and further bean of beams

radiance the mind
in no order

look through lenses the size of galaxies
in order to find further lenses

sense nil
to line says

why not arrangements
of colored smears
why not more random arcs of subject
to fur
the jumbled skeleton
of its forgotten past
whose body

lives on
the calculator cone's