Monday, July 15, 2013

Dancing To Sacrilege (The Word Nostromo Milked From a Puce Puppy Hat)




Pan American World Airways began regular 707 service on October 26, 1958. He has a heavy head of dreams Wary tho he seems his eye is fixt upon the boy’s Erigienne vase peletas as if he saw all love was frozen there, cryptic ice cream castles fop for fop, the crystalline Venetian card games cooed in knowing forming a central sapphire (like a castle of crystal cards) cruel and absolute (just like Caprese Salad) This jewel from which proceeds as if rays a melody Oh Morisco! Oh Morisco! You supplicant to the ringing in the air, the heirs The bell tower of San Marco, my marque, my market, shakes the gold of sound upon the slumbering city Gathering to where the bronze boy burns into blue sky with jewel blue eyes KRSNA dresses in lions which crouch supplicant to the ringing burning blue sound of his skin or, again: Saint William Shakespeare under the true domes wept so filld he was with the wonder of the pseudo-dome the copper dome the splendor super dome saw in a vision the virgin Desdemona whore of Venice the black granite lickerish Gondola with long flowing blonde hair like oil in water Alone I know not where I am The world is false as water It echoes back the heart’s oily desire Love burns in changes of the moon lamp Of Desdemona do not say HAEKMETOOKTIT she was mere spit body in which my virtue lay groaning armored in lapis leaf book letters furred in transparent hollow shrimp ornaments fill'd with green oil (heavy) I believed I had faith — In faith the mind does not weary — In faith the heart knows joy leaps up toward its beloved pillow star tree house bottle engine fetish like a believing hound (gazelle hound medusa mushroom fistula) lively with dumb piety (body wigged in perilous pellets) He saw my true nature He was accurate as an angel I am an eloquent chicken beast of hot purple lava lace No one has remarked that Proust was like Shakespeare-Othello or that he was drawn to Venice because like Shakespeare he was jealous and because Venice is jealousy’s city the black stone toroid hovers like magic it is hollow and full of lantern oil and drowned sheep and guilt To savor lust and to create from lust love’s immortality — weird blue ore will grue in your skin like Venice created out of the waters or Venus who rides a Chicken Manticore Gondola upon her invented chariot-shell fills the poet’s ingenuous machine with her radiance (pullet gas) Pure ingenuity could not devise such a nightingale (marrenlingatlicklenicle) jeweld perfection of music’s hierarchy cuff-links sorted out by a warted old hunchback in a nighty gown of soiled flags. Yet here seeks the heart solace Nature barely provides for it Men are women fucking Omens by audacity Yet here the heart bounds as if only here here it might rest An endless space opera taking amoeba notes to the classics for sharpening “We must understand what is happening” watch “the duration of syllables “the melodic coherence “the tone leading of vowels” the lost bronze beak floating in the honey tank Zombies guiding gondolas to piles of dabloons rising above the harbor in islands where dirty labor camps are imitated by cardboard cutouts a realistic image as if that virgin upon St Agnes Eve had seen old Nobody wearing a face in the mirror like on the cover of Amok's fourth dispatch Everywhere everywhere she calls her hounds about her who leap up joyous dumb beasts of pleasure Princess Diana is doing an ad for Natural Rock Shower Stall Grottos Has he fallen in love? He falls but never to the depth Like Canute he plays sovereign to the sea He sits for hours as if he might hold it back eyes fixt upon the tide cross-eyed king of one thousand lines Old Paparazzi milking bright dugs on a toy barge to Serpellonia. Sometimes in the mind’s closed eye everything springs into flame hot as radium unstable death of the touch the whole sea raging rising This armor has a blow torch mounted as a braguette. the dropt cup reappears from its fragments springs to the hand as if from nowhere complete I'm in a great Polish movie, but no distribution as yet. I return to first things Her image looms wherein lies the universe Of felt things from which the spirit is flung outward born out of the fat fruit fat Caryatids blow my mind, the fatter the column, the bigger the roof! stirring the depths from which the crest rises upward or the touch of the viol string vibrates ABSOLUTE TOTAL METAPHOR for the word is, and in a sense "pants" the head singing (or pen) the poet slept within the statue while the war raged (shoot the peace sign at the sky then) The concrete image moves upward into the coherent only in sound in the tone leading of vowels in the humming the hesitating (honda, toyota, and filled with lamb stew and food coloring) She lies on the horsehair sofa placed in the visual jungle surrounded by plants and animals of the eye (pop art starts getting heavy) This is the painter’s real world She hesitates upon the verge of sound She waits upon a sounding impossibility upon the edge of poetry (dove) Dove) soap. soup. posing for dug cameras in silver silt. Between the sapphire and the sound unfurls the rose of vision tears from a stone unlock the stone GREY. GROOVY. SANDWICH. Between the emotion And the response Falls the shadow the incredible shrinking pan. Here at last is the place of no gods Venice has perisht fallen into disrepair The sapphire has become extreme and cold as if it took all strength to bear Canaletto's bed pan wriggling, overflowing with drunken putti. When you come to death’s door and he won’t let you in you can hear the bed groan and the adulterous sounds wound and wound but they do not kill BANG BANG (a flag) poetry is like a gun made by a bozo with a printing press. The lion-life sea caught in the cup of the particular Red Sea Spider Shell coil of Venus natural ear where Love’s avatar was held perpetually to speak Let's see the Crimson ceramic ear furniture spider and skip the rest, we've had coffee after intercourse, of course.. Hear the lion’s roar in the shell - hear the sound of piano in the coffee cup “Driven by the language itself” There is no thought here Logic forbade this All that we value order remembrance human nature and conduct natural coherence — “Argument contra” cobra has gone further than this art will swallow losing so many values just for that sound Ontoloa lai lai Hobo Crisscraft and Sissifux all stoned on bolonia The sapphire pendant dangled above the eyes catching the light or the soothing voice in whose ambilvalence first faith was full these things are earlier than we know Rooster Baby is charmd by the bells ringing Rooster Baby is charmd by the towers swaying hearing each sound in the morning din Little cross-eyed king held Rooster secure in the center of all things Baby blue — all eyes — my eyes KRSNA ROOSTER POEM GEM fixt upon the central sapphire “The Coda of ‘The Venice Poem’ weird trucking tales from Hermes There is no life that does not rise melodic from scales of the marvelous — To which our grief refers like a jade horse shoe hung on a broken statue by a pale goth dingaling who wears nothing but a SHAZAM lightning bolt t-shirt and scrunchees.