Tuesday, January 21, 2014

a poor book toe



after 
Xavier Forneret's 
(1809-1884)





He was a tirade
a dizzy and poached Perseus
a drunken mouse who sees you
without your bean regarding
the dissonant dark heroics


He was a souffle 
in the wet mouth
awaiting precious purrings
trapped in horrible thoughts
a pendulous heart of wine


He was a wetness
within the dune of gelatinous tears
or cheese arms which formed
a chamber, every encore
was more bizarre 


He started rubbing
the opossum chauffeur 
as every pain is a sentence,
a car, Freud made into 
a crab's pincer, or
elegant retirement home


He got pissy
he came and pissed on semiotics
as they apply to the air
he pissed in a measure
and the furred Venus drank


He got touchy
riding along the levee 
this dune of frenetic effrontery
this god of writing said
goodbye to all embarrassment


He totally fucked on
after the cross
becoming the body of a clock
a horology of mountains
whose poorly assembled chords
were the dull and heavy lord's accords
with itself



like a blindness palping
he felt within the all-dune
deciding his beautiful
murder was a nourishing 
mouthful


he plied
he caused
he placed
he attacked
he made lava
he portered 
he grilled
he manged 


That night, ever smaller, he kooked and ate one of his own hands,
and read a book which was his toe.