Tuesday, March 25, 2014

8116 / 6118


i am lonely, but the road is lonely too,
and all the world's occupiers fill its shifting shadows,
and the hulk, or the long-legged bait
which furls the pile, or pyre, is
original sin, the cryptic gnosis which hides
the aboriginal sign, our yoking
to the glory,
fangs of light
to guide
our blanking


i'm still waiting
to meet meet you
standing in the haze of music
in the commonplaces
of the house of law
on the paradisaical carpets
of poetry's sanguinary
oubliquity... 


let the sands roar us to gather
to the land ships which bathe
in the wreckage of our foundling
boundaries


and do not hurl
lest the celebration
be in vein


for the emerald jazz of our topoi
is one body
one diamond
dissolution's other
or self


the greatest Socratic principle


makes man himself
the blurred paper
of a lost machine
this type-writer
is tantamount
to light through water


and my rustic hermitage is sod
and the record that i keep
a soft brown key of dawn
which crashes on the lock
and is submerged
like a smile
beneath the gravy


look once
at the whole knowledge of mind
and dream
of a meteor
complacenta
for pencil
hyphen
no before
and no after
all


then a huge croco-tiger
charges up


from within the glue-bong of jupiter's eye,
the original feminasmo
or jackson pollock
visits old pompeii


for if this writing
moves like a crack in deeply buried
crystal labyrinths


and the answer moves too close:
let eternal discord
be as a newt
ascending
birch-barked
aristocud


uncanny
cries
the black 
nosed
clown


i linger uneasy
in abandonment's
peaceful 
courtyards 


and from the 
emphora
of solace
flows 
a masque
of wilting
and quire
remplacements


the line will not shatter


whenre 
its face grows strange
among us


we did not remove
the blade from the stone
but broke the handle
from its
archive
of leisure


and turned from the game
on the table
into some invisible
white domain


how should I tell you 
about the song
of color?


see then
the soft fink pangs
wich goether
to the dancer


who passes with difficulty
through the places of winds
the breath which shatters


and the fine
mercurial wings
which vulcanize
the soul
of venus


i say these things
in perfect
ignorance


and i urge your departures
into messy
april ouds
set lightly
into journals


never forge
your blankness
lightly


or hide
the infinite mustache
of the wave


its congenial opera


or zoo


which joins together
where crime
like abstract art
defiles all sense


leaving only
heurisme


a barking P


the suspension of belief
upon
the rank reflextion


ophelia 
was even
zombi'd
to the masculoid


like a crippled
avant-garde


whose name
signals completion
of the heroic
death
of letters


i see something
like an abacuss


a last prayer
before a downtrodden
angel called
vaudeville


an instrument
whereby
the verb
of job
is a bucket of candles


like brushing your teeth 
in chocolate


might render you
the true detective


a child
of writhing
texts
like a machine
crowned by a golden foetus skeleton
the haptic shamanic
telephone
of conspiracy


and the overgrown fountain
mimics the world


but the lonely path


still makes
oompapa


and paintings


for what happens 
in syntaur


is like a grand staircase of hedges
sloping down
to bet
on the doors


the aboriginal sign
is wholesome


and like a bony V


its green secret
holds


a headlessness
shrouded
in dowsing


with nothing


reaching vague conclusions


in the oneness of the alien rooms


hello
from inside
the ribcage
of a made goad


please let me serve you


our name
like a topping forest fire
o'er all the roofs
still unknown


incandescent
lays
the mute transgression

till no syntaxis
remains:

remains:

8116
6118