Sunday, March 9, 2014

the clouds bowe over the lake-lens


the first force seeks
the lamellating crow,
and where the formal hide is vain,
a white line transgresses
the storied otto

to punitive leer,
let the teeming echo
be drawn
to the wounded hand,
the smooth wooden duck
bobbing in colloidal seas
of wine
and crystal,
grows the table

the oval mirrored knight
become a kinder klinking
ici là
ici là-bas
ici là-haut
direct the blok any how
you'd shoes
for the tree grows face down
and the boots
are ever-flowering

grim total
the drift wood wind
the daisy halter falter
and lamp laurel lace
a handle
come closer to the word
its pale jade fang
like a transparent chair
will hush wide crescents

and doubtless 
the radiation more supple than mind
will meld
the furred amoeba-boar bear
with silver reindeer antler-helmet
never let my cry
go forth in vein
force finding

along its built
cadaver thread
the wedding's summer
the summer's bole
the path's tender doubling up
and helium
grown so sodden
in white pants
the stranger's breath
fell and crumbled to the deck
hong kong
surrounded by plants

or exploding bouqet of furniture..
when force feeds the box
yourself seem sentenced
to the thread
now at constellation head
out clear gannet
out lyrical scanners
imagine their war
like throbbing veins
in trembling stones
lovely are the footstep
for plankards

your moment,
the gift foal
shifts for the dappled courage alight
no pilot
its concrete wills
for daylight
into coming 
force fills gestures

obvious now
the open hand
whose flutter
a vampire
a vampire bird
avert your eyes
from the gorgon stutter
(flutter or flowering force)

and so
I charge on you hoarse
with the lamellating crow

the sweet fleece
of its pitch high gel
in tow
where the neck goof
an overly soft hyphen
give bellmer his due
give zabriskie
give unica
seek for force in the flowered V
bricks of white flowers
of opium zombies

the tide is right
and strange

and all growth more

the crow's foot
like a blood-plow
is a tongue-lyre

and the longest yard
horts a pebble
to the dryest pose

give back your lame clear daisies
to my boiling gelatin rays
and i will meet you at the feat you
roiling bollocks old flame

the good taste
in poet
won't a light
for any photograph

sky-gravy comes from Pinocchio

wit is a hoard
with winter
thick white paste
its whipping coal

I've built no cloudy candles
in flowing black tents


i saw (was) the chog of heire

each thin button a computer

each bracing whisper a crown

and the greatest wish
our mule
where the meadow
the town

its great and happy climax
a vortex
so occlude