Tuesday, August 5, 2014

She had freckles on her forehead.

it is possible to dance

it is possible to dance
the grig of rays
the grig of days
in the high plateau of swamps
the oculus

and all the whereas
its paper
and sliding over soft limp rooms

its long thin telephone
like a walking cane
you clock

for the tomb
of Alexander's father
reduced to a hearth

this golden robot
will only butt-box
with the inflatable head
of Wile E. Coyote

amid the general


I agree to dance.

but the fame
of my burden
is like a bust
made of fruit

which grows
like a masthead snake
dangling a sternum mohawk
strung with boots

a cup of grog-fish
in the ulm
of info-pelagic

my breet no can
my breet no shu

my breet can no shu
my breet will bear

i find no distinctions
say my breet's old head
in the mirror
of its old torn off head
of fur
forever suits me

it is possible to dance
now the whole tableau
would seem to be this
interrogation draped in chocolat

and all the big bottomed jury
their big bottoms
are made one

no one know knows
there are pearls 
trapped in the rectums
of these paintings

a laundress showed me

fauns as thin as toothpicks
stretch to meet
the ground

its quare light amok
its adze afire
in the mishaping azure

the cool blue brain of omens
must touch the water's cursor

it is not possible to dance 
singing in the rain

I cast thee out!



of half-helmets
mucked with musicked
leaf chafings!

it is possible to reign
but the hyphen shoe remains
to curse
the running water
of the cool blue brain
of omends

if I enter language's blue rectum
as a pearl
dance will reign

for an oven of birds

Have you forgotten how to dance?
How to reign?

my scapulas
are palm fronds.


never fitting quite
but the equation
for fitness
must be presented
in the shape of a ball

do we bind it up again?

the pearl.
it's days are chaste,
and its knights

with the painful integration
of its hosure.

Alexander eyes
are a wolf's teat

in the heavens

absolute somethingness