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
wood-cloth
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
lupercaloricities;

agreed?


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!

TRIAMOND!

beguiler!

thorad
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
surely 
dance will reign

for an oven of birds


Have you forgotten how to dance?
How to reign?

my scapulas
are palm fronds.


sin
is 
old


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


well,
do we bind it up again?


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


with the painful integration
of its hosure.


Alexander eyes
are a wolf's teat
sun-dial

venus
cloned
in the heavens


absolute somethingness