Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Des Esseintes' Supernatural Pollen


here we go again
i-we-you 
penny-arranging-me
within the deep shallow 
depression
of the planetary footfall
*
felt language
times


artisanal
stain
that we point to
as the secular satan
no center
no edge
no middle
ground 


it's the narratology
that got us to Cerberus' role
as Fellini's Furling-yeti tri-klopfs 


the saintly georgian raft
of the caducean medusa lily


media for peas instead:

Please porridge hot, please porridge cold,
Please porridge in the plot, nine days gold;
Some like it clot, some like it mold,
Some like it in the ought, nine days bold.


an unconsciousness
of absolute ornamentality
does not make it any less
sublimely lurid


and transcendence will remain
until the electromagnetic spectrum is conquered
until consciousness propagation
may be laid out as a poem
and diagram
united
in spectacle
the great auto-alienation
of our immunological logosynthaestheontophoria


up with you!
up with you!
proud victim of glory!
embodiment
is already the sum of all possible debates!
thou art sense
when worship
renders all
in velocity!


o graven ontologies
of slithering mud bell omens!


o lickerish desires
of blankness
in fleshy sentences!


O pet myths
of transmogrified copulatics!
great games
of stony
architectonic pit mouths!


O monsters
of ignorant blissful
wronglings!


thou art
an instrument!


a genie
of craven
ecstasy!


a student
of perilous
and almighty gewgaws!


a wandering blur
in a wandering blur


a follower
down rustic halls
leading the way


Ignotius
why have you come here
to tremor
my geometry?

Our single head
is the earth's wife
dancing 
on a red hot spike!
let us
sing of wild incandescent spiders!


The ecstatic study of semiotics
enlightens only so far as it makes the world dull
for it reveals
that the one
is always the many
and that many are always dumb
and that dumbness
like an image of genius
is a retort-womb
of churgling tokens
whose mouth
and rectum 
are connected


THE DIRT ROSE UP AND BECAME MAD..


and sometimes pretty.


GREAT FATHERSPHEREMOTHER!
WHY HAVE YOU FOR
TOKE ON US?


my breath is as a verdigris
of lost possible worlds
and of best possible endings
and when the world is dead
that utopia
will be born


and Saint Vitus will dance
as the existence
of pencils.


the dream
of the domesticated
kosmon


a fiddle whose only song
is a romance
of decadent naturalism


a carving resembling
no future
or past meanings
other than
orienting
all
accidental
oak sign dreams
in a golden acorn


CERBERUS!
you dandy dancing poem!