Thursday, April 30, 2015

Pussible





seer in oedipus pus, Tiresias calls for roadside assistance, and just as they reached the top of their game, I'm just sitting there in leather twirling a pendrachmagulliver on its thumbpoint,
no, you put your thumb in the center of the lithop and press down, cicada guts form a pressure balloon around your nonweightless me, these things are loose like noodles or string bubbles emptied out in the air where their morphic magnets live rich fulfulling lives as haunted fetish viruses beachcombing for heresy among the tidy ambiguous primates (lose lunch) scarabeus, this, hippy-mask is digging, like into my shrinking wardrobe face, the japanese, pus where you lay your face, pus I make from my face, to lay a face in, there's a mosaic crown, a mosaic staircase, a mosaicene wall that stretches up and up and beyond the fiction of non-fiction there's just the fiction or friction, or the friction of fiction, confusion like confixion is IXION, sere in the oedipus pus, battery terminal total baking powder foam, the cum of sum yung gai, they say it like it's a joke, until the rotary tail and nano-electrics pop up in their final thirst along the sea wall, a great and beached whale or wail, you decide, they always use that trick, etched glass cards against, some warm, some cold, some banking on the velodrome in dreadlocks