Evening in the Forest (with Led Zeppelin)

bluntly rubbing its mundle
the dandy lion leered what
media campaign occitosis
rumpelstiltspartyskins headostranenie
realpolitick fiction kollectives
wannabee

putting loose dirt
in deep dish molds
of classical reliefs
with loose flint knappings
kidnappings putting
loose dirt on parade
mud pies for the mithraeum
whose tomatoes
range above the pop
horticultural himalayas
"it's getting to it"
"grim, spare and laconic sewage"

mundles suppose
that constellations
of reason and facts
are not constellations
before reason and fact
and the raisins and gangs
oh let us gharbzadegi
lay huge hard breathing catfish
in burgeoning marble art deco chambers
all of gondwana in a loincloth-map
lord and lady eros
with their jeweled scythes
will dance before the heaving monster

thin egytian-like stone gods
will flank the arches leading to the inner
catfish sacrificial diorama rotunda
one god standing tall and thin
is oscar wilde wearing a monocle
so that it is an art deco weimar ancient egyptian
literary cult statue (and perhaps waterfountain too)
there could be a small penis wearing a cloak
and holding a lantern and then again
Aubrey Beardsley could be its coguardian
on the other side of the door
very thin (as usual) but wearing the phrygian cap
of Mithras which makes it a shortrib reference
to the french revolution, art deco, british decadence
and paganism, etc all in one go

these are thing you notice
when you belong in the hybrid cult
mundles suppose
that constellations should read correctly
or that once something has joined the kunstelation
that might not range attractive
to the strange repulsions of an age
of strange retractors

grammar constellations engage
or enraging constellating fellahs
unique is the gong
in the spinal of the cellar

obviously protracted elements
within the dawning of the age of aquarius
resemble the perfectly executed carving
of alfred jarry as jesus christ
hung on the cross (illuminated eyes
in a dark marble room
of catfish bats) but laughing
with a huge owl perched on his head
and foetal bats sucking voraciously
at the problematic
and contested nipples

we are born from a rock
inside of the enormous catfish
on its kitchen island of solid green stone
we eat red meat
but only in the south
as the center of the mnundle tribe to the north
is disturbing our media reservation
and ad paganism, etc, all in one go
with its hybrid cult
it was a Silver Age
Anna Akhmatova in 1914

In 1912, the Guild of Poets published
her book of verse Evening (Vecher) –
the first of five in nine years.
The small edition of 500 copies
quickly sold out and she received
around a dozen positive notices
in the literary press.

She exercised a strong selectivity
for the pieces – including only 35
of the 200 poems she had written
by the end of 1911.

the poems Grey-eyed king, In the Forest,
Over the Water and I don’t need my legs anymore
making her famous. She later wrote

"These naïve poems by a frivolous girl
for some reason were reprinted thirteen times
And they came out in several translations.
The girl herself (as far as I recall) did not
foresee such a fate for them and used to hide
the issues of the journals in which they were
first published under the sofa cushions

which were embroidered
with art deco versions
of mithraic monster catfish sacrifices
watched over
by hybrid cult images
one of which might have been
(also) a water fountain
in short
Led Zeppelin