Hyphoon: A Stroke of Good Fortune

slofous

her grey breast birds distant

upon the crimson beach's 

embroidered pictoform sentences

the ringing rising from a splendid white glove

which covered some cactus fingers

reaching out from the painting

to touch

the herm-knife hedge plunged in the fome

which plummeted down toward the yellow

waxen globe with its little satellites

of hovering yellow glass books

the color is unimportant

but uselful for remembering

what who swings the sky

what who burns the seething wheels

in windows whick plummet down toward

the cage where the muse is thickened

its dense blue bulbous nose facing outward

to the rain which urns

its chess pieces grown together like a city

my buttocks upon your back like a breast sign bird song

slofous

a long thin sac reddening from an embarassment 

of niches

at one end a pistol 

at the other a calabash

and crumpled rugs built up into a bridge damm

the silver smith's silver shoes lined with green velvet

and the little stone inkpot they move around

with an indistinct mind

a cane made from an earhorn with a mirror mounted on one end

a pygmy albino kangaroo leaps up on a loaf of bread

the tiny head regarding a larger one

and vice versa

the eyes fade breathe, their masks fringed with lanterns

siamese corsicans

charm of david exploding

no tong large enough to lift the burning idol

from its safe and sucking socket

to wield its eye

often the holy dome must hover

where the meadow begins its lurching throe

and bounty mangled white as fish tailed faces thrummering 

lutish gelid flesh bulbs

the skin sectioned off for paragraphs

the thatch growing down and out

from the navel of this fog

its triangular light

in grain

make no hats to conceal its vivid skull-heart

hands tall to charcoal coming

the azure balloon armor which came for you

to steal your body

the two square black peas

which level the boat prow maiden's laughter

rocket fountain

blue ivory their eyes entwine

through islands of cloudless

pipe figures

flawsooth

The Derangement of Manuloquio had rendered all mass a justipotential mythode.

deep, deep conventionality driven by risk 

aversion rooted in all of the above

it's just that the whole

universe is just a mushy bunghole

pushing glitter around

nobody can cut and paste

big sections of suns

into menandering

bone-monday'd

serpent letters

it was the age of yoohoo

and the glandulinian fred

was building toward

a kind of vaguely boring

popcorn fart of an apocalypse

she called cells

google titties

he called them beating baby seals in Prell

there were already walls

of washy skeleton hordes

pretzels at the windows

in dayglo doodoo mobiles

Language

is a Tartarus

but whose complaining

is loudest?

Is it the self-effacing monument to glamour (a self)

whose delicate streaming data braids

drift like ladders

into pure animation?

or is it the chimerical hyphen

whose golden 'minus touch'

renders every addition

a subsumption

an entanglement

a hybrid

a mixotic

a templar?

Now kynicetischism

has shed its philosopher,

to reveal the blind instrument of justice,

objectification as pure animus.

nous' doubled quest-ion-is-aten

Napoleon's true meaning

is to represent

positivity or fourness

as the plan of all surfaces,

the map whose abstraction

crosses itself

before the concrete.

greatness comes

in small packages.

and weirdness follows

as  the "fada who attends"

the doubled hyphen

some have said that every game contains the idea of death,

but who is it that said that

every nimbus contains the idea of transformation:

the black sun's blue sky

like a gorgon reveals

a green tongue.

and there is no reason to think

that next years buildings

will not also be beautiful

for though the hyphen heavy crushing mind is absolutely nimble,

it may be retracted at any moment

and the guardian that stands by you,

your domestic bridge,

can only be

a memory of thunder

for if the whole sky is an eye,

is not each being

a shutter

and the whole of writing, the whole of history

its name

the depth of field 

like an open category

is open to transation

the din

oh the din of the crescent supper

upon the wheel of 

dream

our centurion clown

toppled by the west row

my life should have been different

and is

this blood red table

enacts an indigo ghost

of diagrams

upon a winding sheet

of unknowing ledgers

is not the body in the world

a thought within the mind

a ringleader

whose ourobourous

hides its threeness

within the 

Napoleontic $4

4-3-1-2

If I wear my lungs any higher

my eyes will be wings

Sherlock Napoleon

visits like Jesus

the home of Diogenes Watson

'do not be blinded by vision'

it only rains

in the central ring

and the fecund snake begins there

HEATSINK

a ball point pen

to enter

the void of sex

industrial popcornization

of the mythic film

squirreling away our meaning

for a day with due debits

disinterest 

period

the hyphen drifting

like an unmoored ceiling

of thought

what Cerberus founded

was a cinema

of incandescent blood

a priest

of pleatings 

a gypsy kiss

on the banks of a silent lutening

a fog place

where time in a furniture clock

confounded copulation

with the ecstasy of communication

and so
the bright knowing
grows on
hercules caged
in the whisper
of a circus

a poodle shaped
sewing machine
in a nest of green licorice