Thursday, July 1, 2010

Go Gnawb, Go Ephestian Plus (Chrome)

they must not say it
is the age of semiotics
they must not say

but that the pierced
tongue like a towel

is the wet foam bell
of which tristan tzara
spoke of

fierce foam antlers
of luminous sponge
might take up
napalm or any

and hang limp
for epaulet branches
beginning to burn

can learn

its bright eyes
storing the field
in pictures
and in brooks
the spider web books
are the lungs of secret
meetings meanings

through which the power
is shown the round cornered

the compact force
of any form more delicate
for its tithe upon the skin
no place to begin
no place to end


its inebriant naga
is warm

and nigh
upon the gin lensed

whose glass
or shot
is never won
but a revery


1 comment:

  1. Book lungs and ginseed oil for polish my tableau du brain. Liked, a lot. Thanks for writing it. Foam bell boomboom. The more I get into it, the more it goes away. Even though I make my own poetry to my biological form, the nothing Ness creeps joyous in and hides everywhere. Lenticular, we all are, glass and growth both. Your poetry is cool. I enjoy - if you didn't mean it that way, it's awful, because it came out like that. Blogger marks didn't as a mistake.
    But only once. How odd.
    Talk to ya -



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