they must not say it
is the age of semiotics
they must not say
anything
but that the pierced
tongue like a towel
unwrung
is the wet foam bell
of which tristan tzara
spoke of
fierce foam antlers
of luminous sponge
might take up
napalm or any
gelatin
and hang limp
for epaulet branches
beginning to burn
nothing
can learn
its bright eyes
storing the field
in pictures
and in brooks
the spider web books
are the lungs of secret
meetings meanings
teemings
through which the power
is shown the round cornered
stone
the compact force
of any form more delicate
for its tithe upon the skin
no place to begin
no place to end
bend
again
its inebriant naga
is warm
and nigh
upon the gin lensed
seeds
whose glass
or shot
is never won
but a revery
come
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.
ReplyDeleteBut only once. How odd.
Talk to ya -
PG