Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Ignote Minamus

On Apuleius' physiognomics

There is no community in writers
I saw the moccasin
Chase the frown bird
Where the dusk and the cliff
Modulate upon a complex
Mirror shelf
Has cartoon gloves
With provenance

donald duck

The whole planet is phipoost
And bereft of tolerance
For its own sad attempts
To be something other
Than itself
Or the opposite
Most of us just see
Glory and mud pies
And horning
Like a pipe organ
In Oregon
My organs were made to shine
Without aesthetics
All organs
All involved
With some
Version of
I was intimate
With small-scale
Industrial interferometry
In an applied science
But how ironic
That golden ass.


My life as a writer is over,
And so it begins, I did things like:

Bring a friend the English translation
Of J.K. Huysmans' _Là-Bas_
While he was living in Tangier,

But instead of writing much
I'd just smoke hash
And make collages.

Museums and Books
are liked prisons
for words and pictures,
all of it sculpture.

Torquato Tasso would do things like:
Have imaginary conversations with cupid.

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.