crosswits and pyewrackett, tracing sedunctions' breeth'ch

how is (it)

the sentence charts

this unnecessary

claustrophobistry

when every window turns

its inside outside fore

*?*

take thee what you need of earth

and check your messages later

for what the golden fleece antennoias

are the loopy folds

of psyklopfian lautfur

the green knight

as dissolved

among random characters

the pattern beheld

by none

imp peril no more cacoffinie

to the herald of the poem

but syntense up your lantern

to the honesty

of sculpted form

two flanged coins for blinders

to the silent choir

of spew

paranoiac resplendent phaun'd!

heap obeyants

on distant horizons!

these registry pegs

for your nostrils

are the spinnerettes

of secret places.

shutter!

shudder!

the pharaoh's machine crown

has revealed

a joking universe,

but it's punchline is too literally

a defect unto translation.

it says:

A sentence is like a punch

and a judy

in the mouth.

mark your bloody doorframes

narrenly..

a parenthetical pig and whistle comforts,

but the jeers go forth and 

asp..

what cue a kenning cabinet,

and what cut

a mirrored curdling?

black continence

before the stack

lured.

Mesopotamia,

forever shy.

Gondwana

latin

afterall

this novel

is a fan

no breeze

and the stone bedroom

still dreams

green honeycombs

force their whistle

through great and orange slabs

a witch

at the top

of chalk mountain

my scribbles mimic your scribbles

and yours a further

so what are animals for

if not for the beauty

of boxing

naked honeycombs

mount their hoarse

mounths

etruscan snail candles

multiply in the brocade

i'm some candle
you're some store
let's char the corners
so that black veins
reach the transparent core

this restaurant is famous my dear
for its demon waitstaff..

his tongue is made of roiling black rice
and his fingers are flashing
wakazashi!

suddenly
my lips felt like clipped ropes
and my bowtie
a hot animal present

you may notice some discomfort
with this dish
a play on 'tongue in cheek'
this dish is called

fang through cheek

no hats allowed!

not gauging
nor gouging
but
gauguin

(no torque, or first talk
ist besten)

let's drink
to your corporeal tunnel syndrome!

I am the green pharaoh
of polynesia!

a lone hyphen
guides the way

white-black
white-black
white-white
black-black
white

(giant-david-rabble)

i first heard the
dark and singular nightmusic
in a hottub
of inklings

we took the horse
that Nietzsche saved
from the bludgeon

all thoughts seem so disconnected
or connected
before the true
and great
false eye

I think the flag of our Sapphist sophistry
should represent
two dead men
or diagrammatic pottery
two begging dogs
or eyeballs
desiring vessels
we'll call them
a garland of cornflowers
for a black skull
shall be its secret name

this perhaps a model for the flag of the royal surrealist hirncombe of pure kynemass.. no women in frame, old dead white men, it infuriates everyone, and yet the country is a complete failure, no economy, no aspirations, in fact, it is a confession, but like a broken toy, it too, forgives all speech its complete lack on anything, sick dollies needing maximum salvation, and that, pure improbability.. the absolute improblemable

as dali falls asleep while balancing the cremated remains of max shreck on his right knee, he is plagued by echoes: fangs, claws, collar, mustache. nonetheless, his torment only heightens his sublime poise, for chaos needs no balances, only the grace of equipunctal conflict..

no
has always been
a dirty word

but its vortex
the nihilist assumption
is the best decoration
for avid surfaces

how much poetry
can one woman declare?

Frances Farmer

whose switch the individual grape
must hang
our horse necked spring 50's
rhythm on the range
come and get It
roaring timber
exclusive

sod is odd and its groans literal
mount saint frances full
the erect exploding tree is made of animals
soft sloping seattle stilled
pale blue jade needles
and langue
the toast of new york
ebb tide ride a crooked mile
south of pago pago
flowing gold world premiere

fragile and volatiled
extending like hexagonal eggshell platelets
from the streaming blonde sun
to the glamorous clash of cream
upon the great lens of confusion
badlands of dakota calamity
among the living fury
the story of blake
I escaped from the gestapo
(montage sequence)
with the party crashers

just refer
back to my original
motes.

the image then
is of Raymond Roussel
standing perfectly still
submerged
within a cup
of milk.

and so
the abstraction remains latent
a sort of mathematics
between the air
its writing compact
errored
luscious

one day
in the life
of a single
suiseed

Chopin
for the distant ages

Mr. Zopoulos wishes you to swim...

You might have seen gold, but I've seen diamonds. I think I'm pregnant. -You think or you're sure? -I'm sure. Nothing to say? I'll take a look. The rat is going to drown the tomcat. -We have to do something. -Just wait and see. -Oh, Mr. Marcel, you're early -You know that Mr. Zopoulos is in the pool? -So what? M. Zopoulos can swim in his own pool. -Fully dressed? Fully dressed, yes. Dear Mr. Marcel, you'll never understand the rich. You must get used to it. M. Zopoulos wishes you to swim. It's not good. Mr. Marcel, Mr. Zopoulos wishes you to swim sidestroke. One, two, three! One, two, three! No, that's not on! He threw his cigar at me! Does he want to humiliate me or what? What do you mean by "humiliate"? I don't feel humiliated. I admire Mr. Zopoulos. I love him... You're saying that because you see him now but... ...if you'd met him 20 years ago... ...he was like you and me. Attentive, helpful, charming, witty. Thin, mischievous, a bit of a gourmet perhaps. -Well, it's not a reason to... -He's successful, it's normal. He enjoys his money. He can have everything. I'll tell you something Mr. Marcel You know that Mr. Zopoulos isn't paralysed? But as he can afford it, he doesn't have to walk, do you understand? If you could afford not to, would you swim? I certainly wouldn't. Now, swim, you're getting on my nerves. One, two, three! Sidestroke!

fyglia

they contort each other
the anchor and the ideogram

one so as to be remote
and the other as sky
to test the buoyancy
of emptiness

pale grey oxidants

some imagine these
heavy overwrought black iron hands
wringing together
but the hip of the sailor cocks
toward the pivotal flic
no cigarette ever touched the water

sing seagull
sing crooked alley quai
in the valley of monumental bobbins

maru maru
in overcoat

the twin white lines
turn and go taut
where the twin black lines
interrupt their angles

throw a sponge in the oily ocean
these steel tri-pods of anarchy
will lift

every stevedore heart
but the spy lives more prudently

black tar table
holding only twin
black tar tablets
and with no legs

the gorgon eyes of the anchor
could be pushed up like eyebrow-hands

roman numerals
and poppies

8116 / 6118

i am lonely, but the road is lonely too,

and all the world's occupiers fill its shifting shadows,

and the hulk, or the long-legged bait

which furls the pile, or pyre, is

original sin, the cryptic gnosis which hides

the aboriginal sign, our yoking

to the glory,

fangs of light

to guide

our blanking

i'm still waiting

to meet meet you

standing in the haze of music

in the commonplaces

of the house of law

on the paradisaical carpets

of poetry's sanguinary

oubliquity... 

let the sands roar us to gather

to the land ships which bathe

in the wreckage of our foundling

boundaries

and do not hurl

lest the celebration

be in vein

for the emerald jazz of our topoi

is one body

one diamond

dissolution's other

or self

the greatest Socratic principle

makes man himself

the blurred paper

of a lost machine

this type-writer

is tantamount

to light through water

and my rustic hermitage is sod

and the record that i keep

a soft brown key of dawn

which crashes on the lock

and is submerged

like a smile

beneath the gravy

look once

at the whole knowledge of mind

and dream

of a meteor

complacenta

for pencil

hyphen

no before

and no after

all

then a huge croco-tiger

charges up

from within the glue-bong of jupiter's eye,

the original feminasmo

or jackson pollock

visits old pompeii

for if this writing

moves like a crack in deeply buried

crystal labyrinths

and the answer moves too close:

let eternal discord

be as a newt

ascending

birch-barked

aristocud

uncanny

cries

the black 

nosed

clown

i linger uneasy

in abandonment's

peaceful 

courtyards 

and from the 

emphora

of solace

flows 

a masque

of wilting

and quire

remplacements

the line will not shatter

whenre 

its face grows strange

among us

we did not remove

the blade from the stone

but broke the handle

from its

archive

of leisure

and turned from the game

on the table

into some invisible

white domain

how should I tell you 

about the song

of color?

see then

the soft fink pangs

wich goether

to the dancer

who passes with difficulty

through the places of winds

the breath which shatters

and the fine

mercurial wings

which vulcanize

the soul

of venus

i say these things

in perfect

ignorance

and i urge your departures

into messy

april ouds

set lightly

into journals

never forge

your blankness

lightly

or hide

the infinite mustache

of the wave

its congenial opera

or zoo

which joins together

where crime

like abstract art

defiles all sense

leaving only

heurisme

a barking P

the suspension of belief

upon

the rank reflextion

ophelia 

was even

zombi'd

to the masculoid

like a crippled

avant-garde

whose name

signals completion

of the heroic

death

of letters

i see something

like an abacuss

a last prayer

before a downtrodden

angel called

vaudeville

an instrument

whereby

the verb

of job

is a bucket of candles

like brushing your teeth 

in chocolate

might render you

the true detective

a child

of writhing

texts

like a machine

crowned by a golden foetus skeleton

the haptic shamanic

telephone

of conspiracy

and the overgrown fountain

mimics the world

but the lonely path

still makes

oompapa

and paintings

for what happens 

in syntaur

is like a grand staircase of hedges

sloping down

to bet

on the doors

the aboriginal sign

is wholesome

and like a bony V

its green secret

holds

a headlessness

shrouded

in dowsing

with nothing

reaching vague conclusions

in the oneness of the alien rooms

hello

from inside

the ribcage

of a made goad

please let me serve you

our name

like a topping forest fire

o'er all the roofs

still unknown

incandescent

lays

the mute transgression

till no syntaxis

remains:

remains:

8116

6118