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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:

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