Monday, March 31, 2014

crosswits and pyewrackett, tracing sedunctions' breeth'ch

how is (it)
the sentence charts
this unnecessary
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.


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

a parenthetical pig and whistle comforts,
but the jeers go forth and 

what cue a kenning cabinet,
and what cut
a mirrored curdling?
black continence
before the stack

forever shy.


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

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

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

(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



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..

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

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

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

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

one day
in the life
of a single

for the distant ages

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