Sunday, July 27, 2014

What Suchness? Don't Believe All Bad Composition..

in the still lit candle of the foundation myth
what we find are the intertwingled fins
of corrupt syntaxis
and miraculous contingency

a providence that takes this hull
to the cliff to die
only to encounter a wind
which renders it the ruler
the tyrant of ten-thousand years
whose name is never know

the perfect rhetoric
of error

Romulus and Remus
were really 
Amulius and Numitor
dressed in the skins of drag

what a drag
if this soft and chestnut brown leather skull is a word
then I am its spotted black nose
our feet connected
to a rule board bearing
no game

lithe tyrant
is quiet envelope
prickly puntiss
lips mobius

If your skin shrinks any smaller
I will no longer be able to wear you
my keen thin smoking monkey

these vegetables remain
to the will of debate
fencing appear frozen
in the coronal thiara

No one foundation myths
the chair of every fence
it is seemingly true
when wire thin monkeys word
the transparent force of quiet

we are gathered
and our weapons make only small changes
in small times

the perfect eye
will rise like a balloon
over the blue beaches

like the invisible twin of love
the uncle Amuremulusius
is everywhere
second to infinite draft
or a sea of toxic garbage
know one knows what segment
of the archive
will become magnetized
when the slurry of dancers arrives

blue matter
blue dong or bong
or capelstrophy?

look for organic solutions to geometry
the fayrd to sloup
the roach loping with the berry

as an Ouspenskian
the great and inner tree was eros
while the outer
was a hot rod pink interior
a random hearst shifter 

I'm not Donald Pleasance,
and you're not a lion.

This lion revealed to me
the fact that I am Donald Pleasance.
And this is Ward Montgomery,
or 007.

I don't want any more paintiffs, or posecutors; in philosophy above all, you can only see if you have already decided.

crowns of cacti
luminous in the purple dusk
and swarms of scented birds

no more
pun dinners
to Jupiter

Did you sell out of green tables, Miss?

language is not pandoran photography,
but poodle
pumpkin noodle
how dust
your grrr-din

any sacred tragedy
after the advent of comedy

I just want you to know!
Things are looking up here Plato!


I think you've pushed the wrong button.
Oh fuck it, let's dance..

Every sentence
is a lost boot
made into camera.

a foot whose toes
are sponges
of error


Only those who have made their dialectical peace with the world
can grasp the concrete.

All you dead images get up!
The poem is the morning of the world!
and crime its analog!

oh fuck it,
let's sing..

Oh Mr. Putin!
How could you have known?
I've always wanted a little Walter Benjamin in a box.

The fate of beauty
is that its wan ironic expression
reveals complexity
as mindless wit

of which I cannot feel
or talk about with sense
and yet it has brought us together

the black nose 
to recline
in a nut brown leather chair

the first wife
crab-woman beautiful
Toby Olson

canonical magic
and primitive sharpness
they leak out through the headwound
of my second death

it is too noisy
for me here
the table growing with food

If only the Ukraine
could be more like Clarice Lispector..

but once it stops blaring at you
the fly in the ice cube

I had thought it was a mermaid
until its enormous tale
appeared above the surface

is legal

and no waves to be made

in the still lit candle of the foundation myth
what we find are the intertwingled fins
of corrupt syntaxis
and miraculous contingency

why did the graffito
wish to capture

this colossal blindness
is white as milk?

at our every meeting
the breath of the ornamental dragon
would obscure my head
and your face its lantern thread

Alexander Diogenes
is gothic foolosophy

The sign of crisis
is always pleasure..

We're extruding brain columns
for the Hegelian Triads, Robin...

These busts will also serve as shoes, or tips
for the legs of robotic spiders

a single unbroken cotton thread
will wrap around the earth

enigma is only 
the substance of the possible

once you've already decided
your capricious eyes
will still be 
the nipples of a coal black tyrant

let it remain

the urn of generations

the unspeakable
voice of the non-all

Harry, this monkey just accused me of being

Waiting for Godot
with the Rolling Stones

It's yantra time..

Did you hear that?

I saw a thread running all the way down the beach..

Clarice, Is hope made of letters?

I'm just waiting on a friend..

Would you care for a faun?
or a pan-orientational noise?


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Irrony Observes The Earthing.