I veg out on the cello like a scintillating telly,
altering loose atoms to lamp arpeggios as trembling
comely glee occludes the courtesy of emancipation
& noise rim rams round a life tailored by violent ease.
A man’s force sustains a person’s shell
yet who pities those funny nostrils, those panting nostrils?
Why do men train to gorge inside & yet, in passing, air rants
at the doves on trial for goading love’s favela?
Courtesy is lucid and swims out to Leander in his dreams
where trivial work is nothing but a foreign fossil
& normality rests between the disco and the rave:
The things you people do in the sun, so beautiful and clear,
sates the dubious course of my desire and feeds
my faith in dukes & courtiers who like to make love w/ care.
Adieu, fiscal knell of darkness, chewed, tossed
and sported by all the ass-eaters. It is now. Unforced
glee autonomously hounds each region. Come, let’s play
in their corridors, murder their articles!
-Pressed and anchored to a truer focussed fire,
litanies delight in this rapid sequestering of horror
& our fidelity cadenza chokes on its own karaoke?
I want this verse to laminate my lady with a loud ayre
assembled in rows of leaves with gigolo logic,
as naïve Diana’s splendid stars appear to puke
each cheer like a lasso around the bellow of a sommelier.
My verse derives its lays from reassembled air,
tooting colours diffuse, channelled and familiar
as horror eats a sugar cube and retches joy to dare
my abysmal love for lays refined and mellow.
A passive person, adorned and singing gently
into a bassoon like a gigolo who salutes his lady,
fails to notice his faith in the nonsense of his creed.
A knowledge of poetry puts pressure on my stylus kiss,
an encore of violence directs the hand from major virtue:
nothing pulls the thought of a poem’s pen further than the key of sight.
After Henri Michaux’s ‘En Circulant dans Mon Corps’.
Imagine if IDS had taken too much LSD with Teresa May and he starts making a speech to her whilst she stares at the octopus tail growing from his chin, and then he starts picking a fight with Jesus whom he believes is secretly trying to oust him from his seat in government … maybe that’s what this is all about.
Michaux’s ‘Ma Peur’ (my fear) becomes ‘my poor’…
Encircling Dance around my Corpse
Entranced temps are known to lie. The poor are queuing, but not to con themselves some plus points at Dixons; these poor are newly in my command, to the dull animal thud of boredom. They may quit when their infants become eclairs or comely soufflés that destroy offices. For now, the poor occupy me.
But my songs for the poor are yet to reach the hands that have quit the dance to come, those approaching deviance with their sick and frozen fingers, who set their future to the instant foot. They ate the fingers I had frozen for them, cut from my main hand, and now these poor want my retinue for their object. But my poor show pensive restraint in the necropolis, their extremities stumped, as it was for my feet that they ate, laced with glycerin; their lavish acquittals truncating my demon corpse. A categorical barrage of men, tenants, elongated by desire, and DJ Abandonment’s drops might console these poor few temps caught in the deviant misapplication of my feet; as long as they promise me their dollars of terrible suffering, they can be the avant-garde of alleviated sense and, before appraisal, might be taken for patriots of the left…
My poor come, ensuite, all laid out on my teats, drinking demon dew with some animal fulgurance (maybe Zebra), and my cranium is eaten with the sense to suit defiance. Tell Jesus I quit. Does he not recall the deviant efforts of the poor to retrieve my name?
And I see that Jesus circulates his anguished dance around my affable corpse, excited by the shock of choice, as they arrest those in plain T-shirts. I evaluated their kidneys, eaten up by rent. I re-evaluated their colon and pinched it with my heart, unsheathed. Jesus undressed me in the night and danced, trembling, inspected by my poor. The dance was not attended by those sick animals who chose to quit my lactating crevice. Uncharted fraud alerted me to their icy tantrums, lazy tantrums of uncharted fraud tickling every last zone of my corpse.
This war will come to an end as soon as Jesus decides to cease repairing their memories. Only when the poor quit attendance, when the sole argument for the poor is paralyzed and the poor enter unto me, untempted, will my fear blast the doors down so my war can truly recommence.
—-done in Jordan — probably thinking about Italy —
The Travels of Sisyphus
Tonight will be a grand escape from cubism. Resistant. Externally resistant. Infinitesimal walls demur the totality of sense, which you all have limited, which you all have so violently limited.
A repeal of your faults is long past acceptance.
Me, I am nothing but a sorry part. Obstacles queue to pour their tantrums in reverse.
Quickly, the walls burst their molecules. I’m never ill when rested. Oh! Poor sap, now I’m ill and rested. In a moment I’ll faint and leave you all to sort out this war of platitudes.
Lazy votes do more damage if they’re formed from desolation, automated in the presence of jealous market televisuals, jealous pylons, jealous face savers, eclair eaters, caveat wearers, ill sensed troves of tourists, post-Derridean daughters.
The demands of abnormal market euthanasia generate fatigue; a delirious assent of summer coups performed in a mammoth silken silence. We have retreated from the core and…at last, may illness reconsider its votes, treacherous votes dependent on the cute quips of broken, battered quill sets. This agitation suite is designed to combine the light of conquered debris masqueraded as civic vents of delight with a queer jam and divine dalliance of tropes, carried through the calmest quilt of evidence followed by an encore of votes cast by impulsive loins, impulsive thighs that kill with fraudulent abattoirs.
Sequester all of me, negate my gene-pool moiety’s obstacle to the creation of genius and the queues of docile supporters, material for an immense black bloc meme - who would detest a year long summer, a miserable vibrance…
A coup de picnic is an eventuality, a puissant eventuality for survival.
From cave to cave, descend the tourists, a crevice of voters, arranged like stairs.
Jesus descends the impertinent babble, a fatigue of perfect discourse through an infinite reticulation of caves filled with numbers which I had for a long time ceased to compute for him. Jesus and I cruised, Jesus and I cruised on his cross through the tourists just to ask them about their accents - an immense trial of faith - Jesus was obliged to remonstrate with me, poor me, since I had rented-out his computer during his directorial debut, and he was yet to finish cruising with his Coil compilation playing on mute. May arrived whilst we were high, Jesus pressed apples for his redescension, as flight attendants were immensely reduced. Jesus descends the sands and feigns attention to the rain like one giant enjambement
Jesus descends and marches like a cell of sickles - and in the end we all delight in the march which I myself participate with the guffaw of a made-fool with surplus vitality, surplus vitality, surplus disorder of adornment. Jesus asks an Isle of Buter about the financial obstacle, the monumental finale, whilst I try to rewind the DVD-player with one of my futurist novels, a DVD-player, a DVD-player, as we cruised down through the masses, demured with an unfinished passage equipped for my impeachment, we depart on bony feet.
But the situation today, is presented differently, perhaps.
from Nozze di Figaro
Arietta di Cherubino
You whose voice is keyed to the cause of love,
Do not video my slowly closing heart.
Quell the key provided, redirect your O,
for my new ova, captured in my soul.
I sent you an affect, penned in with desire,
choral & delectable, choric as a martyr’s
gel, poised to scent of llama, a vampire
would in this moment congeal to gelatin.
Research unbinds the furor dedicated to me,
I’m not so keenly tamed, nor not so cosy
soul spiraling gimmicks without wings.
I palpitate and tremble without sapience.
No true ovum paces, nights nor days,
but maps your piece with ice, languid, cosy.
1 hr., 1 hr. to die knowing what love is, 1 hr. my girl
to say it - oblique, she’s hurting in her heart -
What I find empty, will reach her itch and say again:
‘This is all new to me. I understand that the itch is the night.’
Each spore in her eye regroups, full of longing
for the enamel kiss of wonder, her eye in her mouth quakes
her frozen itch, then, fool that I am, I seal her with a glue-gun
and we glide wider than the words that itch on ice.
I suck in my gut, that outer-half of me.
Who owns my bedsit? I know them not. & the night - what is’t?
I suffer, and turn to stone. Only dust itches my will.
Each zit rips and bleeds pepper and I know not why.
I cannot find freedom, not by days nor by nights.
The underdog’s eyes slit in lust, while his art’s truth smacks them.
This Unending Lick
In the war for diesel we’re less than huge, merely libelous
and diesel hexed, drying in our dens, blinkered
by waiter’s tales of horizontalized use-values.
You coughed when I sat here and showered that dank itch
in my unbegrudging room with a view of diesel ruts
and the Superman lick in the silence of the thief’s rule;
Woes that hurt the sick don’t grift
so light & angsty - ticked when they itch in the wind
drunk on diesel, bushelled & rashly whoring their glucose itch
gels them loose in the silence of the diesel laugh -
Each gets drunk in their own way, under kites and stars to buy
& for a hundred years, we’ve been so present, leaving the digging
under our sense alarum. In diesel’s unending lick for height
we sink our minds and dent them, as the Suez sweet kiss merges
with the undergone of the diesel sea nightmare.
The bullion blood of my song is the sequel to the parts
Established in my chants, my lines, my fins.
Ill sense of cruelty, ill set enchantment, ill sets expand.
I limply lit the vitrine, the mantis, the tessellations
I meant to cheer. I saw it dancing on the clear.
Dance in twos, dance atrocity, dance to the trance
Of an ill constructed dream, shattered,
Dancing toil, dance to tramp, dancers in the trench
Of the illest illumination.
The humble heaven over me in the not of a forgotten night
was hell enough. The stool, from which you sat
was broke enough. That what you spoke
was light enough. That what you drunk
was sharp enough. And white enough
was your arm, Mad dog, in the
not of a fog rotten night.