If it were the end of this world
then the next would be ice.
Now, more violet around the edges of
the fingernails and nostrils
and transparent!
as if there is a capillary
action to the end.
Spastic as the colon
in the old joke is,
sputtering all around,
the result of some fast
or other in the presence
of deliciousness.
As if blood would
not be delicious
if you were thirsty
enough.
Of course
it would.
The idea was
"stay young forever,"
as a functional decision:
the age of majority
was aged, the pert
tummy was stale spittle
in the face of both hands
flat in the carpet—
and however the body was—
in a protestation
coming apart
in spiderwork,
which was less consolation.
That is the way
the world works
(in a blast of fission
then little
perturbances).
Heart, you lack half-clench.
If you are rising
higher in the ice bed
the floe is growing warmer.
If you are sinking water
then it no longer
is.
Whether that compression
over the years, layer
of skin on layer of skin,
and "Our selection of any
standards, was not zealotry"
but politicking.
And if depravity in hope
is in place of scholarship
and learning: I'm scholastic.
If drinking your fathers
potato spirits solvent: I'm
the mower machinery.
And going blinder!
the bootstrapping
which began
in the Finger Lakes
and ended up in smoggy
southern Appalachia
lifted the poor rube
from somnolence
of poverty
into it's quietude
—of mud! tar
bitumen, sealing wax,
the stuff that keeps
the coifed bangs up,
sugar, yeast, blood,
stuff like that.
to the point that Ezra
Koenig is indistinguishable
from Charlemagne.
Tesla is from Chachi,
Dev Patel: Aziz Ansari.
Each of them doing
what they can,
hand in the other's pocket.
Man, membranous
and luscious
verite, if anything is,
you are.
If it were just us
three at the end
of everything,
someone would be
there
unpresently.
If the ship's prow
were building
toward a head
in water
there
would be more water.
If the sunrise said
"fuck you," to the 'set
and stayed overhead
all day, It would be hot
for a long time,
shadows would hide away.
Hope is the way
of heaving.
Our breathing.
Sweat forming
on our brows.
Everybody!
join in with…
…
and giving up.
There is a universal
buzzword,
and it's a bacchanal
and has all
the promise of sex,
and of being huddled in the grasses,
away from Horlogium
that lunatic
watchman,
who was in a book once
where the constellations
were like men. Banal.
Really. Running errands
across the sky.
And then switched:
their silhouettes dissolved
and left
pinpricks
of light,
sometimes at a joint
and sometimes not.
It gave no further explanation
and people on the ground
got on—and most forgot!—
but, maybe, one kid
who misunderstood,
and kept talking to them.
Caveat rursus
scriptor: it is not worth it.
Leave the correspondence home
and don't be home.
Do not be tied to the telephone
however caressing
it is on the short hairs
on the back of your neck
and the bottom of you head.
There will be more hair later
but this hair
is here now.
Do not get the impression
that leaving the house
is different from
not leaving the house,
stop thinking about
it that way.
Back under the awning,
scorned as a scorned thing is.
You are this:
confusion of excellences,
loss preventioneer
in a land of lost things.
which does
by increments illicit
a love so bastardized
that mine could undo it.
Cousin of stupidity
is hope.
Ray,
align yourself
with the seraphim
that their
small
and luminous fingers
should pick up
the beat from
your breath
and do something useful with it.
And that the suspicious
angel
is always working himself up
will outlast.
Poor guy has got
a good feeling
about it. The rest will
envelop
him with platitudes.
So
buy them off
with a carafe of iced coffee,
a package
of sour straws;
and run in the opposite direction.
Alas,
the part of life
that was the fundament
of jokes has
taken precedence.
Lovely,
if love is
a pest tent
in the humid southwest
and you are fresh out of tinctures
of dopeful relief.
But if you remind me
that hope
is a thing deferred
over the mountains
of a fantasy novel
then you would do that.
If you were anticipation
concentrate
then your enaction
would dilute you all out
to a few scant parts
per billion.
And you would drink like water
and eventually
be gone. Unless!
the spectral realm
were a clarion
into the palm fat
for us
and thinking that that
that's emblematic.
And thinking that
things have
changed's
misunderstanding them.
If trying to learn something of love
from old British television;
then I'm the telecom;
the subject of bribery,
so much money is at stake
that a grandmum'd
walk over ground glass
so much money into
the pockets of an MP
for a seat on some Beeb
sub-board.
All of this not
to say that Dench is not
trying to say to one
"Love the old man with all of your heart,"
(despite the hurmph.)
But the Dame died.
Magnetic tape may not
combust with the ebulliency
of celluloid, but will
mewlingly melt
into little spheres
of black plastic.
(You may've seen 'Contact' or mayn't've
but) the notion that
electromagnetic radiation
in deep space goes
on and on
with only dust to interrupt it.
And that is much less
than terrestrial solar
interference.
It is a hard life,
stumbling around
the effect of some
proud parent
or other,
in the face
if disaffection.
There are all of these adapters
outside of the closed-off world
of propriety
that power the device,
effect a video-out
from the mini-mini jack
(if that's at all possible)
and whence
what came in
is going out…
…
I just want to tell you the truth:
I do not love you
Yet.
But give me twenty-five seconds.
Remember the condition
of this arrangement?
A curdy spume
of ghosts among them would.
of spray
searching the third third
in a realm of right angles.
And if that life'd just
stay the same way forever
it would be a way to judge standards
at least.
And if pride faltered
adjudication would be there
to pick up the pieces.
And if those pieces were indifferent
and fell where they may've
you could mark
the lack of surprise
in billions
of Annie Lennox songs.
All of this in service
of desperation
nothing not
in service of it
head and arms above it
legs above it,
this is not aesthetic
it is lonesomeness,
melancholia
has been assigned too soon.
despite the maudlin nature.
I am not drunk.
It was just a glass of sherry
while making the sauce.
If Ulliel,
or something in that vicinity,
were the originator
of the infamously
neutral dark phial
it would mean an
unorderly and riotous
exodus from heaven
there is so much blood
involved.
How is that
at changing opinions?
He might wear the black jeans
still. Of course he will.
Shut the fuck up,
he is a wreck
of tar and bones.
I do not know this.
The IAEA
has given up all hope
and the council's despairing of it.
His profile is not that high
in those circles.
they are concerned about him quietly.
I could penetrate him quickly
at a run
and forgo subtlety
but what would that prove?
That I am as cutthroat
in sexuality as vivisection?
That the nickel-plating
on the brass coming off
was only a matter of time?
That though when the video game was announced
it was 2007,
the pre-renderings
and new macro-model
of game testing both looked promising;
it is 2015 something.
There is a whole new paradigm
for things like that. No
we never had sex
(I said it was because
of his bastard origin
and he thought we had had!)
there was the hope of it.
O, there were great hand jobs,
and an orgasm that greeted
the headboard with a splat!
it began with a back rub
that meant
whatever it meant.
The caviler spirit was
a gay disaster, still is.
If there were a stalagmite of it
I would stop impaling myself
(no I wouldn't:
the spelunking expedition
pared the gearing up to the bone,
had no implements or vittles:
and though the bat carrion
on the way in
was plentiful,
potable water
was a problem.
What was all anticipation
for big crystals,
and wet dreams for
the anthropologist
tennis player that we
found down there—
he had made
a rattan net
out of the luminous flora
at the end
of a basalt cliff
and he played with himself—
led to knowledge
of the heath insurance policy
and it's benefits.
And that was that!
(Though his hair
was long and rippling
even when glistening
with sweat
the beard,
the forearms,
the eye twinkle,
the staid dedication
even after no fossil record was found
no fossil record was found.)
No I wouldn't. It is not
too big an imposition.
And still have the freedom
to make banal decisions,
the ponytail, the flat-front trousers;
without finding the hole
bored through, or
the bruised up legs.
If equity in love were a death game
like when the beach fell
in a torrent of astral blood
and sunlight were
antiseptic in that way,
it may be night, still,
all day long.
There would be
bellies cut off in
horizontal downward strokes
suggesting self-knife use
but no knives
or evidence of reason.
fought to the point
that even
the content
is contentious
for example:
"This one is
the hairy
small of a back.
There is
not much to it.
"This one is
a handful
of pubic hair clippings
scattered over and upturned
tray of flan!
"This one's
gravel and tears!
"This is
eviscera
and a splash
of milk!"
For sure
we are done being friends.
Feels so nice
to have finally
gotten out.
If the gun
put to the lank temples
was "Destiny for eternal larks?
no.
Maybe, but a rainy day
affection you can't shake
until your bones
are worn down to steel pins
and calcium bicarbonate.
You indeed have a podium,
from the northwest
and on it's middle shelf
(hidden from me)
may well be
lactaid, the valium
for which I've been pining,
a pound of gooseflesh
and just shy of a liter of my blood,
three pop-tarts, your student card,
I am so hungover,
and should never have supposed
that a red line on the sidewalk
was the result of petrified
angel heart
being held against it
on a walk;
and nothing else,
it was not
the raglan's fault
it was your fault.
And that Christendom
has a capillary action;
intimating; Christ is gone
and he is missed,
and he is penetrated and
the problem is that hope exists.
Christ talked
to everyone
about what to wear
to my wake
and decided
on the linen shorts.
I arrived late,
was having a hard time
acclimating to death.
The shorts were transparent.
Christ kept crossing
and uncrossing his legs
with fey action.
It was hot,
his shirt was open
to the third button.
