Self Death

Soulmate, dividend.
Lover of nothing, liver

of life leaving, daughter
of Ungoliant and Nought. Yet

leeching sweetness
from the air.

Such is the toothache's will.
Supplanting

the patriotic devices
of Enlightenment with

magic, we are a well-fed
throng of penitents; livery lifters,

india ink drinkers,
takers of popped-off buttons

from the half-pint mason jar
where things like that are kept.


Absurdity quadrupled,
love leavened,

maven exemplified
unto unintentional self death.

Fruit Flies in the Bathroom

Not cleanliness
nor it's long absence.
Fruit swoll
with sweetness,

time tacked
to ripeness
and is temporal
and attendant

what,
flocking up to greet you,
in threes, bodies balloons
of sickly orange-green.

Small, yet antiseptic
forces
brought to bear
there

and there and there.
Until orderliness gives
way
to fruit flies in the bathroom.

the New Poem

I would employ a tool would and make work
but have pause to think.

Sweet-corn silk
riven into furrows  or salt.

Situated that new poem
on a walk

over a berm of cold
soil and husks. And

it is presumably
still going.


Whether the prospectuses
piled upon themself

is not bellwether
yet.

Whether the cloud kept
riding the horizon, &

saucily laid the far side
waste in rain

shadows, tumbling,
drawn over that round side

past the last door on left
is a real mess.


Feeding young
is feeling deft as if

the obstacle course life
climbed out

of card tables and casserole
dishes. And of the appeal

of the cold porch.

a Mountain Slope

If feeling eggs
and sowing oats
and nationalism for it's sake

green growth
triangle accident. Not
falling down a mountain slope

but not climbing fully up it.

Sapphat

Sapphat, latinate
greek which broke.
And lo did this day
and week not go off.

Turn of the fruit. Dark
in at you. Apples as
fast as will. Branch
which, poem. Where

at most there is an
out in animals; it goes.
The story to leave is
not completely. Returned

a true loving-sense.
Talks of a down fighting
word. Feels experience
broken. Story turned,

love leaving. To paraphrase,
say the sharpest thing
quietly. Parting from
friend and teacher

of which an emotion
is the opposite. Standard
usage refers to this passage,
meaning doubled. Terribly

we have multiple meanings:
deep feelings, all the
possibilities there is,
great sadness superimposed,

this compressed, no way
out but separate intent.
Girls has been speaking
love we had. Neck and touch,

girls loose, comfort and
tearfulness mixed. This
. . . .lovingness, unknown
which is good. Pointed, her.

Whereas young boy aright
pleasures, as equals, by
a society their own. So
shown as knit. And even

awareness, which pitches.

Consonance

Seemingly sea, ipecac river.
"Mother, I am a ditherer."

"Lifted the livery from the livid;
said: 'Ecstatic: Look At.',"

which was of course titular
and yet less florid rosacea than

sitting in a bath of epsom.


If I could whet some moderate
mess in the corner, raise an ear

—yes, sound a clarion
of hops and ash; only.


If I weatherer, never near. But
for offal, bed sores, consonance.

"I"

"I" will carry a candle for you.
A leg over or two.

Metaphor of extended pain did once;
rose wielding cunt.

the Compromise

Yes, this is a perfect life,
bubbling plasticene strife.

If immolation, it is a slow
one. "Maybe the hectare further,"

to "or at least mental absentia
turned to much sleep." in the interim.

The cul-de-sac is indignant, yes.
"Maybe there is a third side

of life." The reaffixed bonnet's
bundled under. It is quite cold.

Met you when I'd come to on
the waning half. Picture this;

me, maybe fiveteen percent to
ineptitude with a nosegay of irises.

Let's compromise: you can have
the whole city if I can die.

Compartmentalize, obfuscate, lie
to yourself and everyone else. Skin

spate when there is a shortage
of flesh. Flash mate when

it is dark and we have strobing eyes.

Gliese

On Sunday we gnawed
blood and chokecherry.

The platelet bore
phosphorus to arsenic

and we ate nightshade.
On a colder heath than

one supposed.


Braised boulders in
wizened eye-corner skin,

metal, threadbare Lem.


And this is an anxiety thing,
too, flash of bright red hair;

talons of it. Then we
macerated galloping reams

of numbers ticking up.
What was ground dust

was not dust, but verdurous.
Cataloguing what chlorophyl

strobed back: "green/
green/green/green/green."


Evenings we foundered.
Having rounded some

inanity corner and
doe-faced the grins down,

feigning ignorance
of one another.

As though we were all
clean-shaven, irony gone too.

"Yes." "My, you have
a special that," "I think

you would really enjoy
this record," or, "track of land."

And it's reciprocal!

Earth

The paradigm is
life ended in parts;

no extraneous tree
pulp, increased

purview of machines
(for numerous reasons),

fewer trips
to the theater—

fewer theaters.
Children would say

“You are so old now,”
dividing things up like that.


You came back. Know
what cement set?

Quite flat. With horizontal
scrape marks on it.


This was us.
More dense, if

judging things like that
makes any sense. Blittery

rabbit cooked on speed
and crystal meth,

(That is a blatant attempt...
and all that) rhombus

or a parallelogram;
this was our house.

Transparent, platonic
line segments. Then

lifting the foot over
the bootland to fair

farther foothills and
flat land fractally

explosive with
things that grow.


Designs for cities in the Gulf.
The seagull joke,

neither we
were “aqueous” people.