Tuesday, October 5, 2010

134. Pens, but I am in Them

consequent disorder antimplied by restraint. her body in the shape and flavour of a meringue. the flower has a pistil, the mortar has a pestle, in such a manner that the pieces hold together. wren/ch and writher. bird in the shape of a thought, bird in the shape of a state of being.

litterature on the path
lying over the stripes of
the zebra crossing. take
a croft of the id/ea and
take a cross up a hill

sweet bourbon across the tongue, and not enough u’s to represent its stifffff caramel. my body is stiff, in a way that allows me to move into another, but only one other. anisette as if it is not a woman. feel my perspective as oceaned, as sea’d, as the seed I send forth. squ(ink)d.

wrtttn as if wrent
& endlessnesslessness
ongoing and going on.
versions of revisions
of seeing something again

night comes dark, words come slow. the interference of words against words against words. mannerist, and the shapes of the words conform to imagination in contradistinction to reality. she smells sweet. esses encumber, and esses eventually become what we call essess.

unborn upon a whirred
and whirling whirld.
what wretched wench
wrings wet wraps
ridiculously so?

if she is id and I am superego, if she is idder and I am superegoer, if she is idst and I am superegoest, where do I go? ventricle, ventricle, open and close, let all the blood move to wherever it must. I need a window to something but blood, to something but blood and waiting for blood.

upine and down and I
am the one who moves
with feet of unstressed
then stressed sounds. my
blood pressure proves it

incongruent intuition and intuition’s incongruencies. we believe whatever before us we find, or the public hair that we later discover is a pubic hair. the dance is not left to the dancers, because the dancers don’t understand how the body leaks: in sweat, in blood, in piss, in puss, in shit, in cum, in the sharp slick juices of the cunt.

natter every night in the
way that you speak of
those things you cannot
speak of such as the ways
in which you speak to us

there is a psalm between us. a song held between two palms in prayer. a sandwich of meaning meant and made. do you hear the words you say? do you see the shape of a man before you? do you see the shape of a man after you? in what reliquary have you stored the most precious piece of that man you no longer are?

unger and ongueur,
what sweet presences
might you expect to make
out of the stiff persona
of your body? what, still?

we have a structure before us, of vector. we have a structure before us, of raster. with the right choice, the world might be temporarily perceptible. I hear you like desire. I hear you like heat. I hear you like the touch of skin against skin and skin against skin and skin against skin until. but it isn’t you I hear. I don’t hear you at all.

everything stops, as if in
place, and placement is
important for it sets context
for all that follows, and for
much of what doesn’t continue

out of the past, I write a poem full of bourbon and bone, a poem of desire, a poem that destroys that sense that the world is something clinical. the word is the cock slipping into the cunt. the word is the cock fucking. we are human animals full of smells and smelling and we are fucking our way out of our thoughts and towards sleep.

victrola and the sound of a voice.
Queen Victrola and the cuntless
woman and how she moves without
scent and how she goes nowhere.
something could point her the way.

take the word now, and respect it. fuck her all you want, and make whatever out of her you want, fuck her and fuck her and fuck her four times and forget her because she is a woman, but you cannot lose her, because she is the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted, and you have tasted her many times, enough to know what she is.

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