implicit in the sage are acts that mark the arrow; they mix deep thought with the shallows, a presence from which he pontificates on life’s time of death. and all at the hands of a language that has quit on him.
if he’s struck by anything real, it’s her subtle movements, they, along with voices, mediate his darkness, put wings on sex, move back and forth in time to simple words playing tag behind one side of the poem. the other, unrelated to sides, is out probing beyond time.
he wants to be the edge that’s occupied by the spaces words go to die, where their fates volunteered.
but, where’re the ‘whys’ that inform the ways things are, or seem to be. he hoped wishes would understand their roles in it, and lengthen the distances between rejections, so, the where, and why, could own their absolutes. and not feel a need to fix his, which were perfectly fitted to the eye’s mind.
and they heard no reason to sacrifice sanity for a poem: righting wrongs made the rites words practice less sensual - their presence is what touches the self as it reaches.
I lost my body to remakes: history’s joyless stories were powered by man’s sex-wounds, privates without the pubic sense to originate their own worlds.
A pair of hands bought her from a speech that was shut up by an old man’s fear of the child he’d lost to a cross that only reproduced sins.
A baby’s imagination is a toothless poem that ate its non-human author on the roof of Heaven, yet it still bites each pregnant nipple it mouths.
God farms outsiders out for more sin then they came with - at least a years worth of words committed to being difficult to understand.
Each new poem translated its words into aging lovers that reverse-fucked the language bed I use to write - as a piece of punctuation, I question their motives.
Her foundation is conditional - acts of love-sex in words, not deeds, to confuse any truths caught listening; it’s their prize for being alive.
I taught language to letters that couldn’t read what they heard, or who were plagiarized selves selected for termination on the next page.
A collection of futures changed its address to a number equal to the porn-films of past lovers; they shared shadow mamas on the street with Beckett.
When a star rises, it chambers birth races of poems that get high on word-plays - their only standard of good practice is uncertainty.
horny moths are the pains in the asses of narrow oval ends that remember the ashes on the head of a burned out Christ who was crowned King of the Thistles.
silver studded starbursts shot Heaven and stole the youth who was still fucking on her belly when her bloom went off on a new tomorrow.
butterfly sex compromises bodies, whereas sex behind ears of corn(y) midnight blues hold on to God’s expired trust; it’s no longer the transparent panel of faith.
ten of her commandments narrated a series of concentric sins in pools of flesh; their sweetness prickled the apples in God’s large scale Garden.
erotic margins are boundaries, and like vaginal tubes, their tunnels are flutes, hollow passages blowing stale air to stalks skies willing to take food out Angel mouths.
she scowls while his loss of power advances on the lions guarding the gates - lips bite into blood clots, decomp is in flames, risks as signs, have died.
a friendly vagueness haunts her temper, the lioness is a man brooding about glory’s role when all that remains is a slender poem of seedless soil.
She drives stakes into the minds of unedited footage, films naked bodies fucking daylight in town or on the steps of expensive cathedrals whose Saints are on 'the most wanted lists'
But the artist in her knows when to stay dead, out of print, be the first not to be resurrected, face down the Virgin to catch the smell of a lost art while wind blown cocks give up their sight for blessings in cracks from the other side.
They thought they'd hear God fart, prove he's human, in Man's image an asshole among assholes getting laid in the sun like the rest of us so he can work on his tan.
There they were, a couple of kids from Buffalo who could have known almost everything about each other's visit to this planet's music and art. Past present and future were more then 'perhaps' - they were non-objective, surreal, believable things that swam with mysterious genes. But they belonged to irreconcilable sub-sets of needs, longings and disappointments. Loves that issued from genderless forms - beings that language couldn't control.
They seemed to have touched mysteries that grew out of both, belonged to neither, and yet, couldn't survive the life that spawned them. Vulgar truths mixed uneasily with privileged awareness. Intellectual athleticism bonded with primitive instincts. Intuition had no difficulty working them both into whole cloth.
Historical repetitions respected contemporary iconoclasms. God's blasphemies seemed necessary for any rational distancing from its ill logic. All consequences were therefore free to breathe on their own. But without the naked truth of flesh to own their flow, all ends died.
