nerveless flesh, unrest
Foreign Languish: One, oh one . . .
From berths to births,
again or not,
with twin:
lady lambs to laughter.
I used to pine
to be in the earth
in latex or in pine
but now in days I dream
and use my tongue
for more proper worship
- the sun?
Brown hills have a heartbeat and caves sweat
marshes march forward and mangrove groves overgrow
and I prefer to be a part
of life, not death.
Might I hold death’s head and comment,
romance upon it?
I might.
But it is just one mistress
amongst many,
this fool, this zero
shall not dishonor
but still
and we define
but
queerer than we can imagine
and without
any inordinate fondness.
So Queen Alice stands
with ninety times nine
and knocks down all fifty-six,
along with all other subjects,
arcane or otherwise foolish.
My words, oh muses,
I hope not subminimal,
though they be
both wave and particle
and I unravel
into strings
or helixes
and go backward
to the egg,
I no egg eater
though I have had it
on my face.
…………
This is not false fruit -
quite organic
potassium depleted and soiled.
Not dumb, not satisfyingly thick - obtuse,
as certainly not right or acute;
perhaps straight,
though I don’t care to be so one-dimensional,
queer desires, not tastes,
just another omnivore
with unbalanced pursuits.
Let us gather for . . . a wake!
Shake! Shake!
Crumpling along the fault,
assigned.
Not mine.
Coward.
Call you out to me, or some ghost, when you assign
and ask to walk some line
or show a spine
or be devine.
Would you see him at some funeral?
His for instance? Hold his cold hand and weep and play Hamlet as you often do
or some other Shakespear’s son, or sonnet, or sister?
(Vagus or Valis, just because you like to speak doesn’t mean you could.)
(Cast the guilt upon yourself and automate the other.)
I get up
and disrupt,
nothing.
No sign of my mind
but words asinine
and empty
(but little is more flammable than vapor).
Flammable or flamboyant? Do you say anything -
I know why the caged bird sits in its own shit.
It’s own shit?
It is owned shit,
wait I’m going again.
Holding my head does no good,
It’s already passed through me:
The point? Envenom’d too?
Then venom do its work.
Fecal trails,
like De Sade I adorn my body with my work
and like him, I hurt.
Birth is worse,
but often shit precedes life:
Death sends his brothers, and I suppose Life does as well.
…………
Hark the heralds sing
of things
we cannot move on from.
From berths to births,
again or not,
with twin:
lady lambs to laughter.
I used to pine
to be in the earth
in latex or in pine
but now in days I dream
and use my tongue
for more proper worship
- the sun?
Brown hills have a heartbeat and caves sweat
marshes march forward and mangrove groves overgrow
and I prefer to be a part
of life, not death.
Might I hold death’s head and comment,
romance upon it?
I might.
But it is just one mistress
amongst many,
this fool, this zero
shall not dishonor
but still
and we define
but
queerer than we can imagine
and without
any inordinate fondness.
So Queen Alice stands
with ninety times nine
and knocks down all fifty-six,
along with all other subjects,
arcane or otherwise foolish.
My words, oh muses,
I hope not subminimal,
though they be
both wave and particle
and I unravel
into strings
or helixes
and go backward
to the egg,
I no egg eater
though I have had it
on my face.
…………
This is not false fruit -
quite organic
potassium depleted and soiled.
Not dumb, not satisfyingly thick - obtuse,
as certainly not right or acute;
perhaps straight,
though I don’t care to be so one-dimensional,
queer desires, not tastes,
just another omnivore
with unbalanced pursuits.
Let us gather for . . . a wake!
Shake! Shake!
Crumpling along the fault,
assigned.
Not mine.
Coward.
Call you out to me, or some ghost, when you assign
and ask to walk some line
or show a spine
or be devine.
Would you see him at some funeral?
His for instance? Hold his cold hand and weep and play Hamlet as you often do
or some other Shakespear’s son, or sonnet, or sister?
(Vagus or Valis, just because you like to speak doesn’t mean you could.)
(Cast the guilt upon yourself and automate the other.)
I get up
and disrupt,
nothing.
No sign of my mind
but words asinine
and empty
(but little is more flammable than vapor).
Flammable or flamboyant? Do you say anything -
I know why the caged bird sits in its own shit.
It’s own shit?
It is owned shit,
wait I’m going again.
Holding my head does no good,
It’s already passed through me:
The point? Envenom’d too?
Then venom do its work.
Fecal trails,
like De Sade I adorn my body with my work
and like him, I hurt.
Birth is worse,
but often shit precedes life:
Death sends his brothers, and I suppose Life does as well.
…………
Hark the heralds sing
of things
we cannot move on from.