The infinite value
can no longer stand its burden of rancour.
Ultra-paranoid, it lacks all perspective
in the shifting perception of nuances:
Of circles that decay in the ulcerated prisms of the eye
of pixelated landscapes, melting and verging on constant obsolescence
still running like lava through the retina’s walls
taking into its gelid, vitreous reserve an infinite number of gems
already parabolic, conveying the form
of ivy-leaf latticework, all aglow, but oh, so fragile in the moment.
With gestural inferrescence
Languid sate upon myself in the piss of phoenix
From dreams, all this is missing, or simply blown away by my spit
back through nodules and vesicles until the spiral churns with tears
spit of dying spermatozoon profuse with spit of death.
With gestural inferrescence, dreams
blow away in lacteal rage we ride the seeding fractal devotation of bytes into a white tear of spit
low extradiegetic cloud seeds in the vacuum of an auto-representation
given a crucified terminus
gathered all the perfumes of odium in its remnants
simulating the soft genesis of cerebrosity.
If there is a unifying function, my body is memorized by these cameramen
I’m a tethered capacitor to the bright pelagic cell-windows
A sacrificial screen for a week’s worth of light
my orgasm comes in tenths
like zebras, mating on the sun
vasodilate the empty regions
where sugar and angel must be lily
The smell of you
You smell like a lot of things
(Sleeping in the divinity’s puking rust)
a dog ran backwards and forwards over the cobbles, bending down, up…
Denuded of varia, light arrives, shocks
the eye so much that we can watch
the eye as it dances from the cleft
in the squamous border, awakening
with dawning salinity a glistening lock of eyelash,
extending backwards across the trigonal cross, then
twisting and angling just a little, crossing
with acute terseness, the inner opening of the iris.
No, tortrix your milk will never be moths
Let it be here it is there
once kept drunk at the friary of the dripping candles
I must be a dimmed observer
How quickly it is the cool filth of cinema that turns my tongue into decay
Harsh negative adjustments to prove the incumbrance of my commodity in the sex of the other
and my tongue haunts me
made as it is by a cleaver of diction.
Once, the vine within these blasted branches fed on the fumes of hummingbirds
and the gown of pale celluloid colors illuminated
for me puréed aubergine the smoke within which wept and shook
so unlike these slip-crooked pathways fading on the moraines
And what’s this I hear, in the dark? Is it the sound of cricket wings?
And was there a circle drawn around the curvature
of my dilated pupil then?
And when was the infinite made non-preemptive, non-catastrophic?
I got burned
The vernacular sweet-balm for the caper berries of grief is my portent
I know the well-worn circle is death to you
Aurora borealis aside
Where would have been the joy
of seeing in such shallow color?
That for you this theatre is no white-out
is a fate and it’s welling, and now you of theatre satisfy my nightmare of daisies
Here are a group of people who have come to see a movie.
Whitewater wretched, screens send goosebumps at the cold firelight’s snot dripping on the furrows of my melon-sides
I find, for some reason
that to entertain is not to define.
It was the ablative line that first drew attention to my teeth, I was humming a movie
I don’t know where I am on the line and I’m chewing up the candy
then there’s this nothing-to-do but begin-the-hunt feeling
but I’m prone to mocking
those hummingbirds who actually draw on the bottled vermouth fumes.
Perhaps I take pride in fatal traditions
I say it’s nothing to me
if you give me a splat of sextant so steep in thy pinewood
too tired to hold on to the wretched pace of days
awake too many hours; or just how
I’m too damn tired for the carousel at the center of this Giza of silence
or just maybe
I am the carousel at the center of this Giza of silence.
An x-shaped hook
with bristle tissue, x-flowers, x-signs, x-crosses,
where the rest of us go straight, stick straight, upright.
Pulsing: piercing the flesh
flora that wants to suck us into its brunet glow
and to drink the light that filters through…
The light comes from resinous glints, through filaments to plasmic
platitudes as we press flat, collapse, entomb, shed,
furrow the bed sheet across the swells of haptic sand, escape the light,
and return to sleep.
Pretend we have run out of parasymptote
into sundry motorettes of auto-analysing rhymed language
out of virulent data
impulser of virtual loops and modal proverbs of auto-completion
of auto-mocking conjectures
of the drill, spouting black nova spray…
And what did white mean then?
And how is it connected to the waterfall of my blood?
I guess what good is a robin if not for the omnicide of rats
and where is the cubist effulgence, where then before silence the eternal gesture?
The dog jumps, the smell from the cinema is the incense of the bordello
The only false thing in me is fear, the dog who shits the song of the flesh, sometimes I forget that the past has a scent
Let your tonguing of trees taste, the meadow of the conch moon
My sombre morsel
Confirms in me this hammerhead phobia, cinema-smell of the fumes of mad desire, decay offset with a camphorous spice of spit-tinged rosemary, of his gunmetal eyes and his stink
The mummy of filth, who has just come out of the film. The slit de lychee, lychee fumes become my filth, of arsed clots and sacramental sunbursts, ocular nerve sores, corroded in the things of my night.
Cinema, taste of sulphuric gas, the egg-smell of cinema, the motor of the boat and the taste of the smoke of petroleum, the taste of the smell of algal blooms My nostrils grow black
with the smoke of vomit
opened the top, the petals were blank,
there were no petals at all no petals
pre-emptively cut into the soft flesh of all meaning
out onto the edges of a screened window, the double-blind shade
dusted with specks of white, black and grey, reflected
by the draperies of azure and cobalt, the tactical screen
floating before us on the stygian morass of our dismembered images
water droplets gathered on the edge of the flat lid and splattered on the glass; and the blood:
of both the petite et tant enigmatique
and the dogmatic and volatile
like a white stain
Blood, dry and bright white is what blossoms at the edges of those earwig eyes
like they’re feeding the seraph of Verona
they’re feeding my cuticles black light
you’re feeding on the mane of the seahorse, you always are
drinking in my violet boil the sun’s anointed plume
behind a faded sequoia, come frail, come faltering for sentiment
to wrap around the golden selvages where
for volume in catallaxy
all the moons, moths and stars clutch
slightly in their milky-penal sonography
where the wild little wolves that drank me
excipitate in cleaving to the
its ephemeral formation liquidised
flooding the meager ploughed grain that had yielded a gram of flesh, once within my wet web of indignant ecstacy…
Swirl, swirl, and turn inward to the lacuna of the retinae
to a shape which draws the eye backwards
concentrating it on the quadratic tangent as a psychic tentacle
leading the eye into a metamorphosis
of meta-refractions: If it weren’t for the gem-droplets
expressed on the gray tissue of the glaze
of the iris, would there even be an eye, at least?
To wrap his body in a gentle trapezoid
the pattern and symmetry of the florets
drawing his love slowly inwards, into the midst
of the collages with psycho-anthropological precision
I see a ciliary microstructure
in the minute division of the lash
Measles, talons, peristome slits
and falling, I lean forward, swaying, stretching,
asunder the afternoon
I reach up, hold on to each downward tilt
till it becomes a graph, a taut line
I’m holding out the nakedness of Saturniids
The axolotl the dripping axolotl the glowing axolotl
I’ve never heard of true nocturnism
but there I am
stroking the envelope of fire into crystal into an abyss of nothing
angle-sick; through the sea of blindness from the rim I await an answer in the delta of void
I suppose this is part of the dreaming, so black the sequins
a deeper and more secret misery can’t one be
at a thought
beneath the solution
in saline all down one side of me
then it was my only way out of eternity
in a pinhole
in a pinhole…