the tide dropped out while still enrolled puta in the sun scared moon certainly not the heroes darkly begging at the shore’s feet taking advantage the only thing at which they’ve excelled no other way to get it done their shoulder / your shoulder their back / your back the chorus unable to prove anything anymore distracted by distraction comparing work to worry reaction to action syrup to syntax the anti-war movement of the ’60s and ’70s sabotaged the culture their heroes heathens lords of dew acknowledge the abusive sutra turned themselves out there’s hero shit in the street and no one picks it up which is to say everyone refuses to pick it up who precisely is this no one and are you looking for agency representation?
When I write The girl is dying I do not mean to enter the girl nor deconstruct her state of abstract goingness.
It’s a figure beyond an open window in a time of plague.
Disemboweled skywriting or the family name forgotten in water.
Which is to say: Vicious mercy becomes the uncountable gallop of the ruddy horse forging the sandy horizon.
Let the creature offenses stand in beauty among their rare pigments.
Honeycut, should I fail to mention light — What kind of poet is this? — but here!
Look!
Cherry and evergreen ring the moon like a bell unrung, you see them or don’t.
These next few moments of balance determine your eligibility for brief happiness.
Remember first to crucify the middle-ground; translucent, gathered up, mercurial, for modernity.
Mobility.
Into sun-sucked ink, oil, platinum, I vandalize form.
You, widely recognized as a modular prophet, briefly part the asbestos curtain.
Who, among these long-ago minted currencies, profits from the quietus of pulped paupers?
Ultramarine, of course, picked up and deposited here at my feet like seed, forms the reticulated reach of your life.
They do.
When they’re gone they’re gone.
Something else, especially if this chaotic rest goes unexamined.
Time lays a recursive trap in which most get caught.
From the Old English for eye-hole.
The skin that threatens to scream in from its triangular sleep, vanishing from the fog of natural history, just as quickly as it had long-ago been shed.
You suddenly appear vaulted and the sun is beautiful.
My favorite spot across the entire desert.
I am describing the man who offers the creature, spoken into long-to-go life, a bucket of sewing needles.
Mostly I see your bones and saddle.
Faithful reader, a sharp splash of light on the cheek come, potential space for potential space.
what’s even worth painting anymore? all the nerd girls in big striped sweaters warming bleach moms gym guys in slate sleeveless tees and they make shoes out of knit polyester now tight pants loose pants clouds bodies minds bricks piled up high hair gel on a young couple four hundred feet away i’m worried about their screen time is their crib flammable age sex location trap beats the problem with not liking anyone is you always have lots of company imagine for a moment being a sixteen ounce poland spring bottle the thin crinkling plastic threaded neck choking hazard threaded cap arctic-nothing impermanent black they don’t do decaf here i listen to the gods who do not have my best interest at heart is it ok for me to smile at the incandescent young lesbians so in love i’m repeating myself my recycled edges ache at the thought of appearing a fanboy Eileen Myles in my hands my eyes my neurons my hair dirty teeth rotten and unbrushed like i said: no one’s looking out for my brief colors i strain to love anyone but i fear a relapse into hate for everyone hocking trace antagonism — like me i’m afraid i prefer living in the cracks and this world powerwashes squatters rats milkweed moneywort morning glory like us — there i go dreaming again self-flagellating my verse-thin flesh which is bulletproof if bullets are tsetse flies i am genetic i am bodied and disposable if extant — there is a cloud there is the gelic memory of sun leather loafer real burning cigarette appropriately scented altar i don’t care what your mother named you i will love you anyway without me.
i’m the only one who tells me when the poem calls that poem the pancake color of my charged-up fingernails that were no rhyme scheme your head was a poem called lookiat charging burn of my fingers that was the intellectual me where i am i am seeing the poem doesn’t have to cope with heroes you did it and you saw it another wasted intellectualism of fuck it they would have curved no metaphor for the poem called your life and it gets tasty that poetic squid head of quotes rising above the horizon i finger the radio or you don’t have to cope with his going out for non-renewable resources
pull back the color of my heroes didn’t you decide on an electrical power source you don’t open into it the poem calls lookimy heroes ;; another outlet for deicide kettle’s on you saw it acquire some branded intellectual shock we look like sui generis bedrock gardens we look at sui generis bedrock gardens fingers plasma!! it doesn’t have a squid head or you look back at the black outlet weeping like a weapon the storm hammer club her human body it has a god given right to the poetics of a stock car violin intelligence betraying stone cut from etna i was called a poem look for an outlet in hopes i would char char char
Bad manmade structures effluent as a pistol and Caprus, while a
good more easily in
marmalade darkness, can lose
things dreamt amongst millennials is that a terrible
parts per trillion of iridium
in engineering a recalled forecast about 2 years into the Lycus.
The most common lyre is time
someone
has died during an outflowing of the alien. Laodicea
is a ball. It's an outflowing,
the
inescapable parts perform
more violently, about
20 parts per trillion of
you can lose
your thought, dear reader, what a dogged lover
or gas to go to:
The figurative thing is the alien.
Laodicea is my substitute for a
philothaumaturgical body of water, Asopus and
their waters; Asopus an
outflowing end.
Are things of water
outflowing or are there magic
ends, while a good more
easily my substitute
forecast something like 2 years into any
water or gas to go: They last approximately 2 years into
iridium in
the figurative thing of iridium dreamt there
amongst the sheeply
hills between the shapely forms of the bad moon
in small rivers Asopus and Caprus, while a good
more easily in
my substitute forms bad moons in
their waters, Asopus and Caprus,
while a god, more
easily in my godhead, news performs more violently
and it's a ball.
It's the figurative forms of a performative structure.
Effluent is my substitute.
Forms bad-out like a fan of marmalade structures.
Effluent is their water or gas-to-go: Where the
form more easily
engineer a chemical reactor. Fluent, more violent,
about 20 parasite dreams per beknighted forgotten desire
amongst millennials. Situate the long spur of iridium
in magic... shucks, we're talking about
time, someone has to die.
Only about 20
parts per trillion of you can lose the figurative thread.
Forms made into a milkshake-like lattice. Effluent
is the difference between
lover-of-magic bodies and given bodies between the
afterlife
and, well,
you: Bouton-de-Roses,
terrible parasite dream, millennials,
outflow of advertising
structures. Effluent, in reverse,
returns to the figurative think tank
what a lover knows is how to make figurative
the inescapable parts
per trillion of you, Bouton-de-Roses,
that a terrible end fears ends.
Are we thinking in English again? is like what a terrible
parasite
dream amongst friends.
Floating down the Caprus, while a good more violently,
about 20 parasite dreams
attempt to bring forth the common alien in law.
Laodicea is hell.
this father
in between this
father i am
here i am in between
my name is father
and you listen or do not
outside
cats &
animals you could
permits imagination
& cats
permit imagination
it is folly to connect
the landscape is my mouth
is the transience of the
mouth free of use? tense
with permanence of
transience of a single noun
paparazzo
circle
seek balance
abstraction of
upstairs monster
not abstraction of not
circle circle circle
scale of burning flesh
life take a step back
red rover
the volcano calls red rover over
roll over red rover roll over
