in his girlfriend he presumes he can’t smell her roses he can’t smell her boots expensive watches arrange purple chrysanthemums in the dark it’s nobody’s job
in time antoni sneaks off around lungs monteverde vecchio even when he’s locked away the value of a dollar
even when he locked away the dark it’s nobody’s job
see his
girlfriend arranging purple
chrysanthemums
it’s nobody’s job to arrange these boots and expensive watches purple chrysanthemums
the time sneaks off in his long black hair he is dead
sergio buys handmade leaf smoke voiding his boys
he presumes he can’t smell her roses in the dark it’s nobody’s job to see his girlfriend he presumes he can’t smell her roses so he presumes he can’t smell her beauty even when he’s locked in the dark it’s nobody’s job
the picturewomen that brought the fair says the flare of mysterious sun nests in blood. the same age i waited for you in the girls we could break into goodness. like as in loved. asleep. you die. no sun in roots and whiskey and seems fair though therfucking the place up, tangled in a ghost—hieroglyphics i dream of spider blood. like love, with its finger on the bar, i dream of you at scale, just a kid, really, laughing in place. tangled in a ghost—hieroglyphics i come to understand the girls we made you soak in barnight. i come to nests of you instead. i say lookout with its clear finger. what’s new? drugs wet with clear-air always sitting in nests of mysterious spiderstands they’re sitting out fucking you with stars. nest of mysterious sun. the girls we loved. asleep. you instead say, stay, i look for you, you, you in rootblood. the fair thought-fish, painted-ghost—hieroglyphic dream of mysterious sun in rootblood. the fucking on and ever clutch a dream like love ever asleep. you in roots and nest of sun in roots and place, tangled-in, but older. the same eventualities, laughing off of my fucking stars. i come to the coast, no one’s i light say, i drown in roots and instead, instead, instead. i stood lookout with tears. i come to understand blood. loved. asleep. you instead. i theater the barstool look for you where no sun in the blue-black sea they’re impossibly large spiders. i say, i dream of a mysterious man in a good mood. through the nests of wet fingers clutch the bar rag covers neon clutch at midnight, i look for yourself. good. the blue-black thigh, terror fingers the bible like a ghost—hieroglyphic dreams of tears’ stars. nests of example; eventually the fucking stars. the ripping of an abandoned highway, i dream of oscillating black preserved in some anonymous monkey’s heart, drown in neon; came on eventually, flicked really, laugh—they’re just stars on a path. flare of mysterious roots now love asleep—you, subsumed by coast.
“That the paper of record could print such mendacious rubbish is a telling symptom of the ideological sickness of our time. The widespread collapse of journalistic standards in the United States is a part of a general and rapid deterioration of thought, language and, above all, cultural and historical memory.” The New Criterion
myself and the picture is dead not passed into something about their machen mōgen mache knife something i remain facted about that truck outside our home the purpose gruesome videos taught me something we’re next her and her dam; breaking life i am this transition she worlds sometimes with force
“Her friends have given her a toaster, which she shows off gratefully.” Laurent Binet
her dam; breast empathy it was to know i don’t fear death not passed into or through the neck bone someone else’s in college myself and picture her mouth and blood tissue i will remind me by opening traffic to ascertain remain remarkable to beat empathy remarkable to the exact degree of a mid sized sedan in slow mo
“It was unsafe to meddle with the corpses and ghosts of these creatures. A sort of generic or Pantheistic vitality seemed to lurk in their very joints and bones, after what might be called the individual life had departed.” Herman Melville
coriolis force something told anyone before she will remain remarkable to sometimes i for a dam; breath something teach me some videos taught me / by the asked to ascertain unkempt her hand she is death failing traffic to sometimes i force myself and my wife to take the asked to ascertain such remarkable scale
“He said I was fooling I am not a tree and he dropped his leaves.” Russell Edson
annie besant
you
motherfuckers
should see my notebooks re-
surrealismo
a word near athens
admit your
feelings high
above
new
york
women
begin new
reign of terror olly
found this among theosophy bathing in paint thinner
invite the unknown he was crying
and so
i cried
and
i cried
and so i cried
she's getting thinner watch it
in that particular place
at that precise instant
virtue in late fall sniff
modernism rhyme disappear
from poetry sometime in late fall sniff
jealousy
the primary output of modernism
rhyme disappears from poetry sometime next week
early winter is that sunrise
or sunset culture moving
thereby the young reproduce like culture
and naive move along high-end users
ibid
originality the key party of modernism
rhymes with commerce
disappears from poetry sometime in late winter
when on average users taste drambuie and tang
in 1910 if surrealism happened today in early spring
it would be over in a logarithmic curve
along with technology's potted hipsterism
ibid originality
ibid fetish object
ibid of average users
ibid modernism
ibid rhyme
“Still, there are ways / of touching without bulldozing.” Ruth Madievsky
windspill
sail between
make it surreal easy
name a standup comic
that could be anyone
so we'll make it easier
name a standup comic
called salvador didion née carlin
ok that could be anyone
so we'll make it sleazier
name a standup comic remover
a 40-year spill
spot a 50-year turn
into his own unique breakfast
one-liners that kill a tourist spill-
spot a place and now he’s gone
tell me about some people
who were here
here there here where anywhere
hear hear name a dear preamble no
preamble no surrealistic buildup
or any kind of fan service
less rhodes straddled coffee helios
possibility to work with voice made kind joke
them haha yokes or maybe little zen koans
disguised as arid hardpan
call out morning coffee
give helios at rhodes something
to work with war made kind joke
or maybe more or less
“No treasures could talk the man who happily / breaks hard lumps of earth with his hoe on the family farm / into plowing the Myrtoan Sea, a shivering sailor.” Horace
After Horace
dear turn satyrs into a farm into plowing dust olympic
chariots of the romans another man's joy is to hold
soldier's life its camp theater there he was born
soon he was born within sight of the camp that's life
another's life but among their blazing burst hills
with thrill the soldier's grain from under a cup
the light-stepping hunter stays not above the cup of light
but with the highest master i am that farm plowing nymphs
and a deer scared by the surety of youth i was young when
the public's whim the day's occupation something thought about
in a shady woods among blazing soldiers turn
and dear forget the sound of africa no treasures there
just a town of ivy it makes me her flute and waves
sing dust on olympic chariots when
