ENVIRON

poems by

Krak Wood Bum

Wrotten Spring, 1989

I am the pro-cancer.

I am the anti-physical.

I am the child of an economist.

This is hodologically reified imperative.

Human health is planetary necropolis.

Extirpate the other-genes.

Erase the radical enzyme.

Giggle at her death-bed.

O alleviation! Room to skip, and to vomit.

Room to play cowboys and indians

And to go in and out of the holy land.

Together we will watch the colors

Grow rich in the fern-filled waters.

*

Tactical fetus must

the muniment script ensoul.

Cultures convincing other cultures

of bilateral deculturation.

Germs of daliant post-human

surrogate that immanence

which ruptures the maladroit face.

Nothing to protect but the skill to destroy!

Justice avoids the strictant

Between source and construct.

We move much too slowly

Within our affections

As opportunity accelerates

beyond the pedologic flesh-need.

The surgeons of modal extraction

With episteme weapons

Grow wealthy fostering faction.

Children, who should have been abandoned,

burrow backward into the mutes.

Alter nutrition!

Stay close to the sisterly stratagem.

 

*

 

I stood at the mouth of ecstasy.

I stood as her words bitched and tugged at me.

Spiracles of enflamed, immune tissue

Spit up thru her lips, rivers enraged

With time leecht down her cheeks, clinching me.

Her breath was that of a man too long in a dream.

My abdomen sang over the asthmatic

Birth of voice, each phonal epistasis

Rationalized my strangest hatred, her mouth

Spewed fumes in loco parentis,

And young birds and lawyers fell in.

I stood at the mouth of ecstasy.

I wisht for solitude too sane for survival.

My friends were not my friends.

Her music followed my heart

Into a binary enticement, repetitively

Licking her teeth, pride of soft in hard.

I have no time to know what goes between us.

I have stood at the mouth of speechless ecstasy

And I have seen amadelphous anthropos

and I have known that history

Is jealously religious in its ignorance,

And I have inspired a cannibalism

Beyond metaphor, or motherlove, or culture.

 

*

 

I wish fenestration to be inherent.

I wish evolution to be sensitizing.

But it is not.

I cannot describe the beauty of preservation.

But I must.

I want to sleep beyond the gifts.

But I can’t.

She was so close to my heart

She demanded that it beat,

And she was so far from my ideal

That I didn’t have to fret.

She invented indescribable efficiencies

Much beyond my being necessary

And she exported every thought

According to the smiles it received.

He told me too many times

That he didn’t know how to speak.

He sold money for money

Yet thought himself a mother.

And he built expensive homes

As the poor awaited a license

For wounds that mature to identity.

I wish them to save each other.

But they won’t.

 

*

 

Impuissance stares at puissance,

A defendant of desire

With no evidence for spirit

But in the memory of power.

Holding taxation in view

Limits the birth-echo,

And closing your eyes to urgency

Accentuates the pain-flexion.

We have only cooperation,

Which buys us nothing,

And a sickness of dictum

That qualifies fruition.

A young woman stands erect

Against the necessity

Puissance inflicts in her

To spin a desperate story.

Power takes itself in lust,

And the stare invests in history.

 

*

 

He wrappt his arms around his man.

He said “never mind the way

They let things craft their words”

To his man.

All the waste in the world

Was obliterated, and the earth

Asked him what to do

With its new humanity.

His man told him too many truths

To remember, and he thrust

In and out of power.

 

*

 

Dream structures pursue justice

On her face,

Denigrated by pastiche

Boredom inflicts on the glib.

Abdication of her duty toward interpreters

(fucking rock death hegemony pathos lizards)

Of desert which

Upon us is bestowed

By equality-thru-cash

In this liquor-beshat holographic

Holocaust of respite deluxe.

Reverb twitch intellection

Imbibing addictious micturation

In the halls of dirges upon

An unprofitable theme

(in which coronal minds are humorously

peened by slam-dancing buffalo shit).

This variate inebrial is perhaps

My answerable piston of endurance.

Virus is an alibi.

Die, O to die

For the redman’s guilt

Gives new chorus to the chronic

Fingers of my guitar oppressive.

 

*

 

Heaven is a number

With all the emotion

Of my face being eaten.

This society perfected extraction

Of the rarity I call my genus –

Fetishist fuck syrup.

And now I am a node of expediency.

The ten-fingered things stammered

In their steel cribs

With the precise lection

Of an organ taking territory.

The sentimental moss

From the baby’s lip was cut.

All the whales sought space

Exploration, and I felt strong

Like an untethered body

Of structurous pilfer

Floating above the weakness

Of ambivalent reportage.

 

*

 

My humiliation is between myself and me.

So much nonsense since Mallarme.

Mexicans roast American Tammy

On a spit in vacant lot in outer Mesa.

Heads upon elevated staffs

Smell of Chinese talc, ground of caul.

Scatalogical nurses are starving

In the slack demand for disease.

The electrical chair of structured lust

Eats the castrated national germ

Of occult consumptive dieticians.

You are too little interrogated,

Yet I am living proof of the afterlife.

Minor deities scamper for the urine

Of which it takes too long to rid myself.

I pass thru graphs without adhering

To vertices, and my sympathy

Is freeform castigation

Of instersticial fucktake sportsdome.

My ears spit the sputum of overwork.

Outdeath ingoes thru me

Like a cherub with no divine net.

Stories of the primitive flee from

The first fiction of my achrony.

These livid waters swarm

With my vestigial reverted eyes.

I look into myself to see the stranger.

Trees gripe to me in treespeak.

I am a child payment to the inanimate.

I will die when I want

What I want when I die.

 

*

 

I am a cybernetic starch

To the perpetrative gypsies

Of chloroform’s nursery days.

I am an example of extinction

Of the perverted liet motif

Of mass addiction to prediction.

Your dream is the data of my demise.

Let my metaphor striate your viscera.

As only shadows of science can laugh,

As only girls in love

With their fathers can cry,

I die, an element

Too associative for discovery.

 

*

 

Infiltration requires a substance

Advantaged by separation.

Finality is beyond their choosing.

They just love it.

I interject at the time

In which they wince visibly

With the decision of again

Surplanting their self-obvious mistake

With one of two independent parasites:

the glory that rationalizes fault;

the accompaniment that gives audience.

In them I am their out of mediation.

(Success via me).

I appear a causeless specter

That inserts a pause in their docity.

None may avoid the speech forgotten,

for this is to accept dissent.

But I am tired of teaching these things.

You are only last and least adumbrated.

 

*

 

We forget that the heart is a surfer,

And Bauhaus is a wave

It rides heartlessly.

 

To think we always emerge.

To think we see one another

Thru what’s already seen.

 

Despite the episteme panic

I made it to the theater

And intimate death was still there.

It’s how an unemployment line looks

Like someone with a tomorrow.

 

A choralist of defensive nothings,

Fending off the shards of lust

Just to be a beacon alone,

You hear your heart’s moist message:

After all is all you are.

 

*

 

Hypocritically free among the weak,

And sensitively fornicating

Invisible dithyrambs,

Her body, the copyright of a semen grid,

Calmly bore the misinterpretations.

 

I said environment and nature cut out her tongue.

Noise was sold as biodegradable death.

Life is a random erotic synthetic design.

 

Take all as evidence of itself.

Mamaman is not dependent.

Let deception suffer identity

Thru a mental episiotomy.

 

Today they formed the 7th skin molecule.

Tomorrow, the 8th, O lord.

 

*

 

Everything clamored for a place,

But there were only six places.

Video sacerdotes begged for mesmermind.

Sympathy came with airplane glue.

Distinction played the friend,

But vagity was where the jobs were.

Religion was an inflicted press

That spoke of unspoken intentions.

 

*

 

I was a piece of caul

From the birth of it all.

I was a wasted protein

That didn’t care for relativity.

I was a dormant slave to sleep

Paid in wakefulness

To criticize vigilant lapses.

A student of student behavior

My meta-redundancy

Kept my mother happy.

 

*

 

Spare change,

spare change.

How inexpedient insanity.

The salariats are mating

upon the freshly shorn grass!

O they shall birth similars!

 

The laboratories grow tepid

with subjects, as the virus

rides its savage afghan

thru the cesium sky.

Behold its laughing.

Behold its comedy of essence.

 

The hierarchy is a loop of mobius,

pangeometry of entropy,

The eternal calculus of this year’s fashions.

 

Spare change,

spare change.

I shall leap over the transient

and land upon hard ground,

chief of the destitute in stance.

 

We were working on an environment,

yet it sang so singular,

spare change,

spare change,

 

and the electrode of inflation

in the skin of the great

universal sea bull.

 

*

 

Another lacerated night

as the heat-rods swell.

Someone’s got a gun

dead and gone

like the sun.

Who moved this man?

His spine was broke,

the vertebra crushed

into death’s broke token.

My woman’s face

loses something.

She begins to look

like a failed painting.

 

*

 

Xenophiles, and the silence inside

the blood system’s sternum,

making difference and storing

limp cherries for dead women.

 

O African inculcation!

O everyone’s city beneath the mist

Of man-made lakes!

 

Revile in adamancy, castigate

anything slovenly, simper

like a wolf-pup in a fan-blade,

drive your American heart

into the alley

with your ulterior masks

and rhythms of erotic boredom.

 

Xenophiles on Hate Street,

selling depression’s viable cubes,

stereotype four-way oblivion

initiations in a scone’s oat.

Ultracultural ambitions descend

into symbolic deer-hunting logic,

as if the brutally common wasn’t

imminently lost and needed.

 

Vibrant hypocrisy essentiating

the string of final becomings.

Recidivist migrants hunching

in revelation’s stall of courtesy.

Xenophiles who are never there!

 

Minor vegetative minority

in terror of a local tenor

sucking the strange from the bird’s stomach.

O and seeking why in history’s last words!

 

*

 

Fornication de jure,

Castration de facto.

Refulgence of concern

for photo-corpse

Adjudicates against childhood.

 

You say the sea is beautiful

Because your beauty is a drowning.

Skiff of my castrated leer.

Whiteheads!

Whiteheads!

 

The adornment of a slight mistake

puts labor beyond memory.

Dissuade yourself of your malleability.

Ezra Pound had to live

with himself every day.

 

Let us allow

for longevity’s vain engineers.

Each baby must

a new life have, new things.

Juveniles eating juveniles

in deserts of death-training.

 

By the law we stood

and next to impossible

Separating the two, topically

planning souizant inhabitation.

 

*

 

For I have no subject!

For I speak without a point!

For I am geometrico destructionato!

 

O and out onto the chilly precipices

Above Devil’s Lake on lonely dead dawn.

Isolate naked boy in an earthen jar

selling candies to the nutritionists,

for failing is an unremembered face.

 

O mnemon! O mnemon indiscriminate

and delinquent and hypocritical!

O I want this system!

O I want a job!

O I am a detriment to travel.

 

Heterodoxy in the morning

and homodoxy for lunch.

Have I not dressed correctly?

Can you smell me from your abyss

of “I mean this” and that?

 

Dehiscence along spinal management,

limp and unshaken amongst

the tint and tone of power.

 

*

 

Is it that nature lied to itself

and gave birth to human

or are we the only

needles of disbalance?

 

What sarcastic sympathy

wakens me to fatigue?

It feels we’re sharing tools

only I can see.

 

But still to fear the moods

of the third sex.

 

Have I been eating all my life

off the data of shame?

 

It must be a love for simplicity

that drives her to death.

 

Beginning and end are two wings

about a body of buckshot,

but who of us are only a choke

in the throat of immeasurability?

 

Nature must not have trickt itself,

for we would be less controllable.

 

It has assumed for too long

that they wish a survival.

It has loved too intensely

the mother of murderous child.

 

*

 

The stirp.

The impregnable stirp.

The stock sum in the determinants of the egg.

 

A management school by the ocean.

Women with shaved pits greet the tankers.

The indomitable, cruel stirp.

 

Dissembling the trunk of the enrapturer.

A mother’s mind stretcht over copper wire.

The fuckfull stirp, the stock

 

of crass nodes with faces and names

and psychologies of hindrant concession.

The formless answer of parentage

 

and the stirp, due to due

indiscernible.

 

*

 

The detained births emit a moist mew

and inoculations halt the subjection.

Sterilization seems so casual from outside

where passion pays per minute.

We stroll holding hands thru the homicide.

Power, so exact, clings to its name.

Biding our time in visual space,

the cry of the relegated is

gentle as a life expectancy.

 

*

 

To and fro the joke deity walked,

reimbursing the primitive capsules

left gaping by hesitancy in loquacious space.

 

Spirits maintain distance

as does anything exempt from ecology.

 

If I’m to die on this trash barge

I shall die killing the nillibists.

 

To and fro God walks,

setting up frameworks for laughter,

taking the eyeballs from the dead

and the insurance from the unborn.

 

*

 

Around the homes, in grids of visible desire

an epigenesis depleting

and a spawning of sciences in the factory of law.

It is the history of hand-sized hierarchies,

the dispersal of power’s lame genital

so that from the plane only infinite,

sudden verticals may rise.

Perhaps genocide keeps better in the womb.

And perhaps insanity’s engineers

find this time of peace profitable.

 

*

 

This is an initial Treatise on Efficiency.

Efficiency is what stands fresh in the fatigue.

Primacy gets its face from the hush.

Hesitancy is the nonbiodegradable refuse of sex.

Political reality is passive allopathy.

Some has-been left us only one planet.

All thrill-seekers are requested to return home.

Semblance humors tragedy’s brain.

Criminals only blink at the light.

Hysterectum Directum, the new novel from the animal kingdom.

For efficiency to occur, the child itself must be waste.

 

*

 

Surrealism may only be relegated

to nostalgia by a denial to travel.

Debilitating fruition is the orchid of progress.

Time actually tires.

Space actually gets bent out of shape.

Words actually impregnate things.

Thru the misoneic shell

erotic, fake sounds

of desire’s dead sea rush.

Advance cubical crustacean!

The escape from surrealism is a stillness,

the position of remaining,

for the truth of evolution makes

much love with false panic.

Let new words be the invisible cord

between exclusive products.

 

*

 

Philoresults from the synousial wave

sprout an onanism of the critically in-between.

Sadness now hung on their every silence

like affection heat-seeking cold space.

O to find the stream that sings

for swimmers there to swim!

The holes have not ceased to appear

in which snakes arhythmically writhe.

Sister, hang my piñata of hate

beside love’s pendulum.

 

*

 

She sees her body displayed

in various comic, revolutionary

crucifixions across the landscape.

Somatic prevalence drifts

on superfluity’s pollen

into the nose of allergic change.

What seen turns shy

shows symptoms of the illness

that draws love from retributional men.

 

All the funny, rebel corpses

dance their defunct family ballet.

Teardrop on my naturecheek,

I rip their guns from their hands

And shoot them until their blood

Drips to the meter of merit.

 

What is a drug? asked the media man,

and 200 million shouted his identity.

The precision tools with their infinite progeny

honed the celibate roses of advancement.

 

Lay flowers on the flower’s grave,

chop the trees to make more room

for trees. How human is humor

when danger sorts our innocence?

 

*

 

Lay her sliced forehead on the paper.

She built a treefort in the trash.

The molested are in charge of molestation.

Tiny sex nimbi flutter about her scalp.

She is severed, eaten, the drama of nothing.

All is static transactivity.

She was like the laughter of the sun

with her burnt fingers

reaching for the amused.

 

*

 

The sanity-free centrality

sings its last requiem

to the imageless fence.

 

Horticulturalist resumes prior to coitus, please.

Entrepreneurs efface effectivity.

 

Someone stole my desire from me.

Tomorrow, I butcher the pandas.

 

The thread phrases itself well,

raising no questions of jostle.

 

The legacy advertisement has taken from me

was only a transigent soul.

 

*

 

The cancellation of color has taken place in Kansas.

Litigant worm, what ancient deceit

lets you skip your synapses?

Children of the bus, communications majors,

a spectacle for the inured to war,

all your sensibilities in the brain

of the information-booth woman.

I wish for wheat discipline in carbon days.

I wish for another Kansas.

 

*

 

Rain on a man, outside foreign rain.

A building in his head.

These are the times of inimitable music.

Turn a woman towards me.

Let me find myself hideous.

 

*

 

Retracted children seem to flutter

in a seedless wind,

reforming cervical processes

thru the futility of growth.

 

Each death empowers them

whose saddened, genetic oath

coughs thru universal lungs,

invests its youth in old songs.

 

Pederasty’s coy, false jacket

bears the savage sign

of retracted children’s hallowed moans

in the franchised divine.

 

The introverted face

of metabolic zen

emits retracted children

as if love’s to lend.

 

*

 

Fratricide upon my morning dream thoughts.

Struggling with residual equations at dawn,

while he screams, while I thematize.

My brother is the circumscribed neglect.

 

Searching for truth in my supersonic blink

I miss the rem of his suburb.

The recherche roses of my quest

reject his sibilant burden.

 

As I become integrated to the light

my brother’s ebullient sulk

grows humorous by comparison

and only tragedy is left to sleep.

 

This fratricide reaches me

in my soundbooth of asocial work.

He inseminates the aurora.

I feminize the night.

 

*

 

These the debts that nationalize my remain.

This the community I hold for reasons of my own.

These the coins I bit during my birth surgery.

This the nurse whose hand I held in agony.

 

*

 

Alone, susceptible, without my car.

Motion bestows devotion.

Gambling defrays the mood.

Every footprint is sanctified.

Leisure suit man is a child in drag.

Somewhere all the references match up.

Somewhere breath is the data of life.

I am extending into an operant land

of exact productions and predictions.

 

*

 

‘The conjunction of intent never comes’

 

Partitioning all tutelage of my minority,

designed as if to share some former day

in which less wisdom seemed less stupor,

I measure myself as nothing but a weave,

instersticial and refractory, of perversions,

striking at the common with my abdomen

so that each differing nuptial of use

can come across the city without splendour

and take the obdurate, unphotographed flesh

whose spirit is a subject cowering,

in each hand, O child of inhumanity,

and crash them together, smash, smash, and no fusion.

 

*

 

Tho many lovers will leave me to my principles,

and many an effect will be deflected due to me,

the books are too full of short-sighted exploits,

the heroes of decadence too well-known to worship,

for me to sit on monuments and count the dazed.

The strangulation of my emotive throat

preserves within the world another’s breath.

The abeyance of examples among the metamorphic

tends the language of magazines to opportunity.

The jet turbines of the politically conscious

drown their garrulous protests against sewage.

My debts hold me in proper traction,

growing new weapons on old soil,

inoculating children against homesickness,

crunching numbers into a military budget,

To the caretakers who mistook me for their task,

to the religions that thought me culpable,

to the angry moment that dominates my past,

to the girls who sell lemonade by the highway,

to the teachers who gave me examples to kill,

this I owe to the seedlings of my manger:

the indebted stillness before the rain of mazes,

the somber dusk between the theaters of lust.

 

*

 

Beneath a sky yellow with the precept of famine,

sitting on a pharmacist’s counter,

with a million radios playing Here She Comes,

America had her first period.

The physicians, hot and bloated, with their investments

in Esprit du Corps and Deathjibby, Inc.,

scamper in on mauve magnanimous jackals.

A red river of gun-lovin’ flesh

dibbles down the dramatic cheek

of Mother Nature in catatonia,

as wavelengths jitter cross sarcastic escutcheons

displaying odd minervic asexual glances.

Ho-min-li yawns into a vacuum-cleaner Wednesday.

The initial tremors of a girlhood in fear

for the fraternal mongoloid extroverts

to de-ozone their Great Plains consciousness.

Is anorexia procrastination?

What objective causes the discursive to feign?

We see oleanders of random effluence

spit moist progeny from the blood banks.

Lo! the magnite impenetrable that shouts

theory, theory

at the juvenile truth ministers who hang

impaled by the precious inseminations

other cultures execute thru reprehensible genes.

What will the initiation of menstruation relay?

Out thru the clash of click-knives

and the mundanity of lesser cities,

America goes, seeking fresh arrogant sputum.

The foreview mirror thru which

avuncular truckers look at history

considers itself the seal of labor,

clamoring for a beer in the flood of memory’s foam.

The past is totally peaceful.

Desire is dead. Is desire dead?

San Francisco herself is on welfare,

yet the Fon du Lac poets still crawl

on borrowed lips

across the mohave to her golden bay.

Extraction of love from the ash and pit.

America had her first period.

And in her white republican dress, too!

Between us laughs the utility of boredom.

Names are lost by looking.

Christmas is a farmer in his own thresher.

Insurance is the easiest way to faith.

America squats in the melancholy of ripeness.

Redman in the Sangres rises again.

O Redman in the Picacho Stone moves his past-tense tongue.

 

*

 

Inundated with choices, we face the necessity

we must form of our freedom.

Quoting with temporal reference is the anti-woman.

Diplomacy’s afternoon never ends.

Privatism is not hate.

Power is the face of career.

To think that the psychic is as soft

as a dead bird’s belly is unproductive.

Profiles cheat one of fact.

Happened proves nothing.

Symptom is fully enraptured

and sealed at the duct of paranoia.

Medicine is a recreational institution.

Imperialism of consciousness

Leaves no wastrels.

Make-up of unprepared parents.

War-paint of emancipated speech amorists.

The best of us would choke

our child before it wasted food.

The best of us are the last of us.

Fashion photographs of poor kids planting trees.

 

*

 

Adamant sleep, convinced despair and eyes

which ached to see the yet unformed

cherishment of the inverted mutilated sex,

he lugged a memory of spontaneous cruelty

across the court of his own intransigence.

He drove ineffable uses of flesh

into foreign languages unknown to himself.

Where was the sprout upon the fundament?

What purpose does a sun serve?

Where was the flower upon the sediment?

These people are merely familial abutments,

Relative corpuscles with only false affections

to form their drastic motif of penal lections.

He is a face afloat in a million drinkings!

Addiction’s gargant without devoted voice.

He held his pained caucasian hand

upwards toward the frozen ground,

as in his heart fake cacti spriggd,

in his spirit the elements cooperated with names.

Splinter! Shiver! Twitch in a serious death!

But only hesitancy sluffed

thru the pit of parturitious dross.

He said “Personalities have nothing in common.

No assassin takes a bad photo.”

But his words were like uzis on television,

and his lust was only another deity

designed for his own devastating comedy.

O where was the youngling in the flow?

And where the spectic motive answerable

upon the questioning persistent bloated vacuity?

He knew moons that forego seas,

menstruation that slaked thru men,

libretto unawares rising from gutter mist,

and amnemonic melodies

over the rhythm entropy, fricative

as they go, out thru pointillistic emotions

of yes yes yes yes yes yes yes?

His forehead battled steel homunculus mistakes

and the city was nothing but the cardiac system

of his interview with Selbstmord.

His body, fondling immaculate origin, did subside

upon all that was pitch personal and opaque.

O surveillance and her stratifying arms!

O anarchy of abortion without begging or seizure!

O torpid distance between stringency and use value!

The angel with the barbituate skin oil

who tuckt my bastard heart into my father’s arms

at night drifts upward her illegalities

thru experimentatious sarcasms

to form my omnilingual dream polis.

O surveillance!

I shall die looking!

I have glared to disappear!

I have turned my eyeballs inward

within the propositional loop of predatious beauty.

I have stammered the glossolalia of black tribes

enticed alone by the hesistant Subject.

I alone am worshippt by indecisive technologies.

And my debt to surveillance,

as I grow deep and sveltish,

resolves the rose to my toil.

 

*

 

As if in confrontation, in replacement of beating a face,

the violence strung in my common guise,

my man-friend formula fucks outwards

in a frightened oppressive crush of hegemony

as this earth of my fund dies completely.

Derelict am I in a law taunting its own crime,

as the presence of a divine anticlimax

and a litigative slip from mouths barbed

scave compartmentalized criminal referants

from the judicial disguise of purpose.

With the restive hilarity of an orgasm in a library,

smelling the facile shit mound on the moon’s mind,

I sing to the nursing home muses of their pettable duty.

Despising the white malleable dorks of consumption

in a hobby reified to palatial abandon,

the nix jungle of despotic radio kings

chortles and rapfucks the disjunctive reflexion

of a cold child on a hot fucking mirror.

Stem of lexion, O the incurable deployed navies

of my dialect as it stutters in cabal smoothness.

Is this concrete dissuading me from cannabilism?

For all the faces have grown nutritious,

all the limbs as delicious as the fingers

that birthed me into this white room.

Yet I am rabid with distinction of people;

No pirate of personality is lost on my seas.

 

*

 

Her marketable face reveals a spirit iced in value.

Her organs are institutions of bodiless reactions

that squeeze infoblood from the deathcrystal.

She is not prepared to bow down primarily

upon the appearance of the sensual doing.

Her religion tends toward Amazonian fever.

Her lax, metered-by-antimath, motherish lapse of pause

maintains its functionality by sleeping on feathers

from the last bird of the failed hunt of America.

The calefaxion of her detox ward

is monitored much like slavery.

Where are the speakers of indiscriminate retraction?

Hold me, for her spirit is cold

and totally concealing its value.

 

*

 

Already obsolete, and groveling for my dominance!

This last resort never should have become first.

But nothing light ever carried weight with me

and in the randomness I still counted

on exhaustion, new and down and all that.

What change thought ever gave me

has recessed its daydream of the faded liquor

that splintered my choice into philosophy’s war.

Monitor yourself by your jealousies

and possession’s fornicating eye of suspicion,

for separation is a way of combining

and revelation cherishes exclusion.

 

*

 

The helix of nature’s implanted poison,

sick with the relatives of survival’s family,

like some pregnant Trident on a beach

spitting random missiles at the seals,

takes me with its lonely, unread hand,

and, with a death rememberable,

communizes me.

And so I remember!

And so I need many things!

And so the protest against the see-thru becomes erotica!

Am I supposed to move as if an etym?

Men in rooms make up names

and from them doors are built.

What milk do I float in?

That of the asbestos moths.

But I am certainly susceptible to glances,

like that man over there,

the one with the helix of nature’s vitamin.

 

*

 

Her clothes of jus!

O the sex of never touching!

Knowledge of death with a bottom!

Her clothes of jus!

Her nudity of assassic demeanor!

Slay the sick, I heard.

But O how sick I am with that!

 

*

 

Color’s less a passion than a stealing,

and less for pleasure than for healing.

Color takes my time away

and then cries of losing.

Color is not lack or presence of color.

Is there anything other?

Fight your way out of questioning.

Interrogate the devoid of speciating.

 

*

 

Radical father not had but by weapon,

tears are nothing when the thirst is human.

This dull sadness is my love thrashing

to sprinkle salt on his wound precision.

My father denies me transdimensional,

but it’s still my mouth that turns to kiss my fear.

This family of hate still living love’s libel,

it is a war to get him to reveal

what peacefully I have given unto myself.

 

*

 

Pale with this drug of equality,

dissipation is just punishment,

sensuality is only preserved

to expense my stagnant delay.

What saved lives to save?

The intent of a billion in one!

I am combined as the limon

Upon the screen of discontent.

I am sick with this insinuation

that life is the health of meaning.

What protected dies to protect?

A market without marks,

The trading of dissuasion.

By not so much am I divulged

as by the rosters of absence.

“They sit and articulate

every twitching vein.”

Of course all is equal.

Still I say I’m pale.

 

*

 

What we divest has harmed itself with labor’s tools

and crusht its hands on mineral fragility.

The meeting of the slightest with the least

still drags us thru indefinite superlative.

What’s taken out takes taking of the inner,

yet no defense cries for its own departure,

and those tools are as vital as the clouds

beneath which they build a pathetic arch.

No agent ever saw his clients coming,

and to extract from the world leaves dead stars,

to whose explosions we flock with our blindfolds

tied around the tripod of our indifference.

Its three legs are Simple, Possible, and Never,

and by them flesh props itself above flesh.

For what we divest has harmed itself with labor

as the tools don’t think twice of their creation.

 

*

 

All you think seems thought only by your thinking

that her passing frame is indisputable,

and you will go to her not of your going.

See the bodies of desire pass

and feel yourself sitting on the earth!

They go. They are beautiful. You want them.

What is inevitable about this evidence?

That you keep dwelling on crimes you didn’t commit.

That you are irrepressibly going nowhere.

That the structures of your lust are never dominant

save in what they fluttered thru last,

for synthesis has a way of getting in the way.

They pass. They’re wanted. You sit

still thinking as if all were in accord!

 

*

 

Have their moans not stoppt my walking?

Am I not extended beyond myself?

This man wants another institution

when the very laws are bitching

of the breadth and length of so much human.

Take this vomiting baby off my neck.

Do we not share all we cherish?

For what am I to be sad? Death? Slow death?

Inarticulate death?

Is this man such a child that all

mistakes to him are permanent?

Get those about whom it is possible

to falter away from me.

What violence deontologizes the rupture of the family?

O this and that and their sexual connection

of which nothing can be said

that isn’t unpardonable and relict.

So much sitting in the sun,

incorporating trivial cultures.

Does anyone care for the city of expediency?

Does this moan come to stop my walking?

 

*

 

If he delays, the solarity of worship

will forever depart.

Everyone now cowers before the Science.

Let them tell him what comes

beyond his coming.

Can they describe the optimal conjunction

between two words, sun and metal?

Should he delay?

Would it give you room to hide?

As if I needed to say

“What is important subject matter.”

Ask, don’t ask questions.

There will be no reflection on extinctions.

Reflection? Lust without a family name.

Spontaneous occultism.

Primary causes emanating from the 2nd person.

What would he do with all that

currency of hesitation?

Buy time. Buy the world’s most popular proverb.

And the solarity of worship would succumb

to a businessman speaking rhythmic euphoria.

 

*

 

Adamancy’s sacrilege of purpose all around me.

The mytho-centered sisters of obvious tutelary lack

are indiscernible from their silent, repetitive

pleonasm of self-punishment.

Mytho? They are somologically relegating their ratty wombs

to the alcoholism of career and salary.

Nillibists who nonetheless build temples in which to weep.

They are all so strict. On their faces

you see the quelling rage of a prehistoric mother,

the kiss of physics rasht into her mind.

Automation is nothing to scream to soft-skinned humans

about whom suicide’s swords flutter.

Your choice is the impersonal unavoidable.

The incarcerated will get us from behind.

In freeing your elements, my autocracy workt best.

Why passify the murdering between equals?

Punishment is a whim that relies on permanence

to establish the parental directory.

The sacrilege of purpose is the fate of a gesture.

 

*

 

To everything I gave the right,

and absolved myself of infection’s hierarch.

The virus alters nothing but hesitation.

His life is a pause in the symphony

of tugging spheres, at whose awakening

petroleum, the juice of stones, is enraged.

Impervious to myself, I am a fragile ambivalence.

One foot in extinction, I abhor dancing.

You are in agreeance with your destination.

I am a disease, by my own kind unwanted.

 

*

 

Inculcated within the Fabuleum, strategists lickt their wounds.

It is a brabant voice that rises above the granite zone.

Is exchange of consciousness between personal currencies possible?

The tympanies of heterosexual power stir the leity to distress.

Their jurist infancy, their gasoline lineage, O the packaged bread!

Rejoin the taxonomies of insanity thru the love of semantics.

Let thought’s history be injected into bodies prepared for coitus.

Reject the Fabuleum for utilitous seclusion.

Upon the vegetable monolith, be unmistakably black.

The punctil adjutants of grief relay themselves to oblivion.

Knit their ragged, stained, livid coats into something.

Resultant of dropsical fame, the advert inverts us.

The room grows cold with uncertain mourners.

A liquid falls from the blister of overseer’s tongue.

The secretaries of the Fabuleum regard each other with indifference.

Is the info-rush less perpetual than childhood?

This the Fabuleum, remarking its own success.

Relics lie gasping in the heat of wesen ist was gewesen ist..

 

*

 

I saw a billion-trillion bodies cuddled in one beam.

They laid their tender skin for sale

upon the disks of justice.

O the million-billion heliotropish heads

and the spectral beam thru which refracted

spirits conjoined in tutelage

against the surcease of earth.

They went exclusive, on pin legs, barely fibrillating,

grazing for food in the stagnant water.

Suns of religions novaed in deep white skies

punctured by the meteors of thought

offered thru inverted seance to steel and adrenalin.

Among it all were girls smiling

at premies they had birthed in grief,

and boys laughing among themselves,

their intelligences not allowed to touch.

Why is it unpopular to target subordination?

The billionzillion in one beam!

The inordinate weapons senseless!

The succumb of her form, his form,

and still the followed node that whispers

cradle, cradle, exposure.

 

*

 

The lasting fact of my separation

and the vacillation of my preferences

will have nothing to do

with her hypochondriacal enigma.

Perfect, asserted, fighting speech

solves the half-flesh rubric

of her self-inflicted autonomy.

To adamant pristine wonder

or to a bloody splash of useleness

she may go, both

with my sentimental support.

I feel according to a victory that touches me.

Why is there speculation in her

as to the genuineness of my hegemony?

She goes down.

She is lost like all found consciousness.

I would tear all her sensuous rigidity

from those thighs that are

my obsession’s history,

but it seems her parallel lives annul violence.

She would live on as pity were I to leave her.

There is no hypochondriacal problematic.

Let the sick decide who’s sick.

 

*

 

I heard the snapping to attention of the medicine engineers.

Winter had never been warmer, the lovers less inviting.

I heard their march of discipline across redundant streets.

I saw their faces, taut and clean,

their eyes fixt in a forgettable glare.

The indulgence never thicker, the children never as silent.

 

*

 

Fissure of men.

How does health dwell with potential violence?

I let everything pass as done.

Done! Done? What does this have to do

with capturing fragile dynamics,

with anything?

Assuming wholes, particulars will get me.

Done? Done! All is necessary.

O fissure of men.

 

I pulled the human element from its glass

and what do you think I saw?

A numberless contemporary applying.

Fissure of men! What has happened?

It’s past, so I give it one name.

 

Why can’t I let the backstage workers brawl?

Not that it all has meaning, but it will.

Fissure of men? Now what?

O what now in this echo chamber?

We are separate. All is work and hate.

 

*

 

The spirit of my impotency,

a child of the enraged and open,

an offspring of freedom’s tantrums,

the superfluence of disregard,

a body full up with history

that avoids its own progeny,

that expediate its anarchy,

all enchanting me

into my public sacristy.

 

A simple elemental force

am I, put forth

from the strained chaos,

and thus my only being

is self-directive penury.

The reich of my previousness

in soundless denouement

celebrates my coming

to requisite currency.

 

If I’m to find identity,

it will only be in castigacy,

in exclusion’s viral hesitancy,

in violence’s gentle forms,

of moving in and out

for the purpose of ending

interaction of autonomies,

forcing my disappearance

into scheduled opportunity.

 

Born to dependent infinity,

dying for the love inside me,

for all the possible species,

I lose myself in conserving,

I consign all to preserving

what shapes life’s basic goal:

The final, sweet implication

of the earthen race

into post-primal technology.

 

*

 

And today my smallness is as great as ever,

and their smiles read like transcripts

for dirges upon my family,

and their cars are loud and angry

on streets that don’t even matter.

I might be a father, had I some example.

Most of what I love is stuck in the cycle.

The corn is blasted with their power,

The panther gasping from their poison,

The oceans toxic with their savors,

And I am smaller than I’ve ever been,

and I am farther than I’ve ever been.

 

*

 

A herd of bison has been spotted

at coordinates X1116a.

The supernatural hiss

of a blackcoat guard for criticism

warbles in the cave

of subjunctive mechanics.

The bobbling of spheres constructs

our suspended, eclipst cities,

trappt in their own trash.

The stench of commerce perfumes

determination’s languid neck,

eradicating forebear anomalies.

Let loose the dancing slurry bombers

on the rigid encephalic athletes,

forming a bathtub of firefoam.

A communist hesitates between seasons.

He fought a good fight.

He deserved the decision.

The revolution of recycled cubes

In a salmon’s fuckhole

Excites a man named Dick.

 

*

 

Beside surrealist truncal inversions

that leave the body

gasping and transposed,

Epochally still within a narrowing

disposition of imported

inscrutable corpuscles,

works that place with eyes of its own reserve.

There is nothing to look at in the earth’s face.

One spark and dark disunity falls.

Yes, the master is a mistake

of passionate architecture.

In the adaptation of drowning rivers

a statistical scaffolding is dismisst.

Hamadrya! Hamadrya!

My caloric empathy to the stars.

The virus surreal, hungry for host

recedes at infinite speeds

from the huts of the conditionally sane.

 

*

 

I fell on my fucking knees before the autotelic.

Telos is a means of nutrition

due to congruent ingestional dissemblance.

Design is everything in the doing, nothing in the meaning.

I beat my head with the unwillingly dead before the autotelic.

My face reaches causewards with its preparing.

The clock is a project with infinite, pointillistic punctures of panic.

Alleluias of wide alluvias rise from the rivermouth of hate’s ration.

The autotelic scheduling of coercion

is the tongues I teach my parents.