Is morning just a drastic plaything? Are the lords that blink on my amniotic fallacy just hysterical cantors? Am I just some dumb cheerful donkey? My hair needs to get swollen now with the foggy contrition of seductive leeches.
Margarine paints the day a deathly boring upset green like the sounds of the air in between bones where I huddle, an unsoothed monstrosity in the conspiracy of soreness.
The thralls stick on me like the bubble paste of wildly aggressive submission.
Whenever the “graininess” hugs me in his styles-of-doubt, “glowing” and “quivering” as flocks of white seagulls by the Gowanus Canal,
Gathering all un-idealized creations in one hush of dream at its dramatic fiercest and most desperate quotidian,
it unites to the source of bounce-light – yawn-jaw’s cartilage – rule-encrusted eggs – a trance of motor-dictation to the “clown thumpers”…
And here I am, standing between “cartoon sight” and “floozy winds,” a visually discordant surface-fret in the international law of poetry’s insane floppiness,
Trying to find an emptiness of nasal wind’s hiss and moan, un-nouned, a dark jittery bird, in your cold personality…
While the tremolo of morning sun sculpture, rhythmically castanet-like, sets up a conflict that causes a tension that demands release from the spasmic magma of hellish proprioception (oh and plus my money is sad like a horny flower).
One aberration, a limp lettuce nightmare, is left inside the trembling of the vocal chords’ mottled bubbly shapes’ pure negation, the forfeiture of some vague code, like an animal fist in the plumpness of my radical fantasy –
that “felt-need-for”, uh, spatially charged doodling – nerves strumming-in-ear or tone-texture haunt:
numb thought’s otherwise endless flights of fancy: “raw jewels” or toned puddles… crippled by error and its fixed, candy-colored pleasures:
I believe in the beauty of the singing, its thick, churning motion, its brave lipstick: the lipid flash dance of your –how do you say?– unbearable… “outsideness.”