My sweet destruction, whenever tears become the indulgence of horseplay,
I shall laugh within four billion and forty years,
Just when the dawn expects me nothing but montage,
Through the shine of an extremely complicated montaged sun,
I shall rejoice within zealous breeze,
My spotted dog, You are collapsed to me,
Let me creep along the horizon of the damp. grey, meshes,
Let me steal the old masters as far as the fictional sun,
Please come back to me, my editor,
I will listen to a black harmony of conglomerates,
Crucified underneath the rebellion of your sound effects,
And among the self-referential bruise seekers, I am not 76 minutes of unvarying solid blue light.
Otohime 
These sound almost baroque in their swirly curlicueness–& so oratorical. Nice.
I feel there is a very advanced discussion of the ‘rhetoric of scale’ going on.. but also a conflation of the historical and emotional registers as a representational scheme of how absurdly difficult it is to correctly map human experience
in terms of what it portends physically versus what the experiential consequences / contents were or are. And then that absurdity or untenability
informs the total tenor of the poem
in a kind of very ‘absurdly transparent mannerism’ which is completely cognate with flarf’s reflexivity or post-reflexive poetics of irony. It does have the threadbare quality of a taprestric analog but seems on closer inspection to be an advanced or
‘stealth tromp l’oeil”
or maybe its just that I’m trying to read into a single shaggy dog story, a whole bunch of alternate shaggings..
š They’re great Nada!
And fun to read!