A POEM THAT SWELLS UP

Marta, I just don’t sufficiently explain the void
I know it is chilling to be
A piece of memory stuck to NYC
The hair fetishist guy feels like barking in English
Those guys from Paris turn into a midget
I wouldn’t be this torch or a squash or vegan shaman
mais je retourne a vacant queasy feeling
The older people are sparrows in the a cappella group
Please don’t have a morbid curiosity about the honk toy
or rustling gold tongues hung on the balcony to dry
You’ve probably been seen drawing exaggerated genitalia on the death of life.
I don’t really have to know your coded glom! Your grim lushes are there.
I found a more grotesque asthma I guess
I watched  a Hasidic man become a pen and notebook
I watched the sacredness of a Vogue magazine in 1972
I watched black drawstring bags with quickeyed love
I watched a second language environment with George Herbert
I watched a restive sleep
I watched a couple flarfing to lyrics – the hippies loving this
Maybe on the street yelling and crying
Saw Dorian Gray fishes and muzzles snatching with
green false eyelashes and gold paint, backchanneling fine print red mind
Got any waters of Lethe to use on those kids?
Those most amazing eel birds of reading anything?
This hair in a Spartan little commercial context
This hair in their place; my lap’s a commercial contest
This hair in my friends in the lack of F train
Is hair an extension of the quote you didn’t read?
Is hair an extension technology?
Buddha left his wife in the states I don’t care
Is hair an extension of forbidden things?
Is hair an undergrad i.e. not with enormous breasts.
Are you coming to be?
So…one should buy stuff
The honk toy, its thick sensuous lips
like grand temples on the rocky road to vibrancy
So much agape, and deep red velvet paintings
like exaggerated genitalia on the death of life
A voice in a cheap everywhere, pagodas of course
pagodas of everywhere, OMG OMG I learned from benzos
Was that yaki saba I just married? Cried softly…
Getting my own voice sounds like staging a jar
Pages 175 to 295 are a blue-colored butterfly gland
all night in my radical dollhouse
The nightmares of extermination you didn’t really need
I’m running around shtetls in babushkas
I’ve got kosher in my feet, cajole myself to kvetch
I turn into a midget with a great love of announcing things
Guess I’ll just give someone a lost yarmulke
against triteness, but don’t have a morbid curiosity about it
This torch I wouldn’t be
That seems unhealthy to the internet
The cats go to Spa Castle
Nemo’s thyroid tested because I ate it
The cats watch Gone with the Wind
and the problematic Teahouse of the Beasts Boy again
Nemo is seriously complicating the morning
Seriously I am I a poem that swells up
Spock is going to stay in my scream and would moan
I finally found my identity anymore
Waiting for the most important muscle pain
Even if we are line drawings
In bouffant silver wigs
I watched a coconut flake 
Writing an impassioned persuasive paragraph on rouge
but I do want to try and speak from another planet
Weaving in his garden Nada uses words
to sufficiently explain the many fevers
Hopefully it is fun to wake up
Anyone want to make fun to wake up
Woke up, watch out!
Sha SHIN, flash of light
Marta, I just don’t sufficiently explain the void
I know it is chilling to be.
Wait for the hortatory feeling

I’m serious, I’m going to emit us.

Cool! right on! wow! rad!

Ramones
Te Amo
Rookie
Star Trek
Dweeb
Fake
Cool!  right on!  wow!  rad!
broke
Love
don’t go with the flow
God save the queen
DORK
CHIC
Bite me
Fake 4
Tear it up
Tom Boy
Check me out
Amore
Jaes
D.A.R.E. to resist drugs and violence
Weirdo
New York
Back to the Future
The dark side made me do it
Come to the dark side
Love
Sometimes I love you
Rebel
Meow
Drugs (in slash circle)
Geek 83
Legend
Cray Ray
Thanks for listening
Kiss
Geek
War is over!
FRIDAY
NERD

GEEK

You only live once make today susprisingly fun
This one is a keeper
Takeit ea$y
Fresh
Ramones
Michael Jackson
NO WAY
BOSS
Stop
Wake up
Peace Love & Rock n Roll
Shark attack
Over rated
Love
Marvel
WHAT
I HATE MORNINGS!
DUH!
Let’s roll
LOVER
THE FERS ES
OIU SODME
HRS FE
LOD HUNTING MIHTICK
MAIN EGO ITX CHO
LISEG TSE THE
GNUODSL EGO
EGG SDIBES
HWACHUN EGO
EGO YOUNG SUK CHUK
OF IMAPCH
YOUR RHOUGYOUNG
YOUNG EGO NO FEASR
GDIVES EGO ITK CH
Chill out
Chic
My boyfriedn the pool boy
New york City girls
How about NO!
Just chill
Genius is born not paid
Aimez vous na
MONEY
Never mind
Meow
City of Angels
WORD UP
Strike while the iron is hot
I only date super heroes
H HATER
FAITH
Talk is Cheap
Holy Chic
Steal my heart
Wild free
Let all that you do be done in love
Metal
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind
Youth gone wild
No love lost
Heart Breaker
It girl
I Fancy
I try to avoid looking forward or backward and try to keep looking upward
Metal cat
Let the good times roll
Perfection is overrated
Mind your BIZ!

 (list of t-shirt slogans from the Forever 21 web site)

Softening the Blow at the Terror of the Heart of Existence

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Alyssum – heady sweet –
climbs up the bare soul’s
woozy spike.
“Everything happens for
a reason” – the so-called
 “dazzle painting.”
If someone shoots you
in the head, they had a obvious
reasoning behind it, wether it be
revenge, he/she wanted
to steal from you,
or mabey they just had Pleasure
pulling the trigger.
Metallic gasp. Fawn (faux)
husbandry. Lite tension.
What purpose
could anything
possibly serve?
Blame is like a
boomerang boomerang
a like is blame.
I have a soft lick –
do not die – little cement
empress – ache the garden,
again. With wings of cement.
1)   to stay warm in the winter.
2)   because their instincts generated
biochemical reactions that switch on behavior.
“If you look for and discover
the meaning in the random events
that happen in your life, everything
will change.”
The lynx sneaks out of the house.
The lynx spooks the house.
I have a bad impression. On my petal.
Poor caryatids – their heads.
Elegant chevrons of torment
(its hidden purr).
“You know, everything happens for a reason.”
“We wish you luck in your future endeavors.”
Vultures fly into a fiery
sky.  What time is it?
It’s happy hour in the Poconos.
“If you get in an accident and lose your leg,
it’s actually because god planned this for you,
and he wants you to learn something from it.”
Rain. Women. Song. Dry ice.
She went back to Texas
to work in hospitality
amongst ditzy sisters,
meaningless puppets tossed
on waves of cause and effect.
A little nausea is truly human.
That’s what my wife told me
on the morning of her first turkey hunt.
Justin Bieber Says
Everything Happens
for a Reason
Including Rape.
If you understand that everything
happens for a reason, than live sometimes
is much more easy.
Do I writh this wrong? Sixteen.
Sophomore. Cincinnati. I love lawling,
pretty things, and bebys ask me things xxx.
Instruments. Broody. TV. Castle. Bones.
We live out our lives
like one long sigh.

Poets Must Be Milliners Themselves

Theory of Floral Insouciants

The floral fabric—call it a text—is composed of material elements with gauzy characteristics.

Poetry’s laciness within the floral text consists of poetry breasts, journals, flower presses, reading sillies, webfeet, and amorous intitiations, and also poetry-concerned people, such as poets, kittens, and readers.  The gauzy characteristics of these elements include musical and aesthetic concerns, histories, and erotic positions.  The fragilities of the laciness are how sub-delicate sprigs and flowers and therefore the laciness as a whole develop.  It is how, for instance, a poet writing a lace-concerned poetry may influence other poets and the development of journals interested in such wreaths, which may reciprocally influence the poet’s wreaths and the development of reading series interested in such wreaths, and so on, all of which form the insouciant conditions for each element’s meaning by being of each other’s constellations.

The Phantasies of Poetry at Present

The diverse laciness of poetry at present contains sub-delicate sprigs and flowers significantly interested in pretty phantasies.  These sub-delicate sprigs and flowers have produced the occasional charming aeration, and meaning produced by poetry’s laciness has occasionally surprisingly aided the manifestation of millinery outside of poetry’s laciness.  The present state of poetry leaves much to enjoy in cultivating millinery.  The present state of the floral text, with its musical climate of the post-2008 mincing creepers’ systemic re-exposure of kittens’ animality at the level of everyday life and resultant re-ignition of musical imagination and praxis for the efficacy of decoration, calls for a greater insistence on poetry to contribute to millinery.  By millinery, I mean decoration that thinks toward the furthest limits in collaging the floral text for the emancipation of humanity in its eggshells, and executes actions as necessary toward this goal, often requiring strokes, alterations, and riotous laughter.  If elements of poetry posture are to be concerned with phantasies at all, they need to contribute to thinking and acting toward the furthest limits or they are useless at best and neonatal at worst.

What makes poetry’s present laciness’s production of millinery so rare?  The diversity of poetry’s laciness contains many sub-delicate sprigs and flowers of zero, weak, or negative utility to millinery.  Poetry’s diversity produces an array of pleasures to be consumed, but that array is in-sync with society’s proffered array of acceptable calla-lily pleasures, and therefore diversity’s pleasures are a barrier to millinery, which operates on a terrain far exceeding acceptable behavior.  In sub-delicate sprigs and flowers with interests in pretty phantasies, the diluting plurality of criteria violetizing poetry’s elements makes concentrations of millinery difficult.

From Deficiency to Millinery

Poetry’s decrepit musical culture at present and the floral text’s excess of distractions make it unrealistic for poetry to achieve that messianic dream of embellishing the masses with a plum and violet utterance.  Poets must become milliners themselves.  The poet as charming constellation includes aerated delicate sprigs and flowers, which can encompass the totality of the floral text, for instance, decoration contesting global capitalism.  The meaning and floral character of the poet is produced from and diffused into his or her bouquet of poetry and aerated elements.  The poet as charmer becomes a insouciant scaffold for his or her poems and the active demonstrator and violetizer of their practical musical utility, enabling the enfoldion of poems’ meaningful musical utility into aerated delicate sprigs and flowers and further cultivation of millinery in poetry’s laciness.

Given the relation between the immanence of gauzy characteristics of a charming action, being a severe break with acceptable behavior, and the paisley of the mass mirroring as an idiosyncratic silver apparatus, the mass mirroring can be expected to slander millinery.  Considering the circuits of the constellation through which meanings will enfold can provide some gavottes on the immanent construction of a particular charming action.  The unusualness of poems and the floral character of the hourglass figure of the poet can potentially contribute some redolent arias as the charming action enfolds meaning through the mass milliner’s breezily idiosyncratic  mewing circuits.

Charming Poetics

With the poet’s millinery as violetizer of the meaningful musical utility of the poet’s poems in mind, what operations of poems might be useful for millinery?

  •  Cunningness of relations of flowers to be applauded or draped.

  •  Deliciousness of calls to idleness, dawdling, prettiness, and statements of idiosyncratic constellations or derangement, which is only compelling and effective if the relations in delicate sprigs and flowers are sufficiently adored.

  •  Provision of arsenals of sweetness and experience to form a saturated structure from which to issue blisses.

“Ferret the Slow.”  “Hats adored equally.”

All of these operations should be in the service of expanding the imagination for and sharpening the efficacy of millinery.  As the floral text constantly develops, avant-garde techniques are amusing for their novel utilities in silkily enwrapping the text.  “Poetry is not Rough.”  Like corncobs, only with millinery can poetry be a hammer with which to develop a crush on the enemy.

Often I am permitted to return to a diorama

Often I am permitted to return
to a diorama.  The diorama
is put together sloppily.
Items appear to be just “slapped on”. Pieces
are loose or hanging over the edges.
Tiny inhabitants hunt colored eggs
or enjoy a springtime picnic.
Horny doll takes off her wet white panties.
There are panoramas, dioramas, cosmoramas.
If I were tiny, I’d sleep
on a marshmallow, a mini
rosy doll or tiny forest naked elf
sitting on a mushroom top
in mint-green lace bra-and-panties set,
trimmed with tiny bows and crystalline beads!
O! Feel the spirit of the natural freedom
and ceaseless joy! You can create
your own little world of model figures!
It must be the heat but I keep looking
at these little Chinese Feeling Dolls
wistfully. I asked my daughter:
“What was this science module about?”
How To Draw Lord Krishna In Steps?
How To Make A Solar System
Out Of A Shoe Box? She smiled shyly:
“It’s about how all sorts of animals eat each other.”
Petite lass spreads her little slit to the max.
Brown haired asian takes off her tiny panties
to show her hairy snatch and to pee.
From that point on,
life without the spiritualism of the world
of illusion, a consciousness independent
of phantasmagorias, was unthinkable.
She would spend her last time
to buy us things like pizza, silky panties
(it was just her thing) and baby dolls.
For such tiny little fluffy babies,
they sure can chirp LOUD
and I just flow like a penis
at the Bean Ballet. It was not immediately clear
what the diorama was intended to be.
An owl? A scarecrow?
Strands of chimp hair
were sticking to the pieces of tape.
The Tiny Forest is a removed enemy (from Mother 3).
Oh, this is, why I love moss!!
Tiny worlds are opening up.
Yay! cute little pointless forest!
I am just a small girl in a big world
trying to find someone to love.
I put a skin and pants out
for the Starlust Panty Raid Clam Hunt
in My Tiny Forest: go ahead, re-arrange
the little animals and enjoy!
Butter big ass Perfect blonde doll
poses in bright little undies: “degredation
is always in the texture of everything!”
Bats’ fungus, ants licking diseases, autism brunch –
I just feel a breast popping out of my head!
Eyes do not open and close on their own.
lusciously fragile personal moment –
a remarkable creature with a long, snakelike body,
tiny legs and scales that shimmer
my female lionhead/dwarf is pregnant
with a rainbow-hued iridescence
this has helped me so much
The diorama was not accurate. The diorama
was somewhat accurate. The diorama was mostly accurate.
Creativity. The diorama was built on pink foam
aark
birdcalf
heelax
Mysterious Forest is absolutely clean.
Smudges. Stains.
…and into my panties. the sound
of … tiny foiled cheeses. and fruit…

like eating ladyfingers all the time

 
Got up overly early as punishment for not properly maintaining the balance of daily life, and wanting to be free.  Decided to paint my nails five different colors, which I did.  Nail polish is horrible, it smells like death, I shouldn’t use it, but my fingertips look like jujubees.
Thinking of how extraordinary it was to be sitting next to Madeline Gins at the Skirball Theatre watching a [great!!] klezmer musical, Schlemiel the First, when one of the characters said, “We need to not die!”  I looked at Madeline in wonder.
Afterwards I sent her some links about Molly Picon and The Bagelman Sisters.
My notebooks are a mess, everything is kind of a mess.  The semester ended and I have been cleaning up my office in a kind of exhausted confusion.  What happened to all that activity. I need a VACATION.
I also need once again to be a more focused blogger.  These little witty snippets on facebook, it’s like eating ladyfingers all the time. 
I like old people who like birds.
I like people who like birds.
I’ve been to some readings.
Ariana Reines:
“I’m not good with time.”
“Keats had hair that is also in Italy.”
“You and your firewater
and mild poses.”
She uses a lot of Anglo-Saxon simple words and her work is at once colloquial and mythological.
Dana Ward:
“data pastries”
“our songs taught me, just do what you want to do and don’t worry about it”
“the eyelash piece of fabric I vanquished.”
“mystify the world in order to fortify its / enchantment.”
Stephanie Young:
(referencing  Rodrigo Toscano) “the problem of the person as a treasure map”
“it [Hannah Weiner’s The Fast] is a book about not having a bathtub at a time of extremity”
“water only conducts water from other bodies”
“I was a dog who wanted other dogs.”
I went to a talk about conceptual writing at the white house.
Steve Zultanski quoted Bataille on poetry’s “instrumentality grounded in non-instrumentality.”
Sandra Simonds:  “Work for a poetry that isn’t at home at this white house or any white house.”
Rod Smith:  “the avant-garde is a stance toward reality,” and he paraphrased Deleuze and Guattari:  “the function of art is to create new experiences.”
Reading books flutteringly.

Jean Luc-Nancy on Listening.
An essay by Jena Osman on Bern Porter.
Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl’s Booby Be Quiet.
Anselm Berrigan’s Notes from Irrelevance.
Dana Ward’s This Can’t Be Life.
A book about The History of Dolls.

[Just sort of read on the train this morning the too too ironically named House Organ, which persists in sending two copies to the apartment. Didn’t he change his address?  The first thing I always notice about it is the numbers trouble.  It’s slightly better this time, 38 penises and 9 vaginas. Anyway, get this, there’s a contributor in there named Heman!  Heman! And all these “yrs” and “&s”…  (one poem reads:  “yr eyes &/ testicles//equally/useless here”… um… my testicles?) … a rather nice poem opening the issue by Joel Lewis, though, (“I’ll give twenty dollars to the person who can pinpoint when the ‘slow clap’ first appeared in a movie.”), and a treasure hidden toward the back by iGloria Frym: “How come it took you so long/ To get it? Oh look, another demand:// Embrace Change.”  That’s so Berkeley!]

I’ve been taking drops of B vitamins; it gives me the most extraordinary feeling.
Each person has the nerve to have a life story, parents, etc., such as the mother who shot herself and her two children because she was denied food stamps.  We must spend so much of life in a scramble for continuance.
I saw Melancholia.  Joyelle McSweeney’s review of it is the best. I had a discussion about it with my friend Peter.  I thought Claire’s desire to watch the apocalypse on the terrace with a glass of wine was totally bourgeois (I agreed with Justine saying that was just shit), perhaps because I don’t have a terrace and I don’t drink wine. I said that the way it ended was right:  in a moment of human contact.  He said I was being quasi religious, judging people’s reactions to extreme situations.  He said something about how Claire “grew.”
And I realized that I don’t care about how characters “grow” in literature.  Such a view of things seems to be predicated on a progress model of life and society, whereas it strikes me that really we are all just hurtling toward decay, and literature is a way of diverting ourselves in the meantime.  It isn’t to “improve” us.  I suppose that notion comes from religion? And is carried over into the post-industrial?
Society, which is supposed to be a “safety net,” strikes me more as a kind of landmine of instability, confusion, and competing self-interests. A bunch of succubi. Am I wrong? Someone tell me I’m wrong?
Foil of restiveness – dry breast – hebdomadic lyric PLOD.
Oligarchy of the stupid. I forget the “t” of “ist”:  socialis, communis.
Poetry as “personal tech.”
Blue panoply. Fitters……..
ffire breasts
nice train
the most uncertain thing I’ve ever seen
cockahooply
pale imitation/pay limitation
I want to be present with people.  I make imaginary structures – world of cute babies – they are hard work, and we are a dopey species, just afterthoughts of microbes.
You (“husbands,” “best friends,” “uncle figures drunk on anger”) aren’t real people, you are asshole people.
Your eyes, assholes.
Your mouths, assholes.
*  *
  *
A half-naked urchin huddles in the doorway.
It doesn’t sound like it, but I’m actually in a pretty good mood.

Women Will Vote for Hitler

People spend between three and four
hours a day opposing desire,
but every morning when a woman wakes up
in the crack of 10:30 she is thrilled to see
that shit for sun in the sky again and
her orange self-tanner will look as radiant
as she did yesterday. They know nothing
about anything dirty. They know nothing.
/
Marriage is a fascist dictatorship and
oppression – and so is any relationship
with a woman, they are all alike. If you
do not like the taste of Kool-Aid,
prepare to have a siren scream bullshit
to go along on your ear.
/
Women will vote for Hitler. Not because
a woman could be persuaded to buy a ketchup
popsicle while she was wearing white gloves,
but because women are all fascists.
It’s probably true because us men
have something called integrity.
/
Ten Ways to not suck in bed?
Six things to do for your man who lies
as a Futon? Completely Honestly,
who gives half circle your socks on or off?
Jesus Christ is pathetic.
/
Also, just like a wall probably does not like
or do not care to play tennis with you,
it’s certainly not your fault. Do not let
your sympathetic male compassion
get the better of you.
/
All women do not understand the hate label.
They are annoying as fuck and logical node,
ties around viper millions as leaders of
feminism leap their heads explode small –
and have glitter and shit-ass all over the
country, but women are also prohibited
because they are fascists.
/
Women must think about this
while they are enjoying their breasts
and Frappaccinos halter instead of
burkas and punch-Rapping. They
apparently do not. They are women.
They are not designed to think.
Men are stronger. Men are smart. Men
are able to put their thoughts into words
to communicate, while women can not
mentally hold onto something
that is not shiny or fluffy.
/
Men’s super sticky glue keeps one company
out of the country along his ass, and women
are crappy tape that keeps Post It notes
on the computer screen along her asses.
/
Marriage is still stupid. This is a stupid game
invented to entertain stupid minds and to teach
basic lessons of fidelity that even snakes
are born with.
/
I am a man. I will kill a dragon to get laid.
But if there is another dragon, a Rubik’s cube
on a face or something to get in the back,
she can go fuck themselves.
/
I usually do not like “skinny”,
but this chick above me give me
wood and gives me the time
I was finished with her. Her
face will look like a giant glazed
donut, so I will put a
vibrator up her ass fuck her
and make a floor to ceiling mirror
while I peed in a dog bowl.
/
I hate her face, but if she had
a good wash and hydropower
colon cleansing, I would push
my face in between those giant
buttcheeks ass her and her tongue.
So I will put my beef its rectum sword
(if I can get her when he pushes so far
that ass out! : Eek:), and it was used
I will push a table leg up her ass. I wonder
if there is enough lube if I can get my face
to go in her ass. * Bet the
KERPUNK have turds
the size of a baby’s arm!
/
Yes it is good. I wonder if she
has ever been in a choke slammed
QueenSized Rhetoric mattress with 1800
thread count sheets, and engage and puked
on the edge of the bed itself? Intensive SEX
sheetrock walls have indentations from all
figures, smearing eyeliner, grunts and groans
of sexual happiness as it is plugged into a
pretzel shape and xXxtremely rolled hardcore.
/
It looks like a cock tease, the kind that talks
a good game but can not handle a barbarian
raiding party for 45 minutes straight (or longer).
And the thunder she hears it snapping out of her
mind releases moisture ulitmate of sexual freedom.
/
These examples are fucked. I want to see some
really ugly bitches with teeth up to increase eyes.
An ugly overshot and a unibrow, there could be
another head of hair. All I see is a bunch of
Asian women I will never meet,  since
im a greek dirty hair (with moderate to
terrible ass hair as well). I would probably
kill these women to bed one or otherwise.
/
I mainly just so freaky deaky, militant women,
overweight and Thicky, so I think ___ has a right
to his love of Asian poontang. I had a false increase
in some Asian in my time and received nine new ones,
but they can not deal with Godzilla as the thickness
or the cries of shock nut. So sore from the floor
until they were, and learned to speak English
with my old futon as well.
/
I imagine a Jewish boy wearing a Pancho,
depending on talk about bad events to follow
some meteor hiting the Earth. Wasabi has no foil,
pushing his Sandy mustache Persian
into another sandy mustache persian
/
With regard to the opinion of banging
a wooden panel, average Asian little girls
are in the hearts of white or black women,
yes. But you can also expect smaller areas
and strong as an average Asian women.
This is all personal choice. For me,
I do not think I could ever get in a serious
relationship with a white woman any more.
Finally, I think that’s true everywhere,
so do not judge women acting in bed with porn.
It’s just not true. 99% .
/
You do not think those girls, thick ass I love.
I’m mostly in Italian women themselves,
so it was not my thing to begin with.
Various licks dicks different though,
so it all cool.
/
Pubic hair when they exist is kinda rough: (
/
I am very happy to have a beautiful Italian
woman with a very sexy body, healthy
and a donkey who is out of this damn world…

droop loss slave

I just got these… sorrow pants on…
as an ascii kitten in the lasso of tiresome
attachment, a fever inside the EZ-pawn
coconut of “social parity” so that I want
to go again to the beach. O Daisy of
Gory Insouciance, give me some
compliments, for I am prettier
than that girl with insufficient space
between nose and upper lip. Grace juices 
shrewishly the supposed pubescent bodies 
of animated classical music babies. I’m not really
into things “fading” or the “bendability”
of mind-boggling “progress,” its
profoundly colorectal fluid tossing.
The Jewish bride circles her husband
seven times, to show she will protect
him while he reads books. The cyclones
starshipped grandiloquently then are not (then)
the spooky nudists of my will. Problems
shall surely jingle, silenced by the shabbiness
of unwooded rejections, inferring their pirogi
from what is quickly einsteinian
by shamble. I do believe in marriage,
its solemnity, the smell of caves,
the nearby (unwedded) albino crocodiles.
Of this I can sob masterfully,
loftily, coherently soured, all mushy
with the birdsong of the mind.
She (Rachel) asked why I have to write love
poems, and what about ideas…
but isn’t love an idea? The
idea? Deliciousnessing? First:
the cessation of oestrus. Then, its waxy-
tortuous crystals, forming homes around
dependent young, or surrogate
dependent young such as Nemo
and Dante… sebaceous watercolor
hopes stewed in a nonexempt golden
junk, an ungual kinescope swooshing
in a metaphorically barebacked
toughness. How to routinely
badger myself in the unfrosted
careerism of thrum? My husband’s
junk, harmfully collapsible. My husband’s
birthday, filled with the sweetish
dreamings of polysnthetic mythicized
dogs. Incurvate as kismet, uninstructively
meaningful, leathered by mistakes, tensely
deep-seated. I give myself fair warning.
Free of him. Free of her. Swallows’ wings
around a looming breast, why want what
one wants? Fake freedom of hummingbirds,
universal music all over my hippie
headband. What is eruditely unexcitable
can sit mussy on the variations of these
banal astonishments: “The Promise Breakers.”
Eternal reproach of rotated to soaked.
Eternal reproach of aromatic rust-colored
bodies. Eternal reproach of quintillionths
of fear images. Medications are not
dogfights. Eternal reproach of auric
blathering lustfully quantifiable truth
serums. Uncivilly that I am. Eternal
reproaches that are not adoptive, as
pink-purple smocks or brazen-faced
antiquarian raptures. We should
ptyalize the doors as unassailably
unstirred ghostfish, the ghost in the
apartment, shells of shapes, shells
of sounds, shells of smells. Noncolumned
it is inexpressible, and it quilts
the petty cactus of doubtful imaginings.
Its enchanted runch. Eternal reproach
of these nonmodern verse sardonics:
they slaver on the looming irreality
of the señorita, smashed as from
a sheika or hajj or cygnus. I suppose
I am the chick of the clunky hindfoots,
diabolizing tamarillos and pennywhistles
with fancily confusing tunes. I do believe
in marriage, its amaranthine blubber.
What can you hydraulically have?
There is a thorn tree India. Like
a truth serum. How not to fear images
of soapy bodies’ riddles? We should
ptyalize the doors. Eternal reproach
of a conscientiously belittling buffalo
wallowing in the montmartre of its
flightiness. It is Sumatran by finiteness:
marriage, I mean. The oddballs of ringleader
whining. Her feet smelling in those rubber
boots as she waits for the lipgloss. Patchily
again I have the cactus of imagining,
polymerizing the psychotropic seed-time
of a plane-polarized organza. The high-tech
viridity of self loving. The bird-hipped
dinosaurs of marriage – we manfully research
our skin. A hollow pianissimo, marriage’s
iridescent spareribs, precedently retroflexed.
The mysterious chatter of the lions. Tired
of men and their alphabets. He wallows
in the grandest blindspot. Chock. Fracture.
Weblike. Tight. The mesmerizer is not
punitively crimson. We were stonelike
and licensed as retrievable doves,
puckishly justifying vermillion
songs-as-gadgets in the cool midnight.
The subtreasuries of our minds husked
heavenwards as hollow pianissimos;
I was the cloven-footed schoolmarm
(many-chambered droop loss slave)
unswayed by the WILL of those
off-putting bodies, their ordinariness
and lustfully quantifiable bunts.
Final rule: can you actually have the
maladjusted rhinal pup? Patchily
I despise the deliciously prognathous
slaughterers, immunized from heart
to heart. This womanly motorized
scholastic body. It is a kind of vaginitis
of the mind. We should ptyalize
the doors, and grapple, notwithstanding.
Snail-like, they were…
psychotropic. Indeed: there is
a kind of thorn tree India in them.
In this nearsighted doubtful opinion.

lying in a gray relaxed source

Torch someone to say
with you. Killed winding
after terrible sliding
and little ground.

Palm tradition
facing a certain gary
in your gary.

There are behind horns her
route sweat on your tried horns.
Stuff hands over a high wondering
at the tour. Clock affection
sorts you for a hoarse cement note.

Lying in a gray relaxed source.

Despite you for a cologne
or symbolic gently on display.
Wanting to bulk and home things.

Sighed times two… gray waves.