kind of a short story, of sorts:
sepulchral geometries
a carved heart
an offer of love is dampened diction; it burns and it sleeps and it is thin.
beyond the disparities of our geometry, in the realm of the invisible, we were dedicated to abandoned travesties. at the beginning of this labyrinth, a delicate solicitation. a cruel reduction of the spectrum to a bare prism. we were explorers of senses, dashing forward, frozen and polar. we conquered the research of feelings, eggregious devotion a crooked capture.
simplicity prepared us for splendor, my memory amassing rhythms cut into parts; we visited the scattered flashes of white, sublimating confidence in this new friendship of reaching. it was necessary to be an astonishing revelation of the most sacred limits of place and language.
it was the limitless idea of your turned-away eyes, crawling castoffs in this palace of prudence; it was the lamentable eccentricity of accumulations and the fleeting malleability of flesh. the curl of discrete geometric form in the secret wilderness of your eyes, colors peddled in motionless riddle; disorienting reflected labyrinths undressed by the cold heart of science.
the menacing air you ignored was an image of a beautiful dream, which again adjusted the focus into vividness and a quality of important proof; the silent attendant a strange, skeletal silhouette of eternal reorganization.
i searched your interactions, finding a familiarity in the sonorous pictures of leaves, in the violent beginnings of life; the peace inhabited by us entreating us to envision, to traverse its hypothetical spaces, to investigate its dense intimacy. bodies collapsing decisively, dangling at the end of a tied noose. it had the same vulnerability, a fragile consistency; its landscape a spiral incline into the life of reason by furious beginnings. in the rooms where we could be the figures of form, nightmarish and strong, the rooms where the heart ended up, the game of shadow was a meticulously dispassionate whole.
the physical impulses of desire were confronted, meeting as flat cutouts of the organs of the body and the elbows of parts; desire was indispensable and grotesque; instantaneously, the truth which dwelled inside us was a nearsighted insistent idea, an accidental accident. the moment in question an extension of the same vulnerability, the same fragile complicated possibility of a carved, strong, walking heart.
the finished heart is characterized, often obscenely mimed. a pantomime of strange shadows and craving sepulchral geometries. the life of the heart is an extreme image of resonance. it is possible to be a possession grasped, a specimen of the fearful structure above.
you had sufficient strength to breathe, to force me to invent silence and rely more on physicality, displacing articulation; to be closer to the secrets of the body, not reducible with words. you became silent speech, were conscious magnificence. you were moved by the mystery of the story of the body. the escape to illusionism was audible, separated from the harmony ahead; a poem the only remnant of a world where a yesterday of make-believe utopias was the desirable state.
the grey terror of efforts was a toothed hole in the corner, between the buildings and behind the gates; an unwanted penetration into the secret shade. this adolescent façade, the occasional leaks of ebullience. a poetry of refusal, a cotton candy, tattered poetry. a subversive appraisal of innocence.
dreaming
before dying, an affair of love; in some way it would become an examination of the process of the remnants of disappearance. it would embody the cruelty of the weather.
you were in attendance, the collection collected by your grotesque range of vision. a serendipitous gift of apologetic virtues and small epiphanies. the harrowing crevasse of sublimation and brevity unknown and cruel, an invisible sky immediately everywhere.
we were together and small, belonging to the dull catalog of general things and the air that receded insistently. the dangerous secrets of the empty cosmos burned through the air. perhaps the metaphor was this mysterious vacancy, the perfection of space only barely preserved.
we arranged our dreams, cast toward each other and opposed; we were frightened to die, at the edges of stasis, the excesses where we slept. we gave in to vicissitude, ancient poetry and deified process. baffled on the surface.
we fell from our interpreted dreams against one another in the landscape of ancient poetry, spectators assembled in illusions of motion. i was struck by short fragments, chaotic and loose, accumulated in my memory. evasive intriguers launching the moving shadows and refocusing ephemera to interpret this body of meaning. with the great disaster, friendship.
we slept, a man embedded and a woman fastened, bordering on a sense of the independent; witnesses to a declaration of ecstasy. we slept and our dreams were contiguous; a nation of self-effacement in this poetic godhood, a reconciliation process exaggerated and broken down.
you were overwhelmed by the quagmire, a postcard of the rough sea of yearning; wanting substance and finding it in explanation, in the ensemble of voices whose empty speech was loud. a tacit understanding can withstand unusual resonance, utopia-building word by word. it is a many-city lifetime of destitute massiveness; autumn is cruel and it cancels the arrangements.
i was a gleaner, aware that this was all that would remain: that dark warmth we have had, overflowed from the morass that it tried to conserve. i used mirrors to store the reflected daylight.
autumn
mute thoughts, tacitly approving, acquiescence and envy perpetual; we ruminated on them simply for the static implications, a mixing of wish and technique. two people speaking the undeniable, a peace we oddly had, lazily compared to the sea. the world had become visible, confronted and mutely reproached, all but tortured with the puzzle of dead legs, the implications of staring. the grimmest implications of autumn abolished and subsumed the repercussion of looks, understanding the life that tells tales.
the existence which separated us was gathered to my body in order to rejoice in the animal of breath as before, the mistake of wondering an autumn falling sound. my memory of the rhythms which displace the abnormality of various wonders was not enough; coherent reality wanted an explanation, a standardized sequential life, the aberrations trivial. the question of permanence a sacred border in the nighttime sky for the moon to use without grace.
a sense of betrayal predominated, the collecting rhythms absent-minded lightnings selected for nothing. the troubled matter of love and the deliberately inconclusive friendship of dialogues was the most persistent question found under the sky of night; it was as the moon, a refined poetics intended for divinity.
i was destroyed, was an amateur; it was similar to facing a losing battle in flammable formal clothes. you attempted to tame and to contain other grisly dangers, throwing faint, moving shadow in the pursuit of elusive, anomalous and intriguing objects. and between the tailor's hands, a carefully constructed daydream. the matter of love is established in deep ignorance.
you were not an outline of yourself, an absence in this mingling desire; you were the result of destruction, the emptiness that you distanced yourself from. the indolence of envy, the mirror speaking the horrors we ignored. the allegorical objects we concealed remained open, punctured. indomitable feeling died, undeniably ravishing, mutely against resignation and envy; it fell on deaf ears and dead feet, idleness become the new eternity. we were caught alive together, all concreteness of life a silent gain and loss.
the flesh confronted dark criticism and grey laughter, promising thrills to empty spaces. balancing exquisitely between approval and poetics, the animal possibility becoming such work. viscous tactile methods and the image of their partly slandered surfaces turned affection into flesh and blood, the remains colored by accounts of some fearful mental wound, a riddle that stood still.
a love affair in the weather still has the memory, the outlines, of poverty; a war on all spheres of life. the contemporary wind contains other terrors. a partial archaeology of the evocative apparatus of misguided yearning, an obstinate myopia. ephemeral things like meaningful clarity are disappearing remainders.
water in the rain
the humility of tenderness, the play between raptness and mystery, were frozen in this motionless conundrum; inquisitive emptiness like a storm in expectant forests. i endured a certain damage in the process; refusing the existence of it all, robbed of my sight. i was the thing that stuttered through mazes with the beasts, crawling with piety and fleetingly weary.
disrespect is easily broken, is the accidental thing. it is strong, carved, large; it crosses the intimate hypothetical space. it is a kind of dream. it happens in the passive tense and remains that which is everything.
you were obsessed, not distant; more unrelentingly bored than was felt. i was drifting on the bed, burning where they threw violated little girls. any punishment can be endured. the power of explosions, the dark eye; the mutation flexible, ravishing and important. remaining calm another form of giving slipped from my body.
you saw angels in the shafts, the impression profound and ghastly. it was the beginning of history, a fearful construction of puzzles. this disowned aura of strange visions was an illusion of imagination, these phantoms haunted similarly by the shudder of smoothening logic. your cold heart stripped my defenses. it was the petaled endurance of flowers in ice and polar regions, a whisper becoming the sky and the sun.
your empty elongated eyes looked at me without mercy, soliciting my devotion with terror and infinite beauty. they were an answer to the mundane truth of life, a flash of reverence and the beginning of this congealing melancholy. the ability to make this work, the persistent materials and mighty effort fluttered like a saint in a niche, vanished to become the sea. the vacancy which consumed them slipped, became rivulets of water in the rain.
i looked to the mountains, the silver smell of the shifting clouds like an icon of destruction conflating so scarily. reeling away from the drama into the dawn the way most people go. the violent suicide of death in perfect focus. too much mental mess, secrecy resounding upward along the streets. our bodies transferred, increasingly redundant, failed and failing.
defeat
blind, ardent mouths made the night felt; revolving, flexible, like the change you see in the surroundings of trash. there was a sad girl's defeat, fragrant on a black sand beach; a tower blue poison filling the callousness of words, spilling from my mouth. the night felt your dark eyes as a variant indistinguishable from magic, a perfect survey of tragedy and suffering. a failure to explain unbroken windows. we would like to die here; possibly we are already dead. visible, tremendous.
you were the shadow that neglected the fable of your death; a night of variation releasing me to your desire from the hum of locusts. the darkness, your eyes a kind of poetic fantasy; i wished that they could have remained defect undraped; distant eyes cut together, staying a different shape inside.
you endeavored, your strange resonance killed by the fire in the warm, dark tunnel where the thing that dies is not feared; you thought of life as a test specimen, the perseverance of processes where vulnerability is complicated. it was easy to escape being irregular.
he who is not recognized is strong, lasciviously persistent, in order to preserve life under the mirrored stars.
we imagined the destruction; it entered the daybreak, a tragedy to consummate fires, a blind reduction; death, rationalized, drifting to the night. sometimes it revealed the sun, the shift of bodies, and words i reversed from my mouth. the brown sea manifested as festoons of flowers given to the body perverse; it learned how it was by illusion. our deaths were actualized in simulacrum; a round round sound, a type of poetic imagining; more and more repetition. defeat.
expansion to the physical world, almost absent of people, and i a rejected ghost. i was not afraid. i was built in the elsewhere dead's sound, the ceremony inside my dress evolving the fire which enveloped me. i was easy to ignite.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
i am white, a sparkle of possibilities;
i am callowness, my heart a graphic
design textbook of scars.
from my mouth overflows the aroma
of acid defeat, quailing the silence,
brown and rotted at the edges.
there are sad animals all over this world,
the bubbles of the body a liquid parade,
soured by the power of loveliness.
i am callowness, my heart a graphic
design textbook of scars.
from my mouth overflows the aroma
of acid defeat, quailing the silence,
brown and rotted at the edges.
there are sad animals all over this world,
the bubbles of the body a liquid parade,
soured by the power of loveliness.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
the adoration of uncertainty
is a revolution, a stolen
significance
the bulk worshipping of
human will prohibits,
renders helpless with
uncertain and anxiously
guilty questions, procuring
guilty answers, an uttering
of confessions and
nonabsolute invariables
there will be only
the pessimistic unborn
under them, under
their gray origins
--
to sleep, different inside,
together with the beasts,
you fight; you do not know
the obstinate fear of the fog,
the resignation to linger on
the most sententious signs of
an insistent idea.
no accompaniment except
small chiseled offers,
the irreconcilable objection to
answers.
no guidance apart from
the most eloquent symptoms of
a man fighting hard.
there is a crime in denial,
impossible in this world of
rebellion and scurvy confessions,
gray colors and a quantity of
helpless victories.
--
strength, strength.
these various confusions
prepare themselves to know
what ugly consent they express.
this irreconcilable, contradictory
consummation forbids and lulls,
in the flustered attempt to betray
the cold compromise of warfare
and force, the victory of possibility.
uncertainty an insurrection kept
by a disabled hero.
is a revolution, a stolen
significance
the bulk worshipping of
human will prohibits,
renders helpless with
uncertain and anxiously
guilty questions, procuring
guilty answers, an uttering
of confessions and
nonabsolute invariables
there will be only
the pessimistic unborn
under them, under
their gray origins
--
to sleep, different inside,
together with the beasts,
you fight; you do not know
the obstinate fear of the fog,
the resignation to linger on
the most sententious signs of
an insistent idea.
no accompaniment except
small chiseled offers,
the irreconcilable objection to
answers.
no guidance apart from
the most eloquent symptoms of
a man fighting hard.
there is a crime in denial,
impossible in this world of
rebellion and scurvy confessions,
gray colors and a quantity of
helpless victories.
--
strength, strength.
these various confusions
prepare themselves to know
what ugly consent they express.
this irreconcilable, contradictory
consummation forbids and lulls,
in the flustered attempt to betray
the cold compromise of warfare
and force, the victory of possibility.
uncertainty an insurrection kept
by a disabled hero.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
i will limit my answers.
i will name only a beginning.
we were chained-choked slaves,
in fear of discovering a tolerance
of everything; it is all values
betrayed, a distant insensibility
and a condemning vice of men.
we were immolated,
that distant spring silence
a blind riot where the lowest
savage was memorized.
in such abject deviations
the argument is useless.
there is nothing it cannot
degrade and decompose.
i will name only a beginning.
we were chained-choked slaves,
in fear of discovering a tolerance
of everything; it is all values
betrayed, a distant insensibility
and a condemning vice of men.
we were immolated,
that distant spring silence
a blind riot where the lowest
savage was memorized.
in such abject deviations
the argument is useless.
there is nothing it cannot
degrade and decompose.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
he has damaged what never
belonged to him. he would like
to love the girl who pushes him
by the moment to be a suspect and
corrupts those unknowable others.
she is ordinary and profound, and will
wipe tomorrow from all his values.
passive parasitism clashes with
desires, indulges in fantasy and avoids
wishes that are kept but never discovered.
belonged to him. he would like
to love the girl who pushes him
by the moment to be a suspect and
corrupts those unknowable others.
she is ordinary and profound, and will
wipe tomorrow from all his values.
passive parasitism clashes with
desires, indulges in fantasy and avoids
wishes that are kept but never discovered.
nothing is possible but the gradual and
general interests of destruction, foggy
and empty in a world i never made.
i do not allow for wistful longings or
the blind choices that prevail; they belong
to the conflicts in the rivalries of chance.
the girl who would like to be loved becomes
divorced from the means, standing in judgement
of the heart that is pushed by the deeper
substance of mediocrity, hanging in the vacuum
that with love would be peace.
general interests of destruction, foggy
and empty in a world i never made.
i do not allow for wistful longings or
the blind choices that prevail; they belong
to the conflicts in the rivalries of chance.
the girl who would like to be loved becomes
divorced from the means, standing in judgement
of the heart that is pushed by the deeper
substance of mediocrity, hanging in the vacuum
that with love would be peace.
the tools of knowledge
abstain from thought,
remembering the human ruins.
the research of scuttling is
divided against itself and
without reason understood.
by a collusion the minutia
crawls from possibility,
is a malevolence at the mercy
of the guilt and terror of wretches.
--
empty control
a deeply personal joy of
platitudes and abnegation
the false destining a
callous coming where
disaster is a crime of
the victim
where the victims of ashes
are locked up in a fire
a flock of condemned beggars
preserving persona
--
i do not live in a lifeboat,
do not see rescue.
i fight for my betrayal,
the catastrophe of man
absorbed in the fire;
temporarily helpless and
guilty of an important life.
--
abstain from thought,
remembering the human ruins.
the research of scuttling is
divided against itself and
without reason understood.
by a collusion the minutia
crawls from possibility,
is a malevolence at the mercy
of the guilt and terror of wretches.
--
empty control
a deeply personal joy of
platitudes and abnegation
the false destining a
callous coming where
disaster is a crime of
the victim
where the victims of ashes
are locked up in a fire
a flock of condemned beggars
preserving persona
--
i do not live in a lifeboat,
do not see rescue.
i fight for my betrayal,
the catastrophe of man
absorbed in the fire;
temporarily helpless and
guilty of an important life.
--
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
i remember this human shipwreck,
at the mercy of ghosts and men.
an ogre that could not admit the system.
guilt and fear are miraculous; the only
short circuits that destroy the heart.
the flesh is an organ one cannot trust;
the spectacle of self a wild malignancy
which helplessness cannot rely on.
in an autistic universe it is difficult to know
the misery that scorns the earth.
at the mercy of ghosts and men.
an ogre that could not admit the system.
guilt and fear are miraculous; the only
short circuits that destroy the heart.
the flesh is an organ one cannot trust;
the spectacle of self a wild malignancy
which helplessness cannot rely on.
in an autistic universe it is difficult to know
the misery that scorns the earth.
the exploited unknowable
will hold the sum of all days,
distortions that collapse the centuries.
the blind fear of efforts awakens
as a weapon against the unearned
march of love.
reason has failed the faculty
of sense, its stagnating brain
beaten out against the wall;
that semiconscious drifting of
mind a trophy of time.
--
you condemned
this habit of the body,
all the blood it required
a coercion of arrangements,
another beast to
shatter your skull.
you fought like
an animal, waiting for
the soil to feed you,
following whims and
ferocities, pursuing an atrocious
kind of fickleness; an apostle
of alleviation, of decomposition,
waking from a civil war
of hours.
will hold the sum of all days,
distortions that collapse the centuries.
the blind fear of efforts awakens
as a weapon against the unearned
march of love.
reason has failed the faculty
of sense, its stagnating brain
beaten out against the wall;
that semiconscious drifting of
mind a trophy of time.
--
you condemned
this habit of the body,
all the blood it required
a coercion of arrangements,
another beast to
shatter your skull.
you fought like
an animal, waiting for
the soil to feed you,
following whims and
ferocities, pursuing an atrocious
kind of fickleness; an apostle
of alleviation, of decomposition,
waking from a civil war
of hours.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
the surfaces of walls are
populated by detritus;
these thrown away pieces
open old dictionaries of
entire worlds.
i believed that these treasures
housed worlds within
their entrails; wastelands,
concrete towns of garbage.
the minutia that a person shelters
throws away the human being inside;
a panoply of threats to silence the noise
which speaks a truth to the world.
--
my stomach is a giant
in armoured clothes.
our eyes speak to the childlike
part and are abandoned, the rainfall
a spectacle overflowed in the body.
they circle the silences that exist
in abundance; ornate animals
breathing the strictest stay
of dreams.
populated by detritus;
these thrown away pieces
open old dictionaries of
entire worlds.
i believed that these treasures
housed worlds within
their entrails; wastelands,
concrete towns of garbage.
the minutia that a person shelters
throws away the human being inside;
a panoply of threats to silence the noise
which speaks a truth to the world.
--
my stomach is a giant
in armoured clothes.
our eyes speak to the childlike
part and are abandoned, the rainfall
a spectacle overflowed in the body.
they circle the silences that exist
in abundance; ornate animals
breathing the strictest stay
of dreams.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
i found a bunch of two year old poems, posted elsewhere, so i figured i'd add them here to consolidate.
cutups from august, 05:
i can smell it coming again
perched in the middle of a former
soviet airfield
wrapped-up corpses
swollen up out of
the frozen ground
etched against
grey-on-grey winter
a faint loamy whiff of
the gusts of misery
that lap at our coats
...
i blame my solitude on
sharpened sticks and
grave misunderstandings
a maddeningly unbound lover
engraved on my taste buds
the vivid combustion of spirit
kept at a consoling distance
we remain unexploded
...
we give up the romantic compass
predisposed to idealized reclusiveness
smooth and creatureless
coyotes roam
the spindly pine and birch forest
here in the snow
the wisdom of my desire
like beach-washed glass
...
cold war nostalgia
handed around
like a curious artifact
from the window of
an old soviet apartment
where women take
their clothes off
loneliness and
erotic cigarette smoking
the proletarian option
...
rocket-propelled grenade
accusatory pointing finger
a week of the silent treatment
a lonely niche in lieu of
being cured and made whole
...
the uncertainties of hurricane
suck our warm pretentions
powerlines cutting the sky
a tree turns into
a circuit board
someone was in mourning
breathing from a darkened crib
like the sound of rain
translations from august, 05:
those we would like to be must be grasped;
the fact that the focus is not adjusted
does not have to be regretted in writing
i gain a hundred other things:
the money which is not money,
the sound which is me
the something else; punishment
tension and destruction and arrival,
passing, passing, passing
the money in the bank will be
the money the government gets.
...
break into a run,
life in question
roll up your eyes,
reject growing upward
and obtaining real work
deathly frightened, funereal
work the work,
the time of ripening,
upward
...
i do not feel sad,
i do not feel angry.
a good life and
set of experiments,
a series of many experiences
in the validity of things.
the happy first.
many years between
the feelings you feel;
you become tired.
you feel sad, angry, tired;
you do not feel.
i must feel;
i used my brain
for the second time.
...
the poorest sleep,
cooking under my covers.
pain from my ear to my elbow;
the howling began,
the tomcat in me;
agony in my arm
night awoke absolutely,
immediately frozen.
...
the ceremony is
important to me,
the half part
of the hour of reason
clearly placed, but still
I do not have funds.
not drunks either,
jerks or scoundrels.
i want to be bitter,
a half hour attachment.
the will consuming,
boiling.
the power of explosion
the only good friend.
drunks, convulsions,
robbers.
silence.
--
a long one from august, 05:
i will send you a
once-upon-a-time
verified thing.
or write a new edition.
or talk, little by little.
you do not worry about
anything that is not like ohio,
like something positive.
ways of speaking in context,
too much of a lost chance.
silence is thin;
it hangs together but is agony.
hatred for everyone.
i understand those same
misunderstandings.
being loved, a little kindness;
the fight going out of everyone.
we kind of move with the islands,
flowers and a bottle of wine.
strangeness.
with each other, the open sea,
visits and permits. we thought that
we would like to be good,
longingly looking at photographs:
a small cabin and a small boat.
you possess the place
where my work goes.
today i am a child; today
i am old and have given up
and moved.
i swim through the forest,
knowing my brain will become
abandoned.
a kind of convulsion escapes.
my family, my feelings.
non-human feelings,
selfishness, foolishness.
monopolized ones and
monopolized things,
misery made to rejoice.
i want a north pole opposition,
i want to become complicated.
my general sense is that
it will be unkind and inconvenient.
inside all the unhappiness,
there is the possibility of
different meanings,
entering above me.
when meeting accidentally,
we recover in small quantities.
last night was the conclusion,
an insult in circumference.
--
september, 05:
last night,
the night of
recombination,
where that which is good
is incomprehensible.
i am extreme,
not to be trusted,
especially concerning
love
an average evil:
justly, it increases
terrible things
-----
everyone is attached.
that directly is weak.
the glories of
feeling that way,
the behavior of
ridiculousness.
there was fear, rescue and
the joy of describing
external wounds.
fear and unlimited
pleasure.
worry was not helped
but reversed,
in order never to
designate the child
as the air.
-----
the scream
i waited for is done.
i know that he is happy
by being safely removed.
it has come
to its conclusion,
written in a letter
from someone
i do not need,
the cruel son
that still has lived.
-----
he has supported me well
from the house,
has lived because
it is hard.
he has left his family
for the present.
there is no friend
at the house.
the long distance telephone:
sad how you feel it can see.
we want the end of things.
-----
it is not possible really
to take responsibility.
she is the sickness
within herself,
the thing that is
destroyed.
her defect is
her method of being.
the margin of denial,
locking herself into
mistakes.
erosion, abandon.
a cancer, a disease.
a kind of sanity in suicide.
a crime without limits,
knowing the things
that are lost.
-----
she is guilty,
but functioning.
her life, everything,
many years between
the things she made
miserable.
force, just fear
and force.
my brother her only
reason to live.
she grasps him hard.
everyone she leaves escapes,
with permission to be happy.
-----
her family keeps their distance,
her friends are destroyed.
regrettable things in her grip.
she shines with reference to her name.
exasperation,
quiet allowance
the eye looking
at what it presumes
is large.
-----
i pass the time one sunday
with fair supervisory things,
looking at the exposition.
i shout, remember
what exactly was said.
i understand all fearful things.
it is legitimate,
in order to work.
i will cry out, run far.
there is the possibility of beauty
(it is irresolute, a fraud)
-----
i am the ruin
which spans several weeks.
i am the screaming baby.
i am moved by semi-frenzy.
i am delightful,
i who have acted
by really being moved
control is maintained,
my center hurting
without reason,
without limit.
this methodological
desire, sunlight.
this time spent finding out
who you think you are.
you extract things from my system.
-----
the things you are moved by
are uncertainly caught,
and i am the fair thing that waits.
the reasons are known to me.
famous, foolish.
the bit where you are published
threatens me. poetry,
the trash which is permitted.
a poem chosen from
twenty five other things.
--
the story of my life
waits for him.
he enters my work
uninvited.
i am the necessity
to escape.
the expressions,
the messages
i abandon;
but he thought of that.
someone from town going away.
i am malice, confused
exactly with not thinking,
according to his glossy purpose.
-----
after she goes
away from town,
spite.
even in all that,
explanations
enter into it.
recognized.
as for my first hypothesis:
being. being the thing
i do not know.
some things can be intermediate.
-----
it has become worse.
the simple, sane method
is not felt.
the agony is splendid.
love simultaneously,
using a year of my life.
and over there,
time between us.
wierdness is measured.
i do not feel,
you thought
for the second time.
there is a friend in me,
a good person.
i dreamed my heart
was lost.
the lunatic thing,
this enormous silence
between us.
he is not after my stupidity.
-----
he avoids me with bad methods.
we change entirely, we damage
feelings and friendships.
make ruinous what
we have expressed.
we do not possess thought
no matter what.
the fact is that for me,
the boy came, left and
was desired.
-----
to go out, to meet again,
to peel away what
he will wear tomorrow.
he is exhausted and
the night is less.
nine things, the comfort
circumference.
(the circle of head
and hands)
-----
we slept, possessed
incomprehensible things.
we drank wine under the stairs.
we talked, sank into reminiscence.
the sweetness where we were,
the logs facing the sea
expressing our travelling nerves.
courage causing movement.
-----
i cannot see the stairway.
i put my head in my hands.
our heads and hands together,
our feet interwound.
the eye has awakened,
the skin fighting with
the fact that i breathe,
awake until we leave.
our heads,
our feet,
our hands
bound.
-----
the surfaces moving my hair,
moving where i was.
quiet, half asleep.
restricted, excluding
the things you speak of,
wrapped around each other
heavyheartedly.
--
basic principles;
a person who is brainwashed.
going to india with a delegation.
television movies,
reincarnation.
a shallow religion
under any circumstances.
those who should be surprised
rather express a return to god,
god and god.
we are with
the complete conviction that
excess is the road to right,
you said.
you did not hear entirely.
holiness.
we could have simply
smiled and nodded.
television worship,
remaking a shallow religion.
india falling from two religions:
the thin things.
brainwashed to the core.
horrible.
god god and god
a printed style of writing
reports our answers back:
belief is sufficient.
a new grudge and
the christianity scare
we did damage to feelings,
we threatened and
were simple and smiled.
we were virtue.
--
the story is already written.
a twenty minute plot.
over there, a story
i do not know;
a boy walks to a bridge,
jumps, thinks of everything.
questionable matter; talk.
in the end nothing happens.
it is clearly two thousand
words.
--
i scrutinize the sea
of level gray,
the paint attached
to the body
from the window.
i sit down in my kitchen.
my stomach is angry.
gray and white,
a small-numbered
stripe of blue
where the sky passes
through the glass window.
my head is polluted,
sluggish. i possess
dissatisfaction. the ice
has dissolved.
---
i am now a structure
that blows the whistle,
makes the noises of
howling dogs.
i did not designate
the whistle as the air.
i am not sexy.
i am not the woman
whose hard clothing is
beautiful. seems like a
preschool child is in me.
the mines are quiet.
i became transparent,
somewhere along
the line where lovely
becomes drunk.
--
october, 05. these ones are just cutups of amanda's blog:
coming home
7:30pm.
construction
beautification
major things
traffic circles
suck to the right.
this particular night,
work going on
traffic control person,
police lights flashing,
a bridge in the way
incoherent arm signals
changed the sign to slow
ladies and gentlemen,
the problem was
traffic circles
he showed her
with his blinkers.
a couple of vehicles
flapped her arms about,
directed us the wrong way,
interfering with
a construction
and accident scene.
the traffic control person
is the boss.
accident?
police lights flashing
under the bridge;
something major going on.
two police officers,
an idiot and
people hollering.
confrontation.
all geared up;
uneasy all the way home,
unsettled.
i would have
turned my blinkers on
at the idiot woman.
--
wednesday
i started to bleed
the hospital:
kicking the machines
trying to get her heart beat.
the most violent kicks.
sitting, waiting
for the hospital to call,
i chipped a tooth
on a sandwich.
what in the world in happening?
my body is falling apart.
scrambling to pick-up the pieces;
too much damage.
the hurricane horror
all i want to do is cry about myself.
perspective on the big picture.
---
(i will tell more
when I get the pictures together)
the whole shopping experience ruined.
a deer ran out of the woods.
the deer jumped over the divider.
the deer hit the car mid-jump.
i turned my head away
deer mush
the noise so loud
i turned back around.
i saw the deer jump a fence.
---
i don’t want to do everything too early;
a newborn in an empty nursery.
my books tell me this.
i want an exact week,
the ideal time, another worry.
i have everything.
i spend even more money on things.
why aren’t things more clear?
i have few things.
i am lucky enough
(again);
things seem so much clearer.
i just let things happen.
i go with the flow.
(this freakish nature)
my books have the answers.
a book has all
the exact answers.
statistics,
worse case scenarios.
straight out basic answers.
--
baby can come
when ever she wants
(late november, sunday)
i will send pictures.
i will do it soon.
the house, the room
is beautiful.
perfect baby girl.
perfect room.
i am so excited now.
yesterday we hit a milestone.
the baby is positioned.
some times big babies are born.
nothing fantastic happens.
he thinks that he is old already.
i knew from the beginning
that he would be.
bunnies are for the closet,
bears for the dresser.
---
a list of things to get done.
promises to everyone.
a lot of clutter in there.
a bunch of things,
a bunch of things.
i hung on to a sign,
promised myself a baby.
i feel so much cleaner now.
our secret ugly place is tidied.
every house has a secret ugly place.
vacuum, tools, old lady cart;
kitchen things, cupboards and shelves.
---
all that waiting,
all the testing.
i need to figure out
how far back i want to go
(did I ever tell you how much
i love seeing people
open their presents
but loathe buying them?)
time and money set aside
for surprises.
a huge money blowing fiasco
(the driving force)
--
november, 05:
now it is so far.
my inside countdown
expresses itself by
regular dreams.
everything has relaxed .
(always the same!)
i can concentrate on
my planning, a confusion
with money and insurance,
the 8.8th war.
finally, consecration.
we see ourselves,
our exclusive desires.
i want to perpetuate myself
in the entire next year.
---
let shit turn out
with the map folded.
i want only to say that
everything is folded.
straight, perfectly.
too expensive ,
too expensive.
eaten.
---
we arrived.
we must still regulate so much:
credit, an account and
a social security number.
everything was a little narrow and
the hostess was completely beautiful.
around nine, dead in the bed; tilted.
jet lag is not yet complete.
---
we have one night in a 10 dollar hotel
(dirty…) expensive, unclear,
and to me also honest.
for the moment i know simply
only the fact that he will find me here too.
here, no dwelling sounds completely beautiful.
before the gallery sat a man
who omitted himself loudly, his neck
over the destruction apparatus.
the capitalistic world a genuine monologue;
it is absolute opinion that one does not need money.
a bicycle, a camera, with which he filmed himself
a video recorder and television, with which he regards the video
afterwards..... oh, i became so glad.
i am still absolutely in a holiday mood;
the weather is more than inviting to undress.
announce me, completely, love.
--
it is 7 o'clock and
i am completely awake.
i lie to the fact that you
do wrong to me. you have
located yourself in my blood
and my toes. you run and
have no calm minute, poor
in the evening, delicate.
i am nevertheless somehow glad.
empty, empty. here each day is
like the other one.
trains, cowboys, country music,
and in the evenings, scotch. he
watches moths, says
"Hitler wasn't good, but....
you know... he wasn't bad either.
how can you tell? you didn't even
meet him, did you?"
empty phrases, acres of leaves.
he talks so quietly that I must inquire
each time three times.
there are cross word mysteries
only in english. there is no other
language with so many words.
my lunch (such fast food
cheap taco things), ice and
bubble tea.
i had an apropos occupation,
a completely new feeling.
they beautifully paint themselves,
then one writes a novel.
i must believe now,
otherwise i am somehow sad.
---
a complete list, with objects
of interest to enumerate.
plan, plan, plan, (in detail)
breakfast, plans....oh it is
already 3 o'clock. the afternoons
and the museums.
it rains against the house.
bears on the island,
bears on the island.
the cougar is still worse
(a cat, a puma... a german
word for it: mr. cutter).
i offered my shed,
a tavern perhaps.
i went to a party,
80's style (black, white),
a dancefloor in the kitchen.
a nebula machine, a smoke detector.
i was allowed to balance on a bar stool
with a directory as document.
we threw our peanut shells on the soil
and on banks. we sat on jute bags.
posters, scribblings and chips,
photos made very merrily.
thus here the time goes...
it is already nearly october.
insanity.
sometimes everything runs well.
(hunger)
everywhere a homeless person
asking for change... i feel responsible.
contrary to all this, the cruise ships come,
spend their money on expensive things
(liquid text, writing, a summer house).
i hope that I can write soon, coherently.
so slowly finished.
---
a small impact.
the last week does not
participate in anything.
but that is also all the same.
---
he wants to believe in germany... or simply all of europe.
i come in vain into woyzeck. make me happy already!
trains escape into the next high-literary german play set. i am at times
strained. i have enough time to report in detail my criticism... am i dead?
one stands oneself in a shop, only the legs and the belly. a little sun on the
shoulders, a more pleasant heat. not so suffocating.
watch out, if you go over the road.
---
the ferry was promising Iceland so beautifully.
exactly the same, as one introduces oneself.
a completely beautiful port;
everywhere small flower pots,
multicolored and above all very british.
i looked for work, an interview or two,
an application form.
my previous teammates,
those wanting a personal record,
are regularly dead in the bed.
--
i think of you, anna.
you see so many mad things
that i know only from television.
i have dreamed of you;
rather a nightmare, because
we both were pursued.
i had to think directly of you,
you so beautifully drunk,
so full of suspense.
---
i read english.
i am yours.
i sleep completely
beautifully in cars.
i am an intermediate
ancestor,
on the way back to
the hard everyday work.
life begins again.
i enjoy the days and the snow.
---
typical quarrels with dad
("controversy is
nevertheless normal,
comes in the best families")
from the boat, from a slippery stone
in the bushes at the slope
we see the rain forest.
trees, windows and blinds.
only a dirty jacket,
a birthday celebration
we were complete
in a different world,
in hollywood, the film world;
enormous multistoried buildings,
lanes and louder dark.
we are pioneers.
the telephone will terrorize
and a few warm sunbeams
will be enjoyed,
before the cold.
---
a small aftertaste of
whales, 80s music,
dances and fights
("i am the gentleman in the house
and i decide everything...")
we drive together around the island,
industriously write letters.
we have in one of our shops
the autumn holidays in heart form,
like a living cake heart.
--
i am ashamed.
you are already so far away.
i think much of you and
whether you got a little colour.
i write you still.
i want out.
i sing only one song.
you forgot everything
that we had.
you have only the thoughts
in your head and
the pieces (and the others,
naturally, also).
appraisals, finally,
not at all times negative.
you are afraid of me already.
the empty unknown.
days off i now use
to sun myself in
orthopedic shoes.
better than aspirin.
oxygen refueling
for the drive.
thicknesses.
now i finally have time,
a little time, to write.
mail comes, promised!
a few photos, so i can
see where you are.
briefly in trains.
i thought my legs would drop.
the most important thing:
falling in love.
the way back took only
eight hours.
i found things, unpacked,
read letters.
still so slow, because
i arrived not at all correct.
make me happy for you.
make me happy.
---
the first picture is simply
perfectly grotesque.
on the left is your bed.
i have a film, a few
texts spoken, seen.
when you called
i was in a field.
i will tell you how much
i already do not have.
i feel you completely,
a doll embraced and
wished good night.
---
bubble tea is here already,
but called differently.
in the millenium, in the town center,
you feel as if you have been
transplanted to japan.
a multiplex, a few discos, a bowling alley.
oh, a simply boring stink.
only terrible things have happened,
including an assault at the bank.
i find by verse that you write me letters.
i pinch myself because it is simply too much.
i drink coffee, i only smoke to stop
myself from sending you a letter.
--
january, 06:
someone has shot a nail gun into the joint.
it only gets worse and worse.
all this misery can’t just be blamed on
the lack of snow in the winter.
rainy seasons are not good for
rainy day (week) blues.
a bunch of snow that doesn’t go away,
trapped in the house.
this is how i see my future:
one more month of
being uncomfortable in my body
followed by pain. followed by exhaustion.
i will spare you. i understand that
it will all be worth it.
i understand that
once the time comes for
those things to happen,
they won’t even matter.
---
i have been adjusting.
the most exhausting thing ever.
so tired all the time.
awake at 2am.
one of these beasts
giving birth again,
a catheter inserted.
I may just have
a nervous breakdown.
---
no time.
i underestimated.
the little beasties took me
away from you.
i liked not working.
i was selfish.
i have to reprogram myself.
i try to talk but i find
i have nothing left to say.
sleep is not a bad thing but
sometimes i forget.
i wonder what that noise is
when i start to cry.
these things will
work themselves out in time.
i am not ready to give up
documenting times and lengths.
i have to let it go.
i foresee much letting go in my future.
i think (maybe) that
I have left the blues times.
it is getting better.
self doubt is a personality flaw.
--
the young person goes west. west. it is the easier direction to go. it seems like falling. gravity remains. there is a fairness in going. it exceeds the ocean, speaks to the ocean. speaking is the only thing that maintains the mind.
the homicide gives a motive. the only person discovered is a pretty girl inside. compared to being me it is positive. all the different stars, the sun, the airport. i put the mountain on the counter, draw a blank. i am east.
i have started being the spiral shellfish, linear as the example whose introspection is terrible. i have lived with 4 a.m. being certain. a window has opened in me. pedestrians share my music. another tremble moves under my skin, and the muscles become tense electricity.
today being strange, time is wasteful. my pockets could be less crowded . i remove the chemical compounds and the glass. i pull the curtain open and reach the point where my clothing is like portable ice. i am moved.
i occasionally feel like writing an open letter to these shiftless supporters of no one, these people who have known. i am king. king, they now call me. i like the distinction. i am born, and i am moved like the old person who has lived.
we are constant. the behavior which has led to ignorance is the root of the problem. the wheel is turned, and we are caught, believing so strongly in our private hallucinations. it is the place where everything around us wraps around our heads. a certain retreat does not have to believe. i look at that which does not remain, and start solving the puzzle.
words fail me. perhaps that is my technical skill, or my conscientious subject. the death of dreams, and the error of believing that the dreams are a beginning. the hand, the palm which is opened. my word is the finger of the hand. perhaps this is the time when the fist is closed.
concerning the acquisition of defeat, the hard part is not defeat itself. after that is life. directly after that, the eddy coming. i feel like a bruised thing. i am older, with little fight. i do not fly through fisted rage. the fight i feel i can win is ignored.
the womb like meat, a cavity, unprotected and damaged. the year of truth and honest use pulled through the mud. dirty tears. we want the paper center, the last groove. passing by the sewer. left in the dissolving ocean, floating slowly with the brine. i exchange time with the clock in breaking.
the extreme space refuge, the indian rush, the inevitable atomic ash. the american people speaking english to the manuscript monkeys, violence. it is dangerous; it is good. i inquire about everything, death of all types. i am moved to empathy. these are the strange kind. and they surprise me.
--
it is better than yesterday, today or tomorrow. i like my fuel warehouse. two bed rooms and the common territory. my neighbor is good, and my buddhism professor is not forgotten. following life with him should find a certain invertibrate finishing the first can of beer . and how many by my side?
i look at the shadows on the wall. passing my window, the people walk. a little girlish knock on the door. my neighbor. i possess an appetite for expansion, and i possess the tendency to take things excessively directly. i lose my heart, raise the second center. my brain is removed, exchanged with the thing which is old and left alone.
my music is understood, almost audible. you inquire about what develops; sexual intercourse at the door. i ignore and elude pacifism, like a marionette on very short strings.
in order to travel, the light bends around me. the constellation withstanding, it seems like the celestial body where i move, the stars of my sisters. our deaths are escaping the dying earth entirely; i am pulled in the same way to the sky. and like mourning china and russia, i am the heaven of god.
the neck, fear, the tooth and death, the movement, and the supervision of the eye which moves suddenly. i swim under the dock. i start using up the air. the air is solid. describing fear is hard.
today i heard voices. my lungs hurt in breathing, my head hurts to think. the rain is late, and i can look at the stars. i inhale loneliness and see desire in the sky. the clouds pull closed, and the rain falls for the second time. the rain falls on my surface.
outer space is cool; it seems like the place of the sky. to be given up by the god of reliance, by the god of philosophy, means being burnt. the place where i should hide, there is no remainder. the shadows are twisted; the god of long division is truth.
the rain is late and the clouds have broken. that sad surface is warmed. i walk, passing the stores, stopping in order to look at the collection of pinwheels. memory and smiles atrophy. the sad face made warm. emptiness.
revolution, a phrase turned in my heart, a simple declaration. the sun of summer wilts, the season becomes gray. the future, the end. i advance to the cliff. the dream which the memory of day atrophies is exchanged with sleep. it passes; the movement of the body, the slow melting of the dawn.
a train, an electric fence, quiet. it is not different in the center where the city is deep. will the train stop? perhaps it does not see the way. what kind of hazardous nothing can substitute for popularity? for the first time, a memory of youth; announcements and hobos. the darkness and others and others.
--
this person glances at me, entering my room. we would like to speak, problems concerning that last night. when i speak it’s always to you; failure. you are something which has become so only by being damaged. you did not see, you did not look.
the guilt of your death; tired. at first glance, under the private road, the way when being placed on the ambulance your body was visible, the siren turned off. murder, boxes of bones in the ground. i do not know whether it is murder, whether you understand, whether to do that i cannot do.
you were my brother. you have remembered. i came with you always, grasped your hand, your hand. i squeezed the joints of your fingers. i am perplexed; a crime that you feel entirely, become aware of completely. i know that it is foolishness; you know that you have been ashamed of my conduct. you do not know whether my memories are what you want.
i would like to solve the problem of the world. helplessness is intolerable, it overwhelms. we would like to possess control, but there is no control. i cannot solve problems. i need exorcism of a certain kind. it is necessary for normal not to exist. i am old; i am not different. i am someone's puppet. the value of a thing made complicated.
i think that we would like to live. we would like to live for the people, but you already do not exist. perhaps it ends exactly.
--
february, 06:
you go away,
the words like fields,
the sky reduced.
gold is exchanged with
scatterings of brown.
the promise, whose truth is quick,
worry and the confusion
which becomes quiet with time.
leaving is hidden in lonely sleep,
the warmth and contact of
atrophied smiles and
empty truths.
the misfiring, once quieted
by your eyes,
now hidden in the solitary wind.
you leave me with a pile of
brown scatterings.
tranquil confusion;
smiles wither so slowly.
winter can arrive at any time.
--
it is difficult,
it is very difficult.
he is almost in cerebral death.
it is summer here.
i am satiated of cold.
winter is sandpaper.
i do not want to know of snow,
not in lisbon, nor in a small farm house.
i am satiated of walking
to beat the tooth in the street.
i want sun, beach and, over all,
time to enjoy it.
deceit.
--
fingers and photographs;
feelings are harmed.
remember?
i looked at the image
for the second time.
i became blind accidentally.
i reconstructed him exactly
to search for equipment;
the preparation where i push
two parts together was done
simultaneously.
i was recognized.
it did not work to break the unity,
and as for that foolish photograph in my heart,
a feeling like destiny being moved;
a fingerprint sans my hand.
i who was dropped am brand-new.
my body on the road where
atrophy is best.
---
loneliness and reflection are accepted
with other things.
the monk is a lunatic
and the hermit should be blamed;
always surrounded without anything to say.
the non division which uses division
is balancing time because of
intellectual pursuits and the easy route.
there are many entreaties and much less taxation.
the jaw, the hard upper lip,
that shallowness damaged only with grief;
i have remembered.
i have expressed something which i believe:
the blue that makes you see and is possible.
blue of substance, as indigo as an other feeling.
fear of the clamp, of being moved.
i turn off craving and attachment;
i cannot do things clearly in the kingdom of feeling.
drama does not answer the telephone;
your screams scattered over everything.
---
because of the rain, fear is piled up.
scarcity of sun can make seasons terrible.
i am struck with a hammer, maturing slowly;
i am troubled and causing problems.
i do not teach, i do not raise the child.
but sight possesses being,
and the thing which is done is something.
you scrutinize the blank screen as a protest.
i, being disappointed, am regrettable.
i am the bit which is disappointed directly.
fear is simultaneously
hunger and desire.
---
i am confused by the kingdom of history.
it depends on karen armstrong and france;
it is an interesting glance at gautama.
the empire principle covered with a veil,
american everything going to war.
i possess the proposition of many other things.
this is the crime: we have not lived.
i was joyful; i discovered the cancer,
the dominion of warfare.
i threw away what i wrote.
inside the city where we are identical,
the truth talks. the dream spreads out and
the possibility of sitting is a hazard
and an exaggeration.
---
i am called structure 101,
like a slave made visible.
a steadily pilotless aircraft,
the medicine of proper poisoning.
i write haiku,
a terrible small-numbered book;
it is another something,
conforming to the harmful conduct
called land.
---
regret.
several weeks are ended.
i do not regret that you
float for the second time
in my heart;
the baby who did not come
polluted by my jokes.
i am the bit which is feared.
i am walking fear,
gray everything, and blue,
and i cannot inquire about
certain things.
(you do not know,
you do not have to express)
---
the law,
based on old english law.
the history of buildings,
public record of the factual city.
footwork must be done.
a hole in the records
related to the property tax business,
general terminology, and so on.
it is pleasant raincoat work.
the public historical section is no friend.
i structure the education system and am inexperienced.
city exploration, illegal travelling through
the factory of the sky.
chicago is an old sanitarium,
the remnants of an enormous
mixture of tunnels.
acquisition of the dawn,
painters and musicians,
herr zahn and the usual.
pursued, and followed to
the road on the land,
memory limits the remainder of
murals where rommel is small.
hitler in photographs.
it seems that everything is
a catalog list.
a tube that led to the basement.
a german map from 1940.
the tunnels have started
calling to me.
--
march, 06:
are things made to end?
i have not remembered another way.
today is dim, it is the rain.
i do not make the air.
the train carries me to the
arabic food merchant,
the cemetary sweetheart;
appreciated in doubt, desire.
it burns in the same way.
you investigate my heart,
made to sit down here
where it is not possible for me
to express myself.
the professor person,
the eye for criticizing;
you hesitate in speech.
the way to interpret is
self-aggrandizement, simply.
---
recognizing/admitting.
carving/moment.
a hallmark it is not.
it possesses influence, it considers
being conscious, it pulls and,
assembling, it means
that non prose is grasped.
if by my medicine i repeat responsibility,
it is possible to strike me strongly;
i write poetry to robbe-grillet:
prose seems like the poetry of my opinion.
plotting? a circular type concerning method.
prose? a sort of method of poetic type.
you must suppose that there is deep meaning,
but it is difficult, it is vivid;
the fact that the optional sentence is chosen
is the joy.
the portion of pointlessness,
image making plotting subordinate.
---
the history of buildings.
he looks in the attic,
the 3rd floor:
that central operation.
he the luxurious storyteller,
he starts throwing things
from all the windows.
the building is a little old.
uniformity is superstition,
it makes the people live.
you think that doubt died here.
sexual intercourse
in the bedroom, the front room,
the kitchen.
murdered.
are there times when
it hides in the wall?
it happens.
---
a bad poem should not be worried about.
one should not fear making bad art.
a 5 minute silent picture:
the artist,
like a maori tattoo pattern,
turned around a plastic head.
you are trivial
similar to three other things,
a landslide at the end
of the year.
---
you laugh.
the window (seeing outside, shock):
the ceiling turns with the background.
it seems that is chopped up,
a repugnance.
reappropriating material
with respect to appearance.
there is a magnitude of desires.
it is not possible to become equal.
it is foolishness to be black and white,
but one grinds the part with the grindstone.
the eye which was trained becomes equal.
he is the picture which is scorned,
almost complete in all senses.
i am the thing that is weakened,
struck by a strange dream.
the red supervision,
the library;
we would like to find
many descriptions.
---
something based on thought;
someone in the kitchen.
there is a possibility of raw profit,
of everyone of inexplicable types.
the state of my sleep.
the cat tries to steal my breath
and the egyptian is
the guilt that suffocates.
you thought of the puritans.
symptoms include hearing psychology,
visual hallucination, the feeling where
destiny impends,
like being moved.
someone puts you in a box.
i believed those supernatural things and
thought that because of
the spate of young people,
my range of vision must
be attached to this state of consciousness
which i continue to call to.
it dies shouting with my head,
it confronts vision.
foolishness, this including heart.
i started to suffocate
but i continued.
--
a certain thing, a feeling, insensible motion;
the harsh private magnetism of satie.
entire indifference to the body
when the morning comes:
from sexual intercourse to
the house for visiting
(in order to ignore, you rejoice).
fearfully you reserve the air ticket.
there is a state where
everything is cloying.
you desire the stale seashore:
walking with the forest,
going to the ocean which looks
at the stars.
you who can form
the masterpiece of explosion sounds,
you are the scraper of the sky,
the capitalism of emptiness,
1,000,000 musical holocausts.
--
i have known
the splash of five hair dyes,
times of paranoia,
the awkwardness of
the teenage years.
i who am used becomes ruinous.
i am a drinker of intellectual problems,
coming to all the old pages
where one gin fizz cannot wait.
i break my glass, degenerating,
and accompany you to the
cave of crime.
---
i open the door.
there is a thing
which has been learned,
a postcard perhaps,
a kind of plastic totem;
the art of the people,
macaroni art.
a memory of the lock on the door.
empty-handed,
i go into the house,
and throw myself
at the foot of your bed,
attaching mud to the body,
being attached.
you can breathe me eventually,
the second time around.
i probably will collapse on the floor,
a conformity of brain atrophy.
---
my mother hates everything.
she has done the business,
a personal history of government.
she speaks the spark which is felt;
she is bad, being foolish.
she doubts herself, and my father.
i love that, naturally.
the place she submits to
is better than the necessity
to finish.
--
i have come to the end of grief.
the night dance
strange, used entirely.
there was music, everything,
like a killer, like rage.
the graveyard
(my grandmother, my two aunts
installed in the grave),
flowers and puttering;
my speech, my name.
i turn to the flowers,
the bench of commemoration;
the guest roster of the funeral
following time.
---
you are here
to make me remember.
you ridicule, flinch, forget.
last year it was not necessary
to walk with the thursday rain;
you must remember that yourself.
remember me:
your thin eye is soft,
can not stop you from
scrutinizing me.
but my eye is
the same trial thing where
on the hill you take the lead
for the second time.
---
a machine jumped
from the top to the bottom.
the raw materials moved in circles,
a straw raincoat dance.
i must sleep.
i submit to gentleness,
a green and blue
tidal wave coming
washing over me.
i would like to sleep
but it is not possible.
i am in heavy decline.
every holy hatchet is
an earthquake
like a train.
---
4:30 a.m., asthma.
i wait for the inducement of
a half dozen blanks;
orgasms, an image of a girl:
the traitor of jack kerouac.
my glance is a
cohesion characteristic.
the time of insecurity
is bought, is excessive.
that incomprehensible combination.
i am proper with
the monopolized ones,
the old women of insanity.
i almost always am there,
married to work,
convinced of the fact that this year
it comes returning.
---
in the house which cracks,
the room where 3 or 4 hours go,
i am tired, delirious.
this noise of sleep,
my blisters like
another country.
i immigrated,
painted with tapiocas.
today (yesterday really)
i started walking.
you are surprised.
you see, and really seeing,
discover a combat mission,
a wire entanglement;
this ordeal of coexistence.
--
now is an incomprehensible time:
revolution and my usual existence crisis;
i make everything ruinous.
i am the unmarried woman,
risen to medieval times,
separated from the burnt
remnants of an interesting town.
i am a reanimated corpse.
i do not know how to love.
i want more.
a compilation of
my happiness, empty romance.
i must come to grips with
the question, a clear possibility.
for the second time,
old abuse becomes drunk;
a happy holiday of my own
comparison.
i have lived excessively;
it is foolish,
a state of specification.
is there a loneliness, a sadness so desperate?
what kind of thought process is reaction?
my brain by mistake is something which,
concerning the world, did not learn at all.
i almost can touch a state where
i am smart because of that.
it is a sure road to success.
i cannot guarantee anything.
--
you became a thin baby;
stunning, confused with sartre
when he breathes.
the reference was not found.
it is pleasant, something not able to stop things;
it is the predicament which changes your life,
floating soon to a dangerous extent.
i verify the door,
ten parts of leslie
(her house, her message,
some kind of reference).
i and fifty other people make
the same mistake:
the foolish mistake of
measuring time
(that lunatic desire).
--
you enter immediately after
the remainder of today,
independently.
there is a thing
expressed,
and taken for
the second time:
a rose colored power,
your desire,
the eye where you
are made beautiful.
you make me unpleasant
as clearly as possible.
the wrongdoing of
your eye,
your broken eye;
i do not think that we
would like to be
anywhere by
any means.
--
looking in the eye of that
large question,
we adjust our lives in order to
accommodate each other.
i have lived here, closed,
permanently here.
the door closed, always
searching for him
in the vicinity of my feet
where he stopped the monologue
which i continue.
many foolish things.
i touch my hair and
he is expelled accidentally
from the edge of the bed.
he was my friend.
i speak to my worry,
my lonely stability.
he could not understand
the words which were said.
he is helped and handled well
in the house of the sky.
---
everything which is hell
is still around the house.
you were walking secretly,
fearfully.
that which i kill is red, is the eye.
you possess a central problem,
a heart seizure;
i can’t be reconciled to
the thought of it not
being different.
i really just am a cat woman,
a murderer of various types.
and you go.
and i let you escape.
---
imagine me:
bits of tinfoil and
the slurping crying
of mommy.
unpleasant.
a patch of sun on the carpet
a certain necessity.
waiting to die, touching death
with the toe. he pants with
his head covered in the incubator.
it was necessary to decide.
--
a smell, a sort of passing by the window;
links to the old, old life where
those that were with me escaped
my box of substitutions.
she is beautiful, still smart,
a monument to appropriateness.
i shout to her body.
i meet her everywhere.
she is the prostitute,
the innocence,
the thief i have known,
sadly beautiful, brown;
a hundred surfaces.
but she goes.
i cannot divide the smell of explosions
from the smell of the sea.
i leave to wander about, and look
at the wood, and exactly exist.
am i to be separated from the fact
that finally she’s gone away?
she does not display herself at all
in the eye of my heart.
the breeze passing by the window, now entering;
a feeling which is grief and is strange and is like the air.
those in life exist on that side, or comparatively are.
she sounded like noise, like silence.
but there i was, and by her poems
being urged not to lie.
to be good:
this is my revolution.
--
i sound like deflectionary things,
the raw materials of helplessness,
my taciturnity general.
the poisonous character of existence:
indifference when i meet you at the window,
jumping on the throat of my sleep.
this pulled heart still atrophied,
skittish, entire.
we who are repelled are rescued,
an elaborate, heart-breaking ceremony;
the times when those who are
given up in pounds are allotted only
the loss which comes.
it is sufficient, the memory where
a suicide of subject and name lives
in my infancy.
that which we call spinelessness is
not inhuman but a quiet fear,
a dirty fat quality, an orange
assymmetrical monster that bores
a hole through sound.
it is dark, guppy-faced humanity,
obtained in the romantic accessory of
arguments, of obligation.
--
nothing works, and progress
is gone from this place;
it is a cloud on my head.
we are everything, but as said
with so many words, there is
the remainder of the struggle.
we fear completely.
we colour ourselves with
desire, the believing,
the sting.
the craving thing.
the conviction of happiness is abnormal,
a method of defining your strength;
a state where the end is easy,
struck by sorrow and difficult to console.
--
she drinks the wine.
the polluted pink of her tooth.
she moves her fingertip; dry,
like sand. she experiences
living for the first time.
uniformity.
like a cigarette butt
under the heel,
doubt excludes the thing
which is crushed.
feeling, before this
random phenomenon,
like rubbish, like meat.
someone is beautiful here,
like a rag doll, like
a mountain of meat.
silence is moved because
you do not hear. this space
is occupied with something.
before nicotine and alcohol,
what? will she die in order to
feel this?
--
may, 06:
completely alone before the mini televisions of montreal,
before closed museum doors. standing here, moving outside.
the roads are as narrow as home.
i recover so slowly.
ottawa is a prison, an old prison, a death cell,
closed because of unhuman living conditions:
the backgrounds of pictures and bleeding noses.
they make themselves merry over a condemned woman.
i could not sleep at night,
the barrier of acres alive,
the dead branches of apple trees and
grape vines at the wires.
i slept like an illegal animal in the house.
--
june, 06:
i am a parody,
a cat woman.
i am dead,
so slowly, probably, nearly
only here.
too multicolored.
simple times, freely translated,
giant swarms carried forward
by the wind.
nevertheless, i praise
the good old east frisia,
where bicycles do not brake.
old swede, if I had not had those,
i would be burned through.
--
the orphan is caught by love.
a certain personality crisis,
audible, abnormal;
an excessively large joke.
i feel it come out of the eye.
it is knowledge, it is
personal opinion.
i have handled atomic ash,
general despair, gentleness;
it has made my bones freeze.
we fear the coma.
we would like to shout, feel
something heavy, honest;
a kind of meridian of kindness,
a challenge to definition.
--
i possess many qualities;
complete selfishness,
the method of making a mistake.
at the point where i start being
a feeling, honest person,
i am not moved at all.
i have been ashamed.
i fear the facts, the things which remain;
they turned many notes to spring,
all my parts imploding.
i choose my words carefully.
because of you,
a friend larger than all this business,
foolishness, infancy,
i have used some kind of logic.
when we try and fail, something departs.
i am a cowardly person,
a magnificent mechanism of apologies.
my internal organs
write these foolish letters which i do not send,
my dishonesty mostly being abbreviation,
hysteria.
i would like to strike
your hundred-hour surfaces.
take this letter as a kind of reason.
--
you call my life story
a ligneous regret,
a film before the loneliness.
i send to you my heart,
my insanity and stupidity.
i fight to be foolishly
serious and distant.
this feeling departs.
i am like the surface of the night,
with no courage,
no internal organs.
perhaps this the fact which
gushes forth.
--
august, 06:
i am ill-humored,
possessing a certain serious
worried problem,
my hand, my center, shaking.
my stomach is the sickness,
a panic seizure which
between months continues.
i have taken the route of good fortune
and sleep like the deceased.
it is not possible to make
eye contact.
it is not clear sorrow
or exact foolishness.
it is conditioning.
---
i would like to know those thoughts
which the cat thought.
i can maintain my composure,
one insensible feeling
bubbling on the surface.
i do not worry,
my usual monotone exaggerated.
perhaps a creepy existence is left,
permanently for the second time.
i go into the house of wax.
my first reaction is oblivion,
a method of trying that
decreases my anger.
i see in the voice
where my head is that
i am untrusting.
it is something
which becomes so
because of speech.
--
scrawled, pasted thought and image,
a thick papery storm;
a consciousness where you,
especially, are strange.
in a war of our imaginations and
in the midst of autocracy,
you are moved by being the struggle
that we can fight effectively,
the fight whose many years of
sanctuary are old.
necessity is always obstructed,
sleeping after the attack.
the pauper is directly poor,
sleeping on a bench in the park;
he almost dies in the origins
they released him of.
all will be possible,
like a calendar in the house whose
bourgeoisie is beautiful.
i make life, i am a human
manufacturing industry,
and you intend to invent the bed.
--
the well you inquired about,
the whistle and the exponential vessel,
collisions which come entering,
advice and acceptance.
i know, i worry
concerning those things that you know.
it is not useful, but a physical obect
that moves and travels.
understand, it is something
that has become so because of
this everything,
and when it goes it is both empty and old:
agoraphobia and hermitization.
we are creative ones of habit.
the remaining body is restricted to
remainders:
marijuana and valium,
bouts of drinking and pornography;
medicating things.
-
it is a cease-fire.
bombardment stopped
for the present.
i do not have big expectations,
making the believing and
making the mistakes;
humored and always attacked.
i am moved by being;
i disassemble subsystems.
the evacuee has returned to rubble,
an area which is death.
there is a tombstone for the unknown citizen,
and it has become these buildings.
-
the route of escape
is a possible playback of violence.
even in sarcasm he
steals my paranoia and
scotoma concerning
snatched messages.
eventually there is here.
he is the calm hurricane from which
my writing escapes naturally.
he has lived here as the air.
the characteristics i obtain
from my heart,
boasting, bragging.
regrettable.
it spans months in me,
thirteen hours of sleep and
a hundred embraces.
--
you are raped.
everything is pulverized.
it ends the world.
singing for the child who has known
the flash of the sky, the darkness
that does not hide bombs and
exploding things;
it becomes
the insensible sense.
your atoms continue without you.
there is something always.
--
there is in the wall of desire
the scars of excessively thin paint;
influenza and war and
the war which continues.
all nights are done in love;
perhaps he cheats,
but you do not worry.
it is the mountain which
the many poets walked.
it is a terrible color,
the orange of the horizon;
it starts feeling like
the heat of an oven.
and you know that this is
the edge of the world.
--
he is remainders and scatterings.
like a foolish boy, he possesses
the heart of a child.
the bubble around the brain which stops
people from actualization is
broken permanently, finally.
all this humanity surrounded by
whatever it is possible to express.
an enormous hole,
a decapitated being.
my feelings as lost as all this.
cutups from august, 05:
i can smell it coming again
perched in the middle of a former
soviet airfield
wrapped-up corpses
swollen up out of
the frozen ground
etched against
grey-on-grey winter
a faint loamy whiff of
the gusts of misery
that lap at our coats
...
i blame my solitude on
sharpened sticks and
grave misunderstandings
a maddeningly unbound lover
engraved on my taste buds
the vivid combustion of spirit
kept at a consoling distance
we remain unexploded
...
we give up the romantic compass
predisposed to idealized reclusiveness
smooth and creatureless
coyotes roam
the spindly pine and birch forest
here in the snow
the wisdom of my desire
like beach-washed glass
...
cold war nostalgia
handed around
like a curious artifact
from the window of
an old soviet apartment
where women take
their clothes off
loneliness and
erotic cigarette smoking
the proletarian option
...
rocket-propelled grenade
accusatory pointing finger
a week of the silent treatment
a lonely niche in lieu of
being cured and made whole
...
the uncertainties of hurricane
suck our warm pretentions
powerlines cutting the sky
a tree turns into
a circuit board
someone was in mourning
breathing from a darkened crib
like the sound of rain
translations from august, 05:
those we would like to be must be grasped;
the fact that the focus is not adjusted
does not have to be regretted in writing
i gain a hundred other things:
the money which is not money,
the sound which is me
the something else; punishment
tension and destruction and arrival,
passing, passing, passing
the money in the bank will be
the money the government gets.
...
break into a run,
life in question
roll up your eyes,
reject growing upward
and obtaining real work
deathly frightened, funereal
work the work,
the time of ripening,
upward
...
i do not feel sad,
i do not feel angry.
a good life and
set of experiments,
a series of many experiences
in the validity of things.
the happy first.
many years between
the feelings you feel;
you become tired.
you feel sad, angry, tired;
you do not feel.
i must feel;
i used my brain
for the second time.
...
the poorest sleep,
cooking under my covers.
pain from my ear to my elbow;
the howling began,
the tomcat in me;
agony in my arm
night awoke absolutely,
immediately frozen.
...
the ceremony is
important to me,
the half part
of the hour of reason
clearly placed, but still
I do not have funds.
not drunks either,
jerks or scoundrels.
i want to be bitter,
a half hour attachment.
the will consuming,
boiling.
the power of explosion
the only good friend.
drunks, convulsions,
robbers.
silence.
--
a long one from august, 05:
i will send you a
once-upon-a-time
verified thing.
or write a new edition.
or talk, little by little.
you do not worry about
anything that is not like ohio,
like something positive.
ways of speaking in context,
too much of a lost chance.
silence is thin;
it hangs together but is agony.
hatred for everyone.
i understand those same
misunderstandings.
being loved, a little kindness;
the fight going out of everyone.
we kind of move with the islands,
flowers and a bottle of wine.
strangeness.
with each other, the open sea,
visits and permits. we thought that
we would like to be good,
longingly looking at photographs:
a small cabin and a small boat.
you possess the place
where my work goes.
today i am a child; today
i am old and have given up
and moved.
i swim through the forest,
knowing my brain will become
abandoned.
a kind of convulsion escapes.
my family, my feelings.
non-human feelings,
selfishness, foolishness.
monopolized ones and
monopolized things,
misery made to rejoice.
i want a north pole opposition,
i want to become complicated.
my general sense is that
it will be unkind and inconvenient.
inside all the unhappiness,
there is the possibility of
different meanings,
entering above me.
when meeting accidentally,
we recover in small quantities.
last night was the conclusion,
an insult in circumference.
--
september, 05:
last night,
the night of
recombination,
where that which is good
is incomprehensible.
i am extreme,
not to be trusted,
especially concerning
love
an average evil:
justly, it increases
terrible things
-----
everyone is attached.
that directly is weak.
the glories of
feeling that way,
the behavior of
ridiculousness.
there was fear, rescue and
the joy of describing
external wounds.
fear and unlimited
pleasure.
worry was not helped
but reversed,
in order never to
designate the child
as the air.
-----
the scream
i waited for is done.
i know that he is happy
by being safely removed.
it has come
to its conclusion,
written in a letter
from someone
i do not need,
the cruel son
that still has lived.
-----
he has supported me well
from the house,
has lived because
it is hard.
he has left his family
for the present.
there is no friend
at the house.
the long distance telephone:
sad how you feel it can see.
we want the end of things.
-----
it is not possible really
to take responsibility.
she is the sickness
within herself,
the thing that is
destroyed.
her defect is
her method of being.
the margin of denial,
locking herself into
mistakes.
erosion, abandon.
a cancer, a disease.
a kind of sanity in suicide.
a crime without limits,
knowing the things
that are lost.
-----
she is guilty,
but functioning.
her life, everything,
many years between
the things she made
miserable.
force, just fear
and force.
my brother her only
reason to live.
she grasps him hard.
everyone she leaves escapes,
with permission to be happy.
-----
her family keeps their distance,
her friends are destroyed.
regrettable things in her grip.
she shines with reference to her name.
exasperation,
quiet allowance
the eye looking
at what it presumes
is large.
-----
i pass the time one sunday
with fair supervisory things,
looking at the exposition.
i shout, remember
what exactly was said.
i understand all fearful things.
it is legitimate,
in order to work.
i will cry out, run far.
there is the possibility of beauty
(it is irresolute, a fraud)
-----
i am the ruin
which spans several weeks.
i am the screaming baby.
i am moved by semi-frenzy.
i am delightful,
i who have acted
by really being moved
control is maintained,
my center hurting
without reason,
without limit.
this methodological
desire, sunlight.
this time spent finding out
who you think you are.
you extract things from my system.
-----
the things you are moved by
are uncertainly caught,
and i am the fair thing that waits.
the reasons are known to me.
famous, foolish.
the bit where you are published
threatens me. poetry,
the trash which is permitted.
a poem chosen from
twenty five other things.
--
the story of my life
waits for him.
he enters my work
uninvited.
i am the necessity
to escape.
the expressions,
the messages
i abandon;
but he thought of that.
someone from town going away.
i am malice, confused
exactly with not thinking,
according to his glossy purpose.
-----
after she goes
away from town,
spite.
even in all that,
explanations
enter into it.
recognized.
as for my first hypothesis:
being. being the thing
i do not know.
some things can be intermediate.
-----
it has become worse.
the simple, sane method
is not felt.
the agony is splendid.
love simultaneously,
using a year of my life.
and over there,
time between us.
wierdness is measured.
i do not feel,
you thought
for the second time.
there is a friend in me,
a good person.
i dreamed my heart
was lost.
the lunatic thing,
this enormous silence
between us.
he is not after my stupidity.
-----
he avoids me with bad methods.
we change entirely, we damage
feelings and friendships.
make ruinous what
we have expressed.
we do not possess thought
no matter what.
the fact is that for me,
the boy came, left and
was desired.
-----
to go out, to meet again,
to peel away what
he will wear tomorrow.
he is exhausted and
the night is less.
nine things, the comfort
circumference.
(the circle of head
and hands)
-----
we slept, possessed
incomprehensible things.
we drank wine under the stairs.
we talked, sank into reminiscence.
the sweetness where we were,
the logs facing the sea
expressing our travelling nerves.
courage causing movement.
-----
i cannot see the stairway.
i put my head in my hands.
our heads and hands together,
our feet interwound.
the eye has awakened,
the skin fighting with
the fact that i breathe,
awake until we leave.
our heads,
our feet,
our hands
bound.
-----
the surfaces moving my hair,
moving where i was.
quiet, half asleep.
restricted, excluding
the things you speak of,
wrapped around each other
heavyheartedly.
--
basic principles;
a person who is brainwashed.
going to india with a delegation.
television movies,
reincarnation.
a shallow religion
under any circumstances.
those who should be surprised
rather express a return to god,
god and god.
we are with
the complete conviction that
excess is the road to right,
you said.
you did not hear entirely.
holiness.
we could have simply
smiled and nodded.
television worship,
remaking a shallow religion.
india falling from two religions:
the thin things.
brainwashed to the core.
horrible.
god god and god
a printed style of writing
reports our answers back:
belief is sufficient.
a new grudge and
the christianity scare
we did damage to feelings,
we threatened and
were simple and smiled.
we were virtue.
--
the story is already written.
a twenty minute plot.
over there, a story
i do not know;
a boy walks to a bridge,
jumps, thinks of everything.
questionable matter; talk.
in the end nothing happens.
it is clearly two thousand
words.
--
i scrutinize the sea
of level gray,
the paint attached
to the body
from the window.
i sit down in my kitchen.
my stomach is angry.
gray and white,
a small-numbered
stripe of blue
where the sky passes
through the glass window.
my head is polluted,
sluggish. i possess
dissatisfaction. the ice
has dissolved.
---
i am now a structure
that blows the whistle,
makes the noises of
howling dogs.
i did not designate
the whistle as the air.
i am not sexy.
i am not the woman
whose hard clothing is
beautiful. seems like a
preschool child is in me.
the mines are quiet.
i became transparent,
somewhere along
the line where lovely
becomes drunk.
--
october, 05. these ones are just cutups of amanda's blog:
coming home
7:30pm.
construction
beautification
major things
traffic circles
suck to the right.
this particular night,
work going on
traffic control person,
police lights flashing,
a bridge in the way
incoherent arm signals
changed the sign to slow
ladies and gentlemen,
the problem was
traffic circles
he showed her
with his blinkers.
a couple of vehicles
flapped her arms about,
directed us the wrong way,
interfering with
a construction
and accident scene.
the traffic control person
is the boss.
accident?
police lights flashing
under the bridge;
something major going on.
two police officers,
an idiot and
people hollering.
confrontation.
all geared up;
uneasy all the way home,
unsettled.
i would have
turned my blinkers on
at the idiot woman.
--
wednesday
i started to bleed
the hospital:
kicking the machines
trying to get her heart beat.
the most violent kicks.
sitting, waiting
for the hospital to call,
i chipped a tooth
on a sandwich.
what in the world in happening?
my body is falling apart.
scrambling to pick-up the pieces;
too much damage.
the hurricane horror
all i want to do is cry about myself.
perspective on the big picture.
---
(i will tell more
when I get the pictures together)
the whole shopping experience ruined.
a deer ran out of the woods.
the deer jumped over the divider.
the deer hit the car mid-jump.
i turned my head away
deer mush
the noise so loud
i turned back around.
i saw the deer jump a fence.
---
i don’t want to do everything too early;
a newborn in an empty nursery.
my books tell me this.
i want an exact week,
the ideal time, another worry.
i have everything.
i spend even more money on things.
why aren’t things more clear?
i have few things.
i am lucky enough
(again);
things seem so much clearer.
i just let things happen.
i go with the flow.
(this freakish nature)
my books have the answers.
a book has all
the exact answers.
statistics,
worse case scenarios.
straight out basic answers.
--
baby can come
when ever she wants
(late november, sunday)
i will send pictures.
i will do it soon.
the house, the room
is beautiful.
perfect baby girl.
perfect room.
i am so excited now.
yesterday we hit a milestone.
the baby is positioned.
some times big babies are born.
nothing fantastic happens.
he thinks that he is old already.
i knew from the beginning
that he would be.
bunnies are for the closet,
bears for the dresser.
---
a list of things to get done.
promises to everyone.
a lot of clutter in there.
a bunch of things,
a bunch of things.
i hung on to a sign,
promised myself a baby.
i feel so much cleaner now.
our secret ugly place is tidied.
every house has a secret ugly place.
vacuum, tools, old lady cart;
kitchen things, cupboards and shelves.
---
all that waiting,
all the testing.
i need to figure out
how far back i want to go
(did I ever tell you how much
i love seeing people
open their presents
but loathe buying them?)
time and money set aside
for surprises.
a huge money blowing fiasco
(the driving force)
--
november, 05:
now it is so far.
my inside countdown
expresses itself by
regular dreams.
everything has relaxed .
(always the same!)
i can concentrate on
my planning, a confusion
with money and insurance,
the 8.8th war.
finally, consecration.
we see ourselves,
our exclusive desires.
i want to perpetuate myself
in the entire next year.
---
let shit turn out
with the map folded.
i want only to say that
everything is folded.
straight, perfectly.
too expensive ,
too expensive.
eaten.
---
we arrived.
we must still regulate so much:
credit, an account and
a social security number.
everything was a little narrow and
the hostess was completely beautiful.
around nine, dead in the bed; tilted.
jet lag is not yet complete.
---
we have one night in a 10 dollar hotel
(dirty…) expensive, unclear,
and to me also honest.
for the moment i know simply
only the fact that he will find me here too.
here, no dwelling sounds completely beautiful.
before the gallery sat a man
who omitted himself loudly, his neck
over the destruction apparatus.
the capitalistic world a genuine monologue;
it is absolute opinion that one does not need money.
a bicycle, a camera, with which he filmed himself
a video recorder and television, with which he regards the video
afterwards..... oh, i became so glad.
i am still absolutely in a holiday mood;
the weather is more than inviting to undress.
announce me, completely, love.
--
it is 7 o'clock and
i am completely awake.
i lie to the fact that you
do wrong to me. you have
located yourself in my blood
and my toes. you run and
have no calm minute, poor
in the evening, delicate.
i am nevertheless somehow glad.
empty, empty. here each day is
like the other one.
trains, cowboys, country music,
and in the evenings, scotch. he
watches moths, says
"Hitler wasn't good, but....
you know... he wasn't bad either.
how can you tell? you didn't even
meet him, did you?"
empty phrases, acres of leaves.
he talks so quietly that I must inquire
each time three times.
there are cross word mysteries
only in english. there is no other
language with so many words.
my lunch (such fast food
cheap taco things), ice and
bubble tea.
i had an apropos occupation,
a completely new feeling.
they beautifully paint themselves,
then one writes a novel.
i must believe now,
otherwise i am somehow sad.
---
a complete list, with objects
of interest to enumerate.
plan, plan, plan, (in detail)
breakfast, plans....oh it is
already 3 o'clock. the afternoons
and the museums.
it rains against the house.
bears on the island,
bears on the island.
the cougar is still worse
(a cat, a puma... a german
word for it: mr. cutter).
i offered my shed,
a tavern perhaps.
i went to a party,
80's style (black, white),
a dancefloor in the kitchen.
a nebula machine, a smoke detector.
i was allowed to balance on a bar stool
with a directory as document.
we threw our peanut shells on the soil
and on banks. we sat on jute bags.
posters, scribblings and chips,
photos made very merrily.
thus here the time goes...
it is already nearly october.
insanity.
sometimes everything runs well.
(hunger)
everywhere a homeless person
asking for change... i feel responsible.
contrary to all this, the cruise ships come,
spend their money on expensive things
(liquid text, writing, a summer house).
i hope that I can write soon, coherently.
so slowly finished.
---
a small impact.
the last week does not
participate in anything.
but that is also all the same.
---
he wants to believe in germany... or simply all of europe.
i come in vain into woyzeck. make me happy already!
trains escape into the next high-literary german play set. i am at times
strained. i have enough time to report in detail my criticism... am i dead?
one stands oneself in a shop, only the legs and the belly. a little sun on the
shoulders, a more pleasant heat. not so suffocating.
watch out, if you go over the road.
---
the ferry was promising Iceland so beautifully.
exactly the same, as one introduces oneself.
a completely beautiful port;
everywhere small flower pots,
multicolored and above all very british.
i looked for work, an interview or two,
an application form.
my previous teammates,
those wanting a personal record,
are regularly dead in the bed.
--
i think of you, anna.
you see so many mad things
that i know only from television.
i have dreamed of you;
rather a nightmare, because
we both were pursued.
i had to think directly of you,
you so beautifully drunk,
so full of suspense.
---
i read english.
i am yours.
i sleep completely
beautifully in cars.
i am an intermediate
ancestor,
on the way back to
the hard everyday work.
life begins again.
i enjoy the days and the snow.
---
typical quarrels with dad
("controversy is
nevertheless normal,
comes in the best families")
from the boat, from a slippery stone
in the bushes at the slope
we see the rain forest.
trees, windows and blinds.
only a dirty jacket,
a birthday celebration
we were complete
in a different world,
in hollywood, the film world;
enormous multistoried buildings,
lanes and louder dark.
we are pioneers.
the telephone will terrorize
and a few warm sunbeams
will be enjoyed,
before the cold.
---
a small aftertaste of
whales, 80s music,
dances and fights
("i am the gentleman in the house
and i decide everything...")
we drive together around the island,
industriously write letters.
we have in one of our shops
the autumn holidays in heart form,
like a living cake heart.
--
i am ashamed.
you are already so far away.
i think much of you and
whether you got a little colour.
i write you still.
i want out.
i sing only one song.
you forgot everything
that we had.
you have only the thoughts
in your head and
the pieces (and the others,
naturally, also).
appraisals, finally,
not at all times negative.
you are afraid of me already.
the empty unknown.
days off i now use
to sun myself in
orthopedic shoes.
better than aspirin.
oxygen refueling
for the drive.
thicknesses.
now i finally have time,
a little time, to write.
mail comes, promised!
a few photos, so i can
see where you are.
briefly in trains.
i thought my legs would drop.
the most important thing:
falling in love.
the way back took only
eight hours.
i found things, unpacked,
read letters.
still so slow, because
i arrived not at all correct.
make me happy for you.
make me happy.
---
the first picture is simply
perfectly grotesque.
on the left is your bed.
i have a film, a few
texts spoken, seen.
when you called
i was in a field.
i will tell you how much
i already do not have.
i feel you completely,
a doll embraced and
wished good night.
---
bubble tea is here already,
but called differently.
in the millenium, in the town center,
you feel as if you have been
transplanted to japan.
a multiplex, a few discos, a bowling alley.
oh, a simply boring stink.
only terrible things have happened,
including an assault at the bank.
i find by verse that you write me letters.
i pinch myself because it is simply too much.
i drink coffee, i only smoke to stop
myself from sending you a letter.
--
january, 06:
someone has shot a nail gun into the joint.
it only gets worse and worse.
all this misery can’t just be blamed on
the lack of snow in the winter.
rainy seasons are not good for
rainy day (week) blues.
a bunch of snow that doesn’t go away,
trapped in the house.
this is how i see my future:
one more month of
being uncomfortable in my body
followed by pain. followed by exhaustion.
i will spare you. i understand that
it will all be worth it.
i understand that
once the time comes for
those things to happen,
they won’t even matter.
---
i have been adjusting.
the most exhausting thing ever.
so tired all the time.
awake at 2am.
one of these beasts
giving birth again,
a catheter inserted.
I may just have
a nervous breakdown.
---
no time.
i underestimated.
the little beasties took me
away from you.
i liked not working.
i was selfish.
i have to reprogram myself.
i try to talk but i find
i have nothing left to say.
sleep is not a bad thing but
sometimes i forget.
i wonder what that noise is
when i start to cry.
these things will
work themselves out in time.
i am not ready to give up
documenting times and lengths.
i have to let it go.
i foresee much letting go in my future.
i think (maybe) that
I have left the blues times.
it is getting better.
self doubt is a personality flaw.
--
the young person goes west. west. it is the easier direction to go. it seems like falling. gravity remains. there is a fairness in going. it exceeds the ocean, speaks to the ocean. speaking is the only thing that maintains the mind.
the homicide gives a motive. the only person discovered is a pretty girl inside. compared to being me it is positive. all the different stars, the sun, the airport. i put the mountain on the counter, draw a blank. i am east.
i have started being the spiral shellfish, linear as the example whose introspection is terrible. i have lived with 4 a.m. being certain. a window has opened in me. pedestrians share my music. another tremble moves under my skin, and the muscles become tense electricity.
today being strange, time is wasteful. my pockets could be less crowded . i remove the chemical compounds and the glass. i pull the curtain open and reach the point where my clothing is like portable ice. i am moved.
i occasionally feel like writing an open letter to these shiftless supporters of no one, these people who have known. i am king. king, they now call me. i like the distinction. i am born, and i am moved like the old person who has lived.
we are constant. the behavior which has led to ignorance is the root of the problem. the wheel is turned, and we are caught, believing so strongly in our private hallucinations. it is the place where everything around us wraps around our heads. a certain retreat does not have to believe. i look at that which does not remain, and start solving the puzzle.
words fail me. perhaps that is my technical skill, or my conscientious subject. the death of dreams, and the error of believing that the dreams are a beginning. the hand, the palm which is opened. my word is the finger of the hand. perhaps this is the time when the fist is closed.
concerning the acquisition of defeat, the hard part is not defeat itself. after that is life. directly after that, the eddy coming. i feel like a bruised thing. i am older, with little fight. i do not fly through fisted rage. the fight i feel i can win is ignored.
the womb like meat, a cavity, unprotected and damaged. the year of truth and honest use pulled through the mud. dirty tears. we want the paper center, the last groove. passing by the sewer. left in the dissolving ocean, floating slowly with the brine. i exchange time with the clock in breaking.
the extreme space refuge, the indian rush, the inevitable atomic ash. the american people speaking english to the manuscript monkeys, violence. it is dangerous; it is good. i inquire about everything, death of all types. i am moved to empathy. these are the strange kind. and they surprise me.
--
it is better than yesterday, today or tomorrow. i like my fuel warehouse. two bed rooms and the common territory. my neighbor is good, and my buddhism professor is not forgotten. following life with him should find a certain invertibrate finishing the first can of beer . and how many by my side?
i look at the shadows on the wall. passing my window, the people walk. a little girlish knock on the door. my neighbor. i possess an appetite for expansion, and i possess the tendency to take things excessively directly. i lose my heart, raise the second center. my brain is removed, exchanged with the thing which is old and left alone.
my music is understood, almost audible. you inquire about what develops; sexual intercourse at the door. i ignore and elude pacifism, like a marionette on very short strings.
in order to travel, the light bends around me. the constellation withstanding, it seems like the celestial body where i move, the stars of my sisters. our deaths are escaping the dying earth entirely; i am pulled in the same way to the sky. and like mourning china and russia, i am the heaven of god.
the neck, fear, the tooth and death, the movement, and the supervision of the eye which moves suddenly. i swim under the dock. i start using up the air. the air is solid. describing fear is hard.
today i heard voices. my lungs hurt in breathing, my head hurts to think. the rain is late, and i can look at the stars. i inhale loneliness and see desire in the sky. the clouds pull closed, and the rain falls for the second time. the rain falls on my surface.
outer space is cool; it seems like the place of the sky. to be given up by the god of reliance, by the god of philosophy, means being burnt. the place where i should hide, there is no remainder. the shadows are twisted; the god of long division is truth.
the rain is late and the clouds have broken. that sad surface is warmed. i walk, passing the stores, stopping in order to look at the collection of pinwheels. memory and smiles atrophy. the sad face made warm. emptiness.
revolution, a phrase turned in my heart, a simple declaration. the sun of summer wilts, the season becomes gray. the future, the end. i advance to the cliff. the dream which the memory of day atrophies is exchanged with sleep. it passes; the movement of the body, the slow melting of the dawn.
a train, an electric fence, quiet. it is not different in the center where the city is deep. will the train stop? perhaps it does not see the way. what kind of hazardous nothing can substitute for popularity? for the first time, a memory of youth; announcements and hobos. the darkness and others and others.
--
this person glances at me, entering my room. we would like to speak, problems concerning that last night. when i speak it’s always to you; failure. you are something which has become so only by being damaged. you did not see, you did not look.
the guilt of your death; tired. at first glance, under the private road, the way when being placed on the ambulance your body was visible, the siren turned off. murder, boxes of bones in the ground. i do not know whether it is murder, whether you understand, whether to do that i cannot do.
you were my brother. you have remembered. i came with you always, grasped your hand, your hand. i squeezed the joints of your fingers. i am perplexed; a crime that you feel entirely, become aware of completely. i know that it is foolishness; you know that you have been ashamed of my conduct. you do not know whether my memories are what you want.
i would like to solve the problem of the world. helplessness is intolerable, it overwhelms. we would like to possess control, but there is no control. i cannot solve problems. i need exorcism of a certain kind. it is necessary for normal not to exist. i am old; i am not different. i am someone's puppet. the value of a thing made complicated.
i think that we would like to live. we would like to live for the people, but you already do not exist. perhaps it ends exactly.
--
february, 06:
you go away,
the words like fields,
the sky reduced.
gold is exchanged with
scatterings of brown.
the promise, whose truth is quick,
worry and the confusion
which becomes quiet with time.
leaving is hidden in lonely sleep,
the warmth and contact of
atrophied smiles and
empty truths.
the misfiring, once quieted
by your eyes,
now hidden in the solitary wind.
you leave me with a pile of
brown scatterings.
tranquil confusion;
smiles wither so slowly.
winter can arrive at any time.
--
it is difficult,
it is very difficult.
he is almost in cerebral death.
it is summer here.
i am satiated of cold.
winter is sandpaper.
i do not want to know of snow,
not in lisbon, nor in a small farm house.
i am satiated of walking
to beat the tooth in the street.
i want sun, beach and, over all,
time to enjoy it.
deceit.
--
fingers and photographs;
feelings are harmed.
remember?
i looked at the image
for the second time.
i became blind accidentally.
i reconstructed him exactly
to search for equipment;
the preparation where i push
two parts together was done
simultaneously.
i was recognized.
it did not work to break the unity,
and as for that foolish photograph in my heart,
a feeling like destiny being moved;
a fingerprint sans my hand.
i who was dropped am brand-new.
my body on the road where
atrophy is best.
---
loneliness and reflection are accepted
with other things.
the monk is a lunatic
and the hermit should be blamed;
always surrounded without anything to say.
the non division which uses division
is balancing time because of
intellectual pursuits and the easy route.
there are many entreaties and much less taxation.
the jaw, the hard upper lip,
that shallowness damaged only with grief;
i have remembered.
i have expressed something which i believe:
the blue that makes you see and is possible.
blue of substance, as indigo as an other feeling.
fear of the clamp, of being moved.
i turn off craving and attachment;
i cannot do things clearly in the kingdom of feeling.
drama does not answer the telephone;
your screams scattered over everything.
---
because of the rain, fear is piled up.
scarcity of sun can make seasons terrible.
i am struck with a hammer, maturing slowly;
i am troubled and causing problems.
i do not teach, i do not raise the child.
but sight possesses being,
and the thing which is done is something.
you scrutinize the blank screen as a protest.
i, being disappointed, am regrettable.
i am the bit which is disappointed directly.
fear is simultaneously
hunger and desire.
---
i am confused by the kingdom of history.
it depends on karen armstrong and france;
it is an interesting glance at gautama.
the empire principle covered with a veil,
american everything going to war.
i possess the proposition of many other things.
this is the crime: we have not lived.
i was joyful; i discovered the cancer,
the dominion of warfare.
i threw away what i wrote.
inside the city where we are identical,
the truth talks. the dream spreads out and
the possibility of sitting is a hazard
and an exaggeration.
---
i am called structure 101,
like a slave made visible.
a steadily pilotless aircraft,
the medicine of proper poisoning.
i write haiku,
a terrible small-numbered book;
it is another something,
conforming to the harmful conduct
called land.
---
regret.
several weeks are ended.
i do not regret that you
float for the second time
in my heart;
the baby who did not come
polluted by my jokes.
i am the bit which is feared.
i am walking fear,
gray everything, and blue,
and i cannot inquire about
certain things.
(you do not know,
you do not have to express)
---
the law,
based on old english law.
the history of buildings,
public record of the factual city.
footwork must be done.
a hole in the records
related to the property tax business,
general terminology, and so on.
it is pleasant raincoat work.
the public historical section is no friend.
i structure the education system and am inexperienced.
city exploration, illegal travelling through
the factory of the sky.
chicago is an old sanitarium,
the remnants of an enormous
mixture of tunnels.
acquisition of the dawn,
painters and musicians,
herr zahn and the usual.
pursued, and followed to
the road on the land,
memory limits the remainder of
murals where rommel is small.
hitler in photographs.
it seems that everything is
a catalog list.
a tube that led to the basement.
a german map from 1940.
the tunnels have started
calling to me.
--
march, 06:
are things made to end?
i have not remembered another way.
today is dim, it is the rain.
i do not make the air.
the train carries me to the
arabic food merchant,
the cemetary sweetheart;
appreciated in doubt, desire.
it burns in the same way.
you investigate my heart,
made to sit down here
where it is not possible for me
to express myself.
the professor person,
the eye for criticizing;
you hesitate in speech.
the way to interpret is
self-aggrandizement, simply.
---
recognizing/admitting.
carving/moment.
a hallmark it is not.
it possesses influence, it considers
being conscious, it pulls and,
assembling, it means
that non prose is grasped.
if by my medicine i repeat responsibility,
it is possible to strike me strongly;
i write poetry to robbe-grillet:
prose seems like the poetry of my opinion.
plotting? a circular type concerning method.
prose? a sort of method of poetic type.
you must suppose that there is deep meaning,
but it is difficult, it is vivid;
the fact that the optional sentence is chosen
is the joy.
the portion of pointlessness,
image making plotting subordinate.
---
the history of buildings.
he looks in the attic,
the 3rd floor:
that central operation.
he the luxurious storyteller,
he starts throwing things
from all the windows.
the building is a little old.
uniformity is superstition,
it makes the people live.
you think that doubt died here.
sexual intercourse
in the bedroom, the front room,
the kitchen.
murdered.
are there times when
it hides in the wall?
it happens.
---
a bad poem should not be worried about.
one should not fear making bad art.
a 5 minute silent picture:
the artist,
like a maori tattoo pattern,
turned around a plastic head.
you are trivial
similar to three other things,
a landslide at the end
of the year.
---
you laugh.
the window (seeing outside, shock):
the ceiling turns with the background.
it seems that is chopped up,
a repugnance.
reappropriating material
with respect to appearance.
there is a magnitude of desires.
it is not possible to become equal.
it is foolishness to be black and white,
but one grinds the part with the grindstone.
the eye which was trained becomes equal.
he is the picture which is scorned,
almost complete in all senses.
i am the thing that is weakened,
struck by a strange dream.
the red supervision,
the library;
we would like to find
many descriptions.
---
something based on thought;
someone in the kitchen.
there is a possibility of raw profit,
of everyone of inexplicable types.
the state of my sleep.
the cat tries to steal my breath
and the egyptian is
the guilt that suffocates.
you thought of the puritans.
symptoms include hearing psychology,
visual hallucination, the feeling where
destiny impends,
like being moved.
someone puts you in a box.
i believed those supernatural things and
thought that because of
the spate of young people,
my range of vision must
be attached to this state of consciousness
which i continue to call to.
it dies shouting with my head,
it confronts vision.
foolishness, this including heart.
i started to suffocate
but i continued.
--
a certain thing, a feeling, insensible motion;
the harsh private magnetism of satie.
entire indifference to the body
when the morning comes:
from sexual intercourse to
the house for visiting
(in order to ignore, you rejoice).
fearfully you reserve the air ticket.
there is a state where
everything is cloying.
you desire the stale seashore:
walking with the forest,
going to the ocean which looks
at the stars.
you who can form
the masterpiece of explosion sounds,
you are the scraper of the sky,
the capitalism of emptiness,
1,000,000 musical holocausts.
--
i have known
the splash of five hair dyes,
times of paranoia,
the awkwardness of
the teenage years.
i who am used becomes ruinous.
i am a drinker of intellectual problems,
coming to all the old pages
where one gin fizz cannot wait.
i break my glass, degenerating,
and accompany you to the
cave of crime.
---
i open the door.
there is a thing
which has been learned,
a postcard perhaps,
a kind of plastic totem;
the art of the people,
macaroni art.
a memory of the lock on the door.
empty-handed,
i go into the house,
and throw myself
at the foot of your bed,
attaching mud to the body,
being attached.
you can breathe me eventually,
the second time around.
i probably will collapse on the floor,
a conformity of brain atrophy.
---
my mother hates everything.
she has done the business,
a personal history of government.
she speaks the spark which is felt;
she is bad, being foolish.
she doubts herself, and my father.
i love that, naturally.
the place she submits to
is better than the necessity
to finish.
--
i have come to the end of grief.
the night dance
strange, used entirely.
there was music, everything,
like a killer, like rage.
the graveyard
(my grandmother, my two aunts
installed in the grave),
flowers and puttering;
my speech, my name.
i turn to the flowers,
the bench of commemoration;
the guest roster of the funeral
following time.
---
you are here
to make me remember.
you ridicule, flinch, forget.
last year it was not necessary
to walk with the thursday rain;
you must remember that yourself.
remember me:
your thin eye is soft,
can not stop you from
scrutinizing me.
but my eye is
the same trial thing where
on the hill you take the lead
for the second time.
---
a machine jumped
from the top to the bottom.
the raw materials moved in circles,
a straw raincoat dance.
i must sleep.
i submit to gentleness,
a green and blue
tidal wave coming
washing over me.
i would like to sleep
but it is not possible.
i am in heavy decline.
every holy hatchet is
an earthquake
like a train.
---
4:30 a.m., asthma.
i wait for the inducement of
a half dozen blanks;
orgasms, an image of a girl:
the traitor of jack kerouac.
my glance is a
cohesion characteristic.
the time of insecurity
is bought, is excessive.
that incomprehensible combination.
i am proper with
the monopolized ones,
the old women of insanity.
i almost always am there,
married to work,
convinced of the fact that this year
it comes returning.
---
in the house which cracks,
the room where 3 or 4 hours go,
i am tired, delirious.
this noise of sleep,
my blisters like
another country.
i immigrated,
painted with tapiocas.
today (yesterday really)
i started walking.
you are surprised.
you see, and really seeing,
discover a combat mission,
a wire entanglement;
this ordeal of coexistence.
--
now is an incomprehensible time:
revolution and my usual existence crisis;
i make everything ruinous.
i am the unmarried woman,
risen to medieval times,
separated from the burnt
remnants of an interesting town.
i am a reanimated corpse.
i do not know how to love.
i want more.
a compilation of
my happiness, empty romance.
i must come to grips with
the question, a clear possibility.
for the second time,
old abuse becomes drunk;
a happy holiday of my own
comparison.
i have lived excessively;
it is foolish,
a state of specification.
is there a loneliness, a sadness so desperate?
what kind of thought process is reaction?
my brain by mistake is something which,
concerning the world, did not learn at all.
i almost can touch a state where
i am smart because of that.
it is a sure road to success.
i cannot guarantee anything.
--
you became a thin baby;
stunning, confused with sartre
when he breathes.
the reference was not found.
it is pleasant, something not able to stop things;
it is the predicament which changes your life,
floating soon to a dangerous extent.
i verify the door,
ten parts of leslie
(her house, her message,
some kind of reference).
i and fifty other people make
the same mistake:
the foolish mistake of
measuring time
(that lunatic desire).
--
you enter immediately after
the remainder of today,
independently.
there is a thing
expressed,
and taken for
the second time:
a rose colored power,
your desire,
the eye where you
are made beautiful.
you make me unpleasant
as clearly as possible.
the wrongdoing of
your eye,
your broken eye;
i do not think that we
would like to be
anywhere by
any means.
--
looking in the eye of that
large question,
we adjust our lives in order to
accommodate each other.
i have lived here, closed,
permanently here.
the door closed, always
searching for him
in the vicinity of my feet
where he stopped the monologue
which i continue.
many foolish things.
i touch my hair and
he is expelled accidentally
from the edge of the bed.
he was my friend.
i speak to my worry,
my lonely stability.
he could not understand
the words which were said.
he is helped and handled well
in the house of the sky.
---
everything which is hell
is still around the house.
you were walking secretly,
fearfully.
that which i kill is red, is the eye.
you possess a central problem,
a heart seizure;
i can’t be reconciled to
the thought of it not
being different.
i really just am a cat woman,
a murderer of various types.
and you go.
and i let you escape.
---
imagine me:
bits of tinfoil and
the slurping crying
of mommy.
unpleasant.
a patch of sun on the carpet
a certain necessity.
waiting to die, touching death
with the toe. he pants with
his head covered in the incubator.
it was necessary to decide.
--
a smell, a sort of passing by the window;
links to the old, old life where
those that were with me escaped
my box of substitutions.
she is beautiful, still smart,
a monument to appropriateness.
i shout to her body.
i meet her everywhere.
she is the prostitute,
the innocence,
the thief i have known,
sadly beautiful, brown;
a hundred surfaces.
but she goes.
i cannot divide the smell of explosions
from the smell of the sea.
i leave to wander about, and look
at the wood, and exactly exist.
am i to be separated from the fact
that finally she’s gone away?
she does not display herself at all
in the eye of my heart.
the breeze passing by the window, now entering;
a feeling which is grief and is strange and is like the air.
those in life exist on that side, or comparatively are.
she sounded like noise, like silence.
but there i was, and by her poems
being urged not to lie.
to be good:
this is my revolution.
--
i sound like deflectionary things,
the raw materials of helplessness,
my taciturnity general.
the poisonous character of existence:
indifference when i meet you at the window,
jumping on the throat of my sleep.
this pulled heart still atrophied,
skittish, entire.
we who are repelled are rescued,
an elaborate, heart-breaking ceremony;
the times when those who are
given up in pounds are allotted only
the loss which comes.
it is sufficient, the memory where
a suicide of subject and name lives
in my infancy.
that which we call spinelessness is
not inhuman but a quiet fear,
a dirty fat quality, an orange
assymmetrical monster that bores
a hole through sound.
it is dark, guppy-faced humanity,
obtained in the romantic accessory of
arguments, of obligation.
--
nothing works, and progress
is gone from this place;
it is a cloud on my head.
we are everything, but as said
with so many words, there is
the remainder of the struggle.
we fear completely.
we colour ourselves with
desire, the believing,
the sting.
the craving thing.
the conviction of happiness is abnormal,
a method of defining your strength;
a state where the end is easy,
struck by sorrow and difficult to console.
--
she drinks the wine.
the polluted pink of her tooth.
she moves her fingertip; dry,
like sand. she experiences
living for the first time.
uniformity.
like a cigarette butt
under the heel,
doubt excludes the thing
which is crushed.
feeling, before this
random phenomenon,
like rubbish, like meat.
someone is beautiful here,
like a rag doll, like
a mountain of meat.
silence is moved because
you do not hear. this space
is occupied with something.
before nicotine and alcohol,
what? will she die in order to
feel this?
--
may, 06:
completely alone before the mini televisions of montreal,
before closed museum doors. standing here, moving outside.
the roads are as narrow as home.
i recover so slowly.
ottawa is a prison, an old prison, a death cell,
closed because of unhuman living conditions:
the backgrounds of pictures and bleeding noses.
they make themselves merry over a condemned woman.
i could not sleep at night,
the barrier of acres alive,
the dead branches of apple trees and
grape vines at the wires.
i slept like an illegal animal in the house.
--
june, 06:
i am a parody,
a cat woman.
i am dead,
so slowly, probably, nearly
only here.
too multicolored.
simple times, freely translated,
giant swarms carried forward
by the wind.
nevertheless, i praise
the good old east frisia,
where bicycles do not brake.
old swede, if I had not had those,
i would be burned through.
--
the orphan is caught by love.
a certain personality crisis,
audible, abnormal;
an excessively large joke.
i feel it come out of the eye.
it is knowledge, it is
personal opinion.
i have handled atomic ash,
general despair, gentleness;
it has made my bones freeze.
we fear the coma.
we would like to shout, feel
something heavy, honest;
a kind of meridian of kindness,
a challenge to definition.
--
i possess many qualities;
complete selfishness,
the method of making a mistake.
at the point where i start being
a feeling, honest person,
i am not moved at all.
i have been ashamed.
i fear the facts, the things which remain;
they turned many notes to spring,
all my parts imploding.
i choose my words carefully.
because of you,
a friend larger than all this business,
foolishness, infancy,
i have used some kind of logic.
when we try and fail, something departs.
i am a cowardly person,
a magnificent mechanism of apologies.
my internal organs
write these foolish letters which i do not send,
my dishonesty mostly being abbreviation,
hysteria.
i would like to strike
your hundred-hour surfaces.
take this letter as a kind of reason.
--
you call my life story
a ligneous regret,
a film before the loneliness.
i send to you my heart,
my insanity and stupidity.
i fight to be foolishly
serious and distant.
this feeling departs.
i am like the surface of the night,
with no courage,
no internal organs.
perhaps this the fact which
gushes forth.
--
august, 06:
i am ill-humored,
possessing a certain serious
worried problem,
my hand, my center, shaking.
my stomach is the sickness,
a panic seizure which
between months continues.
i have taken the route of good fortune
and sleep like the deceased.
it is not possible to make
eye contact.
it is not clear sorrow
or exact foolishness.
it is conditioning.
---
i would like to know those thoughts
which the cat thought.
i can maintain my composure,
one insensible feeling
bubbling on the surface.
i do not worry,
my usual monotone exaggerated.
perhaps a creepy existence is left,
permanently for the second time.
i go into the house of wax.
my first reaction is oblivion,
a method of trying that
decreases my anger.
i see in the voice
where my head is that
i am untrusting.
it is something
which becomes so
because of speech.
--
scrawled, pasted thought and image,
a thick papery storm;
a consciousness where you,
especially, are strange.
in a war of our imaginations and
in the midst of autocracy,
you are moved by being the struggle
that we can fight effectively,
the fight whose many years of
sanctuary are old.
necessity is always obstructed,
sleeping after the attack.
the pauper is directly poor,
sleeping on a bench in the park;
he almost dies in the origins
they released him of.
all will be possible,
like a calendar in the house whose
bourgeoisie is beautiful.
i make life, i am a human
manufacturing industry,
and you intend to invent the bed.
--
the well you inquired about,
the whistle and the exponential vessel,
collisions which come entering,
advice and acceptance.
i know, i worry
concerning those things that you know.
it is not useful, but a physical obect
that moves and travels.
understand, it is something
that has become so because of
this everything,
and when it goes it is both empty and old:
agoraphobia and hermitization.
we are creative ones of habit.
the remaining body is restricted to
remainders:
marijuana and valium,
bouts of drinking and pornography;
medicating things.
-
it is a cease-fire.
bombardment stopped
for the present.
i do not have big expectations,
making the believing and
making the mistakes;
humored and always attacked.
i am moved by being;
i disassemble subsystems.
the evacuee has returned to rubble,
an area which is death.
there is a tombstone for the unknown citizen,
and it has become these buildings.
-
the route of escape
is a possible playback of violence.
even in sarcasm he
steals my paranoia and
scotoma concerning
snatched messages.
eventually there is here.
he is the calm hurricane from which
my writing escapes naturally.
he has lived here as the air.
the characteristics i obtain
from my heart,
boasting, bragging.
regrettable.
it spans months in me,
thirteen hours of sleep and
a hundred embraces.
--
you are raped.
everything is pulverized.
it ends the world.
singing for the child who has known
the flash of the sky, the darkness
that does not hide bombs and
exploding things;
it becomes
the insensible sense.
your atoms continue without you.
there is something always.
--
there is in the wall of desire
the scars of excessively thin paint;
influenza and war and
the war which continues.
all nights are done in love;
perhaps he cheats,
but you do not worry.
it is the mountain which
the many poets walked.
it is a terrible color,
the orange of the horizon;
it starts feeling like
the heat of an oven.
and you know that this is
the edge of the world.
--
he is remainders and scatterings.
like a foolish boy, he possesses
the heart of a child.
the bubble around the brain which stops
people from actualization is
broken permanently, finally.
all this humanity surrounded by
whatever it is possible to express.
an enormous hole,
a decapitated being.
my feelings as lost as all this.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
the pause which breaks
down everything is hard
and is useful; it is
the splotchy skin of old
men, and the pieces of woman.
you smile, absurd, at this
parade of sunken breasts,
this meeting of dead gods,
the aquatic fog of their memories
a lost discovery, their sighs
enlarged with the wind.
ecstasy in the improbable
inactive products of hearts.
down everything is hard
and is useful; it is
the splotchy skin of old
men, and the pieces of woman.
you smile, absurd, at this
parade of sunken breasts,
this meeting of dead gods,
the aquatic fog of their memories
a lost discovery, their sighs
enlarged with the wind.
ecstasy in the improbable
inactive products of hearts.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
a screaming, writhing pink figure
conveys the lessons of less,
religion a colour she thinks
she has seen in the senses,
in the mental water of stones
and forms.
the saddest, clumsiest
blades of razors cross her
asymmetrical chest, shapeless
ciphers of catharsis; sparseness
and slow abundance like
two flowers together in
the rusty shadow, the almost
empty ethereal sky.
--
i can make it if i just don’t see in your face the decomposition of realisation and dissolution. a pulse in the flesh regrets the words, flutters in its zigzag rhythms, clinging to the slope and hidden under branches. these meandering rhythms are the saddest, easily broken by nervousness. they resemble the corruption of the pockmarks of achievement.
the most beautiful things are the most vacated, the rectangular fog a deep thin gloom. the air of the close sky a handless trunklike bomb, eerie laments blown unseen by the wind; everything hanging on, impossible to fit in crates.
your crying women become clumsy but never quite lose their balance.
conveys the lessons of less,
religion a colour she thinks
she has seen in the senses,
in the mental water of stones
and forms.
the saddest, clumsiest
blades of razors cross her
asymmetrical chest, shapeless
ciphers of catharsis; sparseness
and slow abundance like
two flowers together in
the rusty shadow, the almost
empty ethereal sky.
--
i can make it if i just don’t see in your face the decomposition of realisation and dissolution. a pulse in the flesh regrets the words, flutters in its zigzag rhythms, clinging to the slope and hidden under branches. these meandering rhythms are the saddest, easily broken by nervousness. they resemble the corruption of the pockmarks of achievement.
the most beautiful things are the most vacated, the rectangular fog a deep thin gloom. the air of the close sky a handless trunklike bomb, eerie laments blown unseen by the wind; everything hanging on, impossible to fit in crates.
your crying women become clumsy but never quite lose their balance.
Monday, April 09, 2007
i cultivated love intellectually, deaf up to the present moment. i flow out of my spirit constantly into eternal molds without hope.
certain wandering comments have emanated from my hands without planning.
i begin the lines and arabesques, in order simply to bleach my vain heart of egotism, suffocated completely.
--
the summer is cool. the throat has been thirsty, and the range of vision is twisted.
the author who creates this hydropic effect has the keyboard that has always consisted of consecutive i's.
freedom begins being about the freedom to go away.
--
the dust is an exudation of spontaneousness.
the elegance of it is an impulse which writes these pages; the empty come outside. perhaps there is a person who is believed. there is no useful purpose.
we dissemble, form our features by instinct.
certain wandering comments have emanated from my hands without planning.
i begin the lines and arabesques, in order simply to bleach my vain heart of egotism, suffocated completely.
--
the summer is cool. the throat has been thirsty, and the range of vision is twisted.
the author who creates this hydropic effect has the keyboard that has always consisted of consecutive i's.
freedom begins being about the freedom to go away.
--
the dust is an exudation of spontaneousness.
the elegance of it is an impulse which writes these pages; the empty come outside. perhaps there is a person who is believed. there is no useful purpose.
we dissemble, form our features by instinct.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
those dumb and paralysed
executants of pantomime
never remember the memory
which suppresses
they are silver performers of
disturbance and darkened light,
counterfeit tableaux of putrefaction;
not dead but made to conform
to the state of the fog
their words are condensed,
displaced; a kind of refuse lost
to the inside of their heads
this unlikely encounter
another oxymoron of the
cramped protection of strange
situations, the gray marriage
of numbers and a mute
and crippled collapse
executants of pantomime
never remember the memory
which suppresses
they are silver performers of
disturbance and darkened light,
counterfeit tableaux of putrefaction;
not dead but made to conform
to the state of the fog
their words are condensed,
displaced; a kind of refuse lost
to the inside of their heads
this unlikely encounter
another oxymoron of the
cramped protection of strange
situations, the gray marriage
of numbers and a mute
and crippled collapse
you behold yourself dissected,
staring at the disruptions and
decenterings of the body,
lithe and slickly waxen
the cicatrices reach the poetic
and laboriously perfect form,
your merest existence as a bare
life contorted comically
the torture to prepare a wound
a purloined punishment,
an applique of the human center
staring at the disruptions and
decenterings of the body,
lithe and slickly waxen
the cicatrices reach the poetic
and laboriously perfect form,
your merest existence as a bare
life contorted comically
the torture to prepare a wound
a purloined punishment,
an applique of the human center
Thursday, March 29, 2007
the interruption of liars
is destroyed; the old
human formality is a victim
of the moods of butterflies,
necessarily scourged into
rivers of blood. it disturbs
the outdated peace of these
batteries of bric-a-brac people.
the structure of a collapse
belongs to flirting with
the inscrutable, and the
construction of damage
is the effort of hands.
is destroyed; the old
human formality is a victim
of the moods of butterflies,
necessarily scourged into
rivers of blood. it disturbs
the outdated peace of these
batteries of bric-a-brac people.
the structure of a collapse
belongs to flirting with
the inscrutable, and the
construction of damage
is the effort of hands.
through scrims of beaded
water the disappeared girl
magically appears,
an impossible blue river
of bruises, squatting in
the shadows of the cellar.
she overcomes the desire
for disassembly, the hope
of dissolution, craving
an affection he doesn’t give.
oppressed memory remains,
ambiguity lying deadly in
a sky quilted with clouds.
water the disappeared girl
magically appears,
an impossible blue river
of bruises, squatting in
the shadows of the cellar.
she overcomes the desire
for disassembly, the hope
of dissolution, craving
an affection he doesn’t give.
oppressed memory remains,
ambiguity lying deadly in
a sky quilted with clouds.
i am bottled in infatuated neuroticism,
a deformed acrobatic monster
in the luxurious deep-green
darkness of childlike ecstasy.
i recovered a long dissolving
hope, fretful, overcome by a need
to confess; careless affection
entangled in disowned situations.
these stretches of dark fickleness
are an unreality that shows in the rain.
you are metallic spaces quilted
with dark spillways of clouds,
memories pressed through burlap;
your bent arms slicing the air,
pretending to love.
a deformed acrobatic monster
in the luxurious deep-green
darkness of childlike ecstasy.
i recovered a long dissolving
hope, fretful, overcome by a need
to confess; careless affection
entangled in disowned situations.
these stretches of dark fickleness
are an unreality that shows in the rain.
you are metallic spaces quilted
with dark spillways of clouds,
memories pressed through burlap;
your bent arms slicing the air,
pretending to love.
the barking voice of
mushroom cloud decorations
in a notebook; a death toll
reminiscent of the past;
intrinsic pathos, furious
humor. these are balancing
acts of a manipulation.
clenching their foreheads
to the earth in prayer,
an unholy ecstacy numbing
their microscopic worlds.
this humming morbidity
grizzled, a collage of portraits
and bald illustrations.
mushroom cloud decorations
in a notebook; a death toll
reminiscent of the past;
intrinsic pathos, furious
humor. these are balancing
acts of a manipulation.
clenching their foreheads
to the earth in prayer,
an unholy ecstacy numbing
their microscopic worlds.
this humming morbidity
grizzled, a collage of portraits
and bald illustrations.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
identity is a tired permutation,
is annexed and taken apart.
it is living slow, remaining inside;
the ghost of taxonomy in
a maze of rooms.
together in bleeding infatuation,
those dumb slabs have encircled
the furor with tragic, static
electricity. behind them
hidden faces, obvious song,
suicide as protest.
the terror of transformations
is a type of revelation,
a naked stranger.
is annexed and taken apart.
it is living slow, remaining inside;
the ghost of taxonomy in
a maze of rooms.
together in bleeding infatuation,
those dumb slabs have encircled
the furor with tragic, static
electricity. behind them
hidden faces, obvious song,
suicide as protest.
the terror of transformations
is a type of revelation,
a naked stranger.
tropical light, curling
and twisting, sings
the schematic diagram
of possibility.
it cajoles me from bed,
an undisciplined
and pedestrian child.
with small poetic acts
of reconnection,
objects found buried
believe in the promise where
people emerge.
such faceless, hooded
labyrinths.
--
using his mind like a chainsaw,
an almost fetishistic fabrication,
his foreshortenings are bound
to put whispers in open mouths.
sober rhythms built on sand.
he opens a vertiginous void,
haunted by histories,
his face the master map
of concision.
--
the blinding effects of
metallic bodies; the gazes
that do not meet. myriad
glimpses of people slipping
down landscapes of dozens
of haunted afternoons.
dead robbers of the teeth
of corpses working in total darkness,
mixing physical fullness with
spiritual vacancy; the survey of
mistaken surveyors sees faces
in random objects, anonymous
tracks.
and twisting, sings
the schematic diagram
of possibility.
it cajoles me from bed,
an undisciplined
and pedestrian child.
with small poetic acts
of reconnection,
objects found buried
believe in the promise where
people emerge.
such faceless, hooded
labyrinths.
--
using his mind like a chainsaw,
an almost fetishistic fabrication,
his foreshortenings are bound
to put whispers in open mouths.
sober rhythms built on sand.
he opens a vertiginous void,
haunted by histories,
his face the master map
of concision.
--
the blinding effects of
metallic bodies; the gazes
that do not meet. myriad
glimpses of people slipping
down landscapes of dozens
of haunted afternoons.
dead robbers of the teeth
of corpses working in total darkness,
mixing physical fullness with
spiritual vacancy; the survey of
mistaken surveyors sees faces
in random objects, anonymous
tracks.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
we are lost
in the hidden veins
of a city slowing down
in a thought that is
remembered only later
this somnambulant city
is naked silence
gentrified abandonment
an ambiguous, epistolary
declaration
--
so strange, the muter
impasses of desire.
a light beam of solitary,
soliloquizing infatuation.
youthful yearning,
the way its absence
appears, fingering
the puzzle pieces of desire.
what remains
bleeds together
in a slow dissolve.
in the hidden veins
of a city slowing down
in a thought that is
remembered only later
this somnambulant city
is naked silence
gentrified abandonment
an ambiguous, epistolary
declaration
--
so strange, the muter
impasses of desire.
a light beam of solitary,
soliloquizing infatuation.
youthful yearning,
the way its absence
appears, fingering
the puzzle pieces of desire.
what remains
bleeds together
in a slow dissolve.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
we huddle close together;
we fasten balloons to divining rods.
our hands struggle to control
the intangible, the quarantine of place
in the house of readymade phrase.
we are shadowless soldiers of confusion,
excavators of experience.
time has become a frozen threshold
that invites escape; rebellion against
the dead time, the curvatures of skulls.
always homesick and sick of home.
--
a woman in her underwear,
insatiably pandering to childhood fears:
strange, hilly vistas with scattered
trees that negate lived experience,
a still projection of a man
collapsed into flatness.
she feels like a victim of drowning
as he dunks his head into the water
that floats her destruction,
the dark heart of his body
under her surface.
his face is a warmth,
ruined in a variety of ways.
thin arms and legs, his carefully
arranged piles of heirlooms
a colour induced memory
made tangible.
he drives a nail in the things
that are held in the heart.
we fasten balloons to divining rods.
our hands struggle to control
the intangible, the quarantine of place
in the house of readymade phrase.
we are shadowless soldiers of confusion,
excavators of experience.
time has become a frozen threshold
that invites escape; rebellion against
the dead time, the curvatures of skulls.
always homesick and sick of home.
--
a woman in her underwear,
insatiably pandering to childhood fears:
strange, hilly vistas with scattered
trees that negate lived experience,
a still projection of a man
collapsed into flatness.
she feels like a victim of drowning
as he dunks his head into the water
that floats her destruction,
the dark heart of his body
under her surface.
his face is a warmth,
ruined in a variety of ways.
thin arms and legs, his carefully
arranged piles of heirlooms
a colour induced memory
made tangible.
he drives a nail in the things
that are held in the heart.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
we each appear, inventing new stories,
falling prey to little more than diaristic preciosity.
a broken picture appears in the soil,
a close-up of catastrophe, of
hallucination, of the eyeball of war.
beyond the explosive exemption of this alibi,
a life like raw meat. galvanized skin.
where the sky is white insurrection, where
the object which remains is youthful,
the investigation of expectation abandons
this life of gravestones and suffocating perfection.
it is a sense of delirium, a team of stains.
we are driven to the mud and the mob,
from certain floating organisms of coercion;
this warm winter bending in waggling,
childish letters. the waiting magic
of anger is visible, strangled, overcome
with insecurity. the eye is wounded
like an unfolded spectrum.
the night is savaged, tragedy enclaved
in an old-fashioned heart.
falling prey to little more than diaristic preciosity.
a broken picture appears in the soil,
a close-up of catastrophe, of
hallucination, of the eyeball of war.
beyond the explosive exemption of this alibi,
a life like raw meat. galvanized skin.
where the sky is white insurrection, where
the object which remains is youthful,
the investigation of expectation abandons
this life of gravestones and suffocating perfection.
it is a sense of delirium, a team of stains.
we are driven to the mud and the mob,
from certain floating organisms of coercion;
this warm winter bending in waggling,
childish letters. the waiting magic
of anger is visible, strangled, overcome
with insecurity. the eye is wounded
like an unfolded spectrum.
the night is savaged, tragedy enclaved
in an old-fashioned heart.
fragments returning through pairs
of cupped hands, from encounters
with words written vertically in a field;
green embraces glitter gently,
awaiting eyes somber and
irrevocably lost.
these abstract ciphers saw in half
tiny figures, and the intimacy they invite
in the dusk of the real is assembled
in the manufactured province of games,
of small hands.
we are by no means sound,
half buried in broken, naively rendered
landscapes. between water and sky,
the desperate, abject pathologies remain.
--
the complicated semantics
of fumbling words; a tear, an eye,
the structure of a hand inside
the decorative shock which forms him.
thought is pulverized.
the thin bond of calligraphic blows
that shapes his body reveals a window
into the futility of passing fancies,
the desire for dialogue smashed.
of cupped hands, from encounters
with words written vertically in a field;
green embraces glitter gently,
awaiting eyes somber and
irrevocably lost.
these abstract ciphers saw in half
tiny figures, and the intimacy they invite
in the dusk of the real is assembled
in the manufactured province of games,
of small hands.
we are by no means sound,
half buried in broken, naively rendered
landscapes. between water and sky,
the desperate, abject pathologies remain.
--
the complicated semantics
of fumbling words; a tear, an eye,
the structure of a hand inside
the decorative shock which forms him.
thought is pulverized.
the thin bond of calligraphic blows
that shapes his body reveals a window
into the futility of passing fancies,
the desire for dialogue smashed.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
it begins in a room.
a certain thing is reflected in the window; an imagined fear, the ghost of an insistent idea. abandonment accommodates the human body like a sad sack in a trap. context collapses, impossible in the caged space within. obstinate craving, melancholia, a sound, perhaps. a possibility.
his voice is bad tempered, inaudible. it discovers a territory it does not know. he reclines heavily in despair, an epitaph for time wasted. he has become hysterically feared, a human organism that the imagined trees portray in the window.
there are always more specialized forms of intimacy, invasive immediacies; he feels them become obsolete, crawling like phantom limbs. he desires a blank white background, an atrocious inhuman illusion. a finger examines the realities of a human eye, a realm of airless totality.
in the night along the roadside: it is childlike awkwardness, an entire kingdom which does not have shuttered air. a kingdom of entirety without stasis. a small girl, a study in the eyes of waiting, remains.
a certain thing is reflected in the window; an imagined fear, the ghost of an insistent idea. abandonment accommodates the human body like a sad sack in a trap. context collapses, impossible in the caged space within. obstinate craving, melancholia, a sound, perhaps. a possibility.
his voice is bad tempered, inaudible. it discovers a territory it does not know. he reclines heavily in despair, an epitaph for time wasted. he has become hysterically feared, a human organism that the imagined trees portray in the window.
there are always more specialized forms of intimacy, invasive immediacies; he feels them become obsolete, crawling like phantom limbs. he desires a blank white background, an atrocious inhuman illusion. a finger examines the realities of a human eye, a realm of airless totality.
in the night along the roadside: it is childlike awkwardness, an entire kingdom which does not have shuttered air. a kingdom of entirety without stasis. a small girl, a study in the eyes of waiting, remains.
the day feels like a poem;
it is empty, slack-eyed, simulacra
disconnected from the flesh.
silence is trivial, it gets torn from
a fragment of the mouth.
a world now enchanted only by
a dreamy and barely recognizable event,
a world no longer grounded,
negates the meaning of words.
--
you are fascinated only with, at last,
recognition: something like poetry.
you release your dreams from
mimesis under the snow that covers
a suppressed trifle of sound.
you cry little tremors of curious drawings,
abundant foamy blue teardrops
drawn beyond the broken glass.
--
he still has hands
with which to touch her.
haunted beneath the snow,
covering their faces from
a multitude of television screens,
they mouth the silence.
their naked crawl a kind of arm
which conveys the damage,
blue bubbles dependent on
this strange motion.
they are translations of persons,
abstract fables melting away,
so afraid of becoming something.
--
it is empty, slack-eyed, simulacra
disconnected from the flesh.
silence is trivial, it gets torn from
a fragment of the mouth.
a world now enchanted only by
a dreamy and barely recognizable event,
a world no longer grounded,
negates the meaning of words.
--
you are fascinated only with, at last,
recognition: something like poetry.
you release your dreams from
mimesis under the snow that covers
a suppressed trifle of sound.
you cry little tremors of curious drawings,
abundant foamy blue teardrops
drawn beyond the broken glass.
--
he still has hands
with which to touch her.
haunted beneath the snow,
covering their faces from
a multitude of television screens,
they mouth the silence.
their naked crawl a kind of arm
which conveys the damage,
blue bubbles dependent on
this strange motion.
they are translations of persons,
abstract fables melting away,
so afraid of becoming something.
--
Saturday, March 10, 2007
a spiritual destruction where
the innocence of dream ethnography
has been broken and collaged; it falls
completely and the heart
of a doll remains.
her voice like raw meat,
writhing faintly;
her body entangled
in destruction.
she is a prisoner still and wild,
a deified dark rumor.
the perplexity of night
is savaged, illuminating
a life without form.
the innocence of dream ethnography
has been broken and collaged; it falls
completely and the heart
of a doll remains.
her voice like raw meat,
writhing faintly;
her body entangled
in destruction.
she is a prisoner still and wild,
a deified dark rumor.
the perplexity of night
is savaged, illuminating
a life without form.
we are here squarely in the realm of love.
everything has devolved into
an excavation of wholesale damage;
it is a scurvy, an astonishing alibi
of correspondences,
the underwater form of
a salacious hand.
in the kingdom of dead time, of love,
in the lost chance of a wild tryst
and the territory of an invalid hour,
a reluctant memory ignites the heart.
it is in the poems of prose, of confusion,
that the curious involuntary memories
of skin, shimmering, illuminated,
are piled up and burned.
despite a heart of defeat,
innocence is a holy visitation.
everything has devolved into
an excavation of wholesale damage;
it is a scurvy, an astonishing alibi
of correspondences,
the underwater form of
a salacious hand.
in the kingdom of dead time, of love,
in the lost chance of a wild tryst
and the territory of an invalid hour,
a reluctant memory ignites the heart.
it is in the poems of prose, of confusion,
that the curious involuntary memories
of skin, shimmering, illuminated,
are piled up and burned.
despite a heart of defeat,
innocence is a holy visitation.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
you are a show of fairness
inhaled into the body,
a hot dust made to be ingested.
a demon who likes
that it has attacked.
you are the thing crawling
in the neurotic,
a shedding of blood.
you are boxes of crimson letters and
books of romance for a dollar.
you are a general fiction,
the second-storey
origin of paralysis.
inhaled into the body,
a hot dust made to be ingested.
a demon who likes
that it has attacked.
you are the thing crawling
in the neurotic,
a shedding of blood.
you are boxes of crimson letters and
books of romance for a dollar.
you are a general fiction,
the second-storey
origin of paralysis.
Friday, March 02, 2007
i am exhausted, saving my breath
for the spring. i am distracted
by hope and spilling my compulsions.
i would like to drown
my days in portraits of my
deformed love.
there will be freedom now,
and from now on. this blue period
is far too much for many of us,
sketching pictures of wallowing
and cases of love. it feels as if
this blackout will not end.
for the spring. i am distracted
by hope and spilling my compulsions.
i would like to drown
my days in portraits of my
deformed love.
there will be freedom now,
and from now on. this blue period
is far too much for many of us,
sketching pictures of wallowing
and cases of love. it feels as if
this blackout will not end.
Friday, February 02, 2007
a wedding ceremony, a baby:
a great disaster. this great disaster is
different.
meaning has made me helpless,
taken me by surprise.
he pulls at my empty center and it tears.
we laugh together secretly.
he sings, he glows with possibility;
a strange voice and grasped hands.
i am eight years old, i am
a simpleton, or so i presume;
damage poured under my surface.
a great disaster. this great disaster is
different.
meaning has made me helpless,
taken me by surprise.
he pulls at my empty center and it tears.
we laugh together secretly.
he sings, he glows with possibility;
a strange voice and grasped hands.
i am eight years old, i am
a simpleton, or so i presume;
damage poured under my surface.
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