the unstable fluctuations
of stupid desire are
uniforms of loss

round luminous eyes
refer us only to the
disorder, the latency
of potential, the course
of the stars

we are a removed
mutation, sticking
party hats on our heads,
currents of blood
running downward from
our pickaninny eyes

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.

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.

all my friends
are manufactured
surrogates, bedroom
confessions with
gutter box frames.
i am a kind of
magnet, a wilderness
of mirrors.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.
--

secret skin
passing through
electrical currents

a broken image and
a cardboard promise

this soil of smooth
surfaces in the labyrinth
of night

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

life asks a question and to this
i am called and i go,
with a side of poison for my heart.

in an absolute existence, a philosophy,
there is a compost of gray and mud,
there is intoxication and an absoluteness
which spreads out in a line.

your imbrued materials have imbrued my mind,
and the evil we do executes the birds in their cages.
--

i have lived in strange neighborhoods.
the closest civilization is something
related to another city where i have
lived without being. the illumination,
the fluorescent light, a concrete wall of
blinking fear, the facility where clouds
are given up and float. the darkness is
a certain product which
in the world outside becomes
a discontinuance. this accidental life is
loud, is a cooling system which groans.

having lived in the land of gray and rain,
and being therefore an upside-down sort,
i go from the room where this minimum is
abandoned.

it is not clear.

it is necessary to scream and to
scatter my foolish brain.

the horizontality of gentlemanliness
will be obtained. he calls my name and
the fact that it impresses me is tried,
like the mechanisms of rubbish.

not pawing, not having grasped me,
something continues here.

as for modification, for being better,
being a method of believing,
i act; i have started the year
with this as a kind of flirtation.

it is good and it escapes last.
--

i sit down and i shout.
i do not understand the why;
whether it is praised profit or
the dancer of hangings which
makes me ruinous.

perhaps i am dark and presumed.

he fears a death sentence.
he is the person who is broken;
he possesses the same reactions.

he fears. he can look at the fear of surfaces,
a fear inside his face that spreads out.

it is foolish, it works in nervousness.
it is languid. it is like this and
it hits a necessity.

silence will split us like
a nervous cancer.
--

the way of heaven; punishment.

the head you do not raise is a scurvy;
it moves suddenly, it is not excluded.

you take me as the omen.

i am fearful and i am ruinous.
i awaken the snow.
it will move sweetly. it is slow,
bashful, incomprehensible.
it is coercive and we are
just a little broken.

we are moved; for the present
we maintain things. everything.

we are hurt and skittish;
we float and rise. we want being;
you laugh in me and it is but being.

we will be injured and wrong, and
in the thin remains, water.

the land plunders the sky.

i destroyed the land officially, and
outer space is not the same.

i am the metal of declaration, of
modification and color.
i am the alchemy teacher of spiritual states,
the conductor and transformer of magics.

you saw under the hat of the conjurer,
of the blind person dependent upon
the mechanisms of life.

plural miracles are detailed and
you hide as a fowl.

it is not possible, the possibility of magics.

you inquire about the news,
close to standing in traffic with a sign board.

self-immolation prints on both sides of the paper.
--

so world worthy,
the instant is tasted,
that time of life and death.

this body is not you or your life.

it is possible to form
the meaning of sorrow,
a strange understanding of
outer space and this
humanity spectacle.

the magic of endorphins,
of remembering, of kissing
eagerly, is forgotten.

today there is a nerve of insanity in me,
a warped guide to the world;
the small amount which leaves is a truth.

i am crossing the town of rain,
in an ill-humored youth,
an unlucky stage of moping.

but you feel the rain on my surfaces.
an improvement from miserable numbness.

you are moved by me,
by my small eccentric life;
you think of scars.

you are a kind of music that makes words.
--

the snow falls
like incomprehensible creation.
it is attached as the air to my
suit of trembling.

i laugh, facing a certain dying.
i would like to walk in permanent snow.
i am still at the part where falling is best,
the part that possesses sleep
in the time of rest.