hauté boheme

/криостатированной горячки/

the suffix death

death should be painful
or painless – still it hardly matters
except the congenital promise
of an infantile black and-shroud
the ordeal is never lived

no will – no life
nobody left to leave nothing behind
let the living and power take
my leather, my satin, my sweetheart ring
let them read into the history of a dead man
corrupted bonds and trades and cheap black money
that feeds a cheap black soul
(not sad and in questionable happiness)

do you believe in water?

lettuces for
ashley -
i will love you through kerns,
ligatures, and the thump of a beatnik prawn.

when midnights prompted -
i have swum across your faces
to grimace in shock or pain to
cold stone floor and the cut of wild rocks on
the naked feet of naked bodies of naked souls
where i found with one (and only) foot
a leg-up on some nearby metal chair
where the wheeze of my inhale
sounded a bird in my lung
i have seen flesh trades for mutiny
under the pale odour of stale negro sweat and
Brand the slave!
cried the Americans of the Congo
who is you?

you are five emblems and
six symbols besides
my friends, my friends
this meat is life.
who i tasted between molars
(crunchy) in an unforgiving jaw.
and ground down, too
was i.

Here is a fear – of failing and spending prestige and Promise at some arduous labour, like a mathemagician at insurance or an engineer at a hardware stall.

There is something highly personal about a knife – that in stabbing and slashing i can brush skin against skin, or bring my palm inches close to your heart, and all the better to stab it with. Not guns – whose fingers on triggers curl from your marked corpse, in disgust and already burrowing from shame as my barrel recoils in terror.

That evening found Q. tottering about the kitchen, accompanied by the formidable swing of his cane and the smashing of several pieces of China cookery, which he failed in hearing due to age and deafness. The landlady was sitting curled up in her corner with a pie (Shepherd’s , delectable) in each hand, as she had been for the past half-hour. It was her silence that had provoked Q.’s rage. Not of ill-will, for the tear tracks down her cheeks allowed her to appear undeniably miserable. The omni-loving Q., easily touched by such displays, had set upon bowl-smashing in the hopes of prompting a response from her inert and noble form. In his head he was looking to rouse gratitude with an exaggeration of empathy, and his eyes had begun tearing from his exertions, and the frustration of their failure.

All death makes is breath.
We the land and us the living
pierce in wind-wept seas :
that no life is sweeter than my life,
that no soul more solid.
that furious we who flesh our minds
shall pay our loves
in spirit.

i am thin soil above your coffin
and the aftershave sheets that drape almost
too casually across the universe
painted by passing hands all shades of brown
for being too white for beatnik bathrooms and the blue island sound
cowering to cup handfuls of soil to the eyes
from the ground too far away and before burial
admitting that the sky was too harsh and
soaking beneath the sandal flats i had made

i am your nightly deathwatch
seeking the stopgap breath that preens between canines
and across wrists in projected constellations
toothmarks down nerve endings and the
inside of flesh without feeling
until the bundle arrives and is sighed at for cumber
to drag -tiptoed- through vertigo and spoken and
shared syringes to the hazy shore of

i am a bouncing american man
bought cheaper at the street corner
bounced within to the next home
and the same man without; to colder small earth-shards
friends of the roaches and the freak-socialism
of the sidewalk cracks through which
disappointed narcotics

i am a felt sour crevice in a brick wall
flight-blind and sorrow with
three mice behind and a world before
overlaid emptiness abridging the shortages of two materials
far as i, for as far as i am
with a limit of one world, three planes and

[stack up poem - day 4/5]

The Instructor does not seem interested in what lies behind him. He moves resolutely forward, but his leaking footsteps glide in a persistent backward motion that cannot be off-written as hallucination. His instruction of a thousand gilded dancers does not pause. He wraps eyes across skinny torsos and wrinkly vests and unkempt hair, but his steps go back, creeping resolutely. The motion on the balls of his feet seem to serve only the purpose of making him undulate, up and down on the same spot. His backwards progress is much more discreet. Leechy. I am sitting on a grey cushioned chair behind him. There is a mirror behind us. He had placed the chair there. He had swung it across the floor and to the mirror in a flourish and invited the investment of my meaty twin buttocks on velvet. But now his globes were in my face. I cold swell the tang of sweat and something metal. The scent was cold and pale and stale, as if it has rotted away in the cavernous cleft between his left- and right- handed twins incarnate. He was proceeding backwards. He was mashing them onto may face. They dancers were not seeing this. I do not think they were seeing this – there were no calls of alarm, no cries of frenzy, no hint that my breath had been obfuscated and that i was being thoroughly embedded and choked between the mighty and corpulent buttocks of the Instructor.

my world is a weapon

so i thought when i lay in the rippled darling of moonlight, with the storks darting overhead and coming in multitudes, thick white spurts like icing across Great Cake.
fear of permanence.
fear of madness that lasts forever

or because of madness conceives only ‘forever’.
Salvatore : change is a weapon.
Heraclitus: Nothing is, everything is becoming.
Salvatore : the flux is blind, you let me sink into this marble slab

Parmenides : What is, is. What is not, is not.
the plenum submits and turns sweet triples across a protein-layer fondant.
rows upon rows of negroes dancing in the same blown-up patterns of the paint across their faces the white paint across their faces.

toothbrush toothbrush toothbrush in jaw.
perhaps pain rots ‘i’ some people.
but draws ‘me’ out in others.
right elbow right elbow sink line to to left.
with this i can wrought the world.
this the world has wrought for i.

come-to, whim-worshippers
the might of pain makes right
over the Little People first the burn
then the balm – satisfaction
and the mephistopheles bounces back

When spring came all the nation was happy.

The spring came first to the ankles and the legs. The ankles would split, ripe and shiny, spilling a warm yellow liquid over the feet that dried into a crust and fell into yellow vapour that itched the walking feet. Sometimes the split would be a deep one, and the white of the bone could be seen swimming upwards into the light. Sometimes it would be splintered and messy, and sometimes it would be smooth and whole, a more painful wholeness that reeked of a caged and terrible parasite.

This yellow infection would diffuse up to the knees. There was a smooth one-sidedness to this motion, as the sickness manoeuvred in sudden unseen leaps, whittling its white shiny teeth and sinking tiny rows of grey claws in the most sterile of midnight blues. The spring was inside, not out. The knees would shake and rattle and quake in a vicious rhythm. They were pods tasked with the egestion of a million fertile seeds. The sweat reprised in sudden crescendos that left the knees shaking and gasping in tiny leggy breaths, skin staggering with the effort of drawing air where no pores would admit. Here the tiny tremulous kneecap in its pod of sinew keened long and despairingly. When the worse of the labour was thought to be over  and the legs were left shaking without the strength of another cry the entire tortuous cycle would begin again.


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