effects of torsion in snails
in sly, silent sessions of cubicle thought, the cantoness whimpers
a clerical tune: "do you live in the cloister?" and "are you clear?"
but there is no forgiving such buttery ingress, its hopelessness
titillating a thousand voices in the romantic-repressive moss,
tasting her name: "do you sleep here or in the hay?" her girlishness
loosed on paratactic rock, with tampon applicators, like the loss
of an ocean but... a little hairier. "stay a while longer" in my
categorical imperative with the fever (flower) water on it, stay,
"you are sweet. tell me, did you never love anyone before me?"
the poet, they say, thinks with his palm. she thinks with her rainbow
trout's triangles held tentatively up to sun. she's lurid, slicing open
the (female) cabbage of contemplation with her testosterone stutter,
"l'original" she throats, "the poem's a place for swirling a la milky
way, i hold these truths to be self-evident, though some restrictions
apply." like an original sin, but then she says "beguine" and there's
snuff, polyanna, bricks, lovingly patterned, but with ressentiment.
if writing were not a substitute for experience � which it isn't�
it might be a windsock. you could stroke its breast. in the midnight.
it costs three dollars to get into dante's inferno, less to win two
salamanders at skeeball. here comes the me(te)rmaid, keep your
hands on your chant: "wand'ring lonely as chumps/ biting down
the daisy/ singing LEL LEL"... personae droner, every puzzle
a dogma putative as tungsten rose, a turbo-charged red crescent
i want on their foreheads as sudden movement, but the persona
drone's exceptional hearing heart wants marking, and i don't want
to look at it, i am live downtown krispy kreme papaya dog cybersex
czarina caught red-handed with the red crescent, and the cat ate
my gnostic suit! you, you, you find meaning where you look for the striding
man pulled upward in energy, his little drawstring a guilty jolting
eidolon, the surface texture of a sponge has many voices all ablaze
with bellow and oboe and you want to share the moment with your
own doubt. the time passed as WALNUT trees and they dropped
each filled with a tiny world with animation, dioramas within
dioramas, the swooping sound of tiny nut-doors always opening,
and each diorama has a title and i find myself thinking, "isn't this
kind of bourgeois?" my padded bra the clean wood floor the wadded-
up paper my mouth is stuffed with. "at least you have a position":
(warbling) (tralala) the genome a pearl, the genome a pigsty, spitted
gargoyles slowly roasting parched because... not necessarily orgiastic.
what color is (c)lover? roll me over in the burdock and indian buckwheat
roll me over in the plaintain and in the chickweed vigilant with voices,
horsefly's eye is brick and there's a yellow streak on everything. sin
not necessarily orgiastic, blueblood, i don't know what the lapwings
see in my poetry: "the politics are in the poem!" the pigeon flaps. "how?"
the clovers also reach up, pastoral, to the sound of the airplane.
"there will be no impossibly small turtles crawling the lord's thumbnail
tonight," and that's ok with me i say in my most uneven tone, a
flirty look on my face. in this way ego is the demon of argument
temporarily convinced by its own embodiment of seething and elegant
germination: BIRD a double spiral of TUNE, an investigation into
the root pauses of anarchy: some people need borders on the philtrum
(peretublium) of what spills over into a potential dialy face
of so-called arousal and bewilderment... of talking: lucy,
turkana boy, flamingo tongue. variable worm-shell, atlantic
jingle, left-handed whelk's elaborate questions, moon snail
marauding kiss-callers, pink-mouthed snail's honey is fame,
mouthless tree snail, fungus slug � we will be moving momentarily �
tawny beehivew snail, maroon tusk shell, magnificent chiton,
textile cone, compressed limpet, chinese mystery snail's
community of reverie, his lacy underside a linguistic scream,
the argument goes i care intensely this maniacal rebellion,
not "glass slippage or violet snail, not queens breathing
a three-toothed cavoline, not the dusty creeper thrilled to be
thrilled, not horned tanganyika snail or lyrate whelk. the style
lifts the clouds again free from oppressive dicta and norman rockwell
but not baudelaire, the misogynist of my dreams. poetry... i too...
my head... won't go into it. the movement is bird, sure, all's dire,
but look! what comes out! dark as grapes but sounding, hot hot
and there are seeds, persisting in wanting to be wanted. then
i get so enlarged � with the writing: it is wrong. so but anyway
these poetry game � slim, brown and transparent as bug.
the moment is red duress in bad fire but look � what else
to do � a shark wrapped in lace. shark shark and their needs
resisting wanting and being wanted then it's so engorged --
with excitement: it is song. so but anyway these low-slung
names slinking around the translucent cervix: the Daily Rage.
our game is the game that has no exuberant strangling (i see
a crabby one in the outtakes and the outtakes tremble) (i think
"incunabula" but shout "parabola") but repressed (big fake
dick) tempos and more sensationalist roses... (never more
than an extension of clarified butter... getting rid of the
libidinal astrophysics of the abject and his owl, that aeolear
description, my witch jesting strands, here adipose, his elf
demeaning what he is as a creature of nature) and yowling
furies of bright depondence, their orange monkey hair and
blind expressions, how they rope in every passing stare,
the little smell of cucumber... that lingers... there...
a clerical tune: "do you live in the cloister?" and "are you clear?"
but there is no forgiving such buttery ingress, its hopelessness
titillating a thousand voices in the romantic-repressive moss,
tasting her name: "do you sleep here or in the hay?" her girlishness
loosed on paratactic rock, with tampon applicators, like the loss
of an ocean but... a little hairier. "stay a while longer" in my
categorical imperative with the fever (flower) water on it, stay,
"you are sweet. tell me, did you never love anyone before me?"
the poet, they say, thinks with his palm. she thinks with her rainbow
trout's triangles held tentatively up to sun. she's lurid, slicing open
the (female) cabbage of contemplation with her testosterone stutter,
"l'original" she throats, "the poem's a place for swirling a la milky
way, i hold these truths to be self-evident, though some restrictions
apply." like an original sin, but then she says "beguine" and there's
snuff, polyanna, bricks, lovingly patterned, but with ressentiment.
if writing were not a substitute for experience � which it isn't�
it might be a windsock. you could stroke its breast. in the midnight.
it costs three dollars to get into dante's inferno, less to win two
salamanders at skeeball. here comes the me(te)rmaid, keep your
hands on your chant: "wand'ring lonely as chumps/ biting down
the daisy/ singing LEL LEL"... personae droner, every puzzle
a dogma putative as tungsten rose, a turbo-charged red crescent
i want on their foreheads as sudden movement, but the persona
drone's exceptional hearing heart wants marking, and i don't want
to look at it, i am live downtown krispy kreme papaya dog cybersex
czarina caught red-handed with the red crescent, and the cat ate
my gnostic suit! you, you, you find meaning where you look for the striding
man pulled upward in energy, his little drawstring a guilty jolting
eidolon, the surface texture of a sponge has many voices all ablaze
with bellow and oboe and you want to share the moment with your
own doubt. the time passed as WALNUT trees and they dropped
each filled with a tiny world with animation, dioramas within
dioramas, the swooping sound of tiny nut-doors always opening,
and each diorama has a title and i find myself thinking, "isn't this
kind of bourgeois?" my padded bra the clean wood floor the wadded-
up paper my mouth is stuffed with. "at least you have a position":
(warbling) (tralala) the genome a pearl, the genome a pigsty, spitted
gargoyles slowly roasting parched because... not necessarily orgiastic.
what color is (c)lover? roll me over in the burdock and indian buckwheat
roll me over in the plaintain and in the chickweed vigilant with voices,
horsefly's eye is brick and there's a yellow streak on everything. sin
not necessarily orgiastic, blueblood, i don't know what the lapwings
see in my poetry: "the politics are in the poem!" the pigeon flaps. "how?"
the clovers also reach up, pastoral, to the sound of the airplane.
"there will be no impossibly small turtles crawling the lord's thumbnail
tonight," and that's ok with me i say in my most uneven tone, a
flirty look on my face. in this way ego is the demon of argument
temporarily convinced by its own embodiment of seething and elegant
germination: BIRD a double spiral of TUNE, an investigation into
the root pauses of anarchy: some people need borders on the philtrum
(peretublium) of what spills over into a potential dialy face
of so-called arousal and bewilderment... of talking: lucy,
turkana boy, flamingo tongue. variable worm-shell, atlantic
jingle, left-handed whelk's elaborate questions, moon snail
marauding kiss-callers, pink-mouthed snail's honey is fame,
mouthless tree snail, fungus slug � we will be moving momentarily �
tawny beehivew snail, maroon tusk shell, magnificent chiton,
textile cone, compressed limpet, chinese mystery snail's
community of reverie, his lacy underside a linguistic scream,
the argument goes i care intensely this maniacal rebellion,
not "glass slippage or violet snail, not queens breathing
a three-toothed cavoline, not the dusty creeper thrilled to be
thrilled, not horned tanganyika snail or lyrate whelk. the style
lifts the clouds again free from oppressive dicta and norman rockwell
but not baudelaire, the misogynist of my dreams. poetry... i too...
my head... won't go into it. the movement is bird, sure, all's dire,
but look! what comes out! dark as grapes but sounding, hot hot
and there are seeds, persisting in wanting to be wanted. then
i get so enlarged � with the writing: it is wrong. so but anyway
these poetry game � slim, brown and transparent as bug.
the moment is red duress in bad fire but look � what else
to do � a shark wrapped in lace. shark shark and their needs
resisting wanting and being wanted then it's so engorged --
with excitement: it is song. so but anyway these low-slung
names slinking around the translucent cervix: the Daily Rage.
our game is the game that has no exuberant strangling (i see
a crabby one in the outtakes and the outtakes tremble) (i think
"incunabula" but shout "parabola") but repressed (big fake
dick) tempos and more sensationalist roses... (never more
than an extension of clarified butter... getting rid of the
libidinal astrophysics of the abject and his owl, that aeolear
description, my witch jesting strands, here adipose, his elf
demeaning what he is as a creature of nature) and yowling
furies of bright depondence, their orange monkey hair and
blind expressions, how they rope in every passing stare,
the little smell of cucumber... that lingers... there...