Friday, October 13, 2017

Oh Carrie Anne (Regardless)

Carrie Anne Regardless

just when we thought dying was over for now
it might be some grey flood-taking
down trees in waves of static the way they
look it comes over you like that like
hands of bone like childhood hallucinations
voices through the pipework through the wall
behind the bed beneath the floor
like confinement or sickness
it is a grey flood (here, demon, here)

—boys/men we know have been scrawling dicks
on walls forever there they are in Herculaneum
those ochre fossil cocks fossilizing their testo-historic laughs—

it is the confounded performative
of a disputed will
it is the folds in the face and the cracks
where tears have spent themselves
where the dead rivers
of her or a voice breaking down the line
it is/they (it is they that) are the waves without lines
the wireless that is truly so (uplifted)

—in such spirit tribades we strid-
ulate as though set free by years by prime
numerics as saccades exiting suddenly
a nest and in this there is a distance and in
this there is a pleasure seen from many angles
and from above and below and the median—

an ethereal shriek then
a sugaring and the opposite of all
convention around the word
now rendered lethal to infants
our age has caught up at last

we have reached 8000 metres
there are no trees, no signs in the heavens
we have already started to die

fucking Jesus i am already in bed but look

look at the thing's face


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