Wednesday, August 04, 2010

the press

it is an iron plate applied as The Question the question it is a fear
and a iron miner's miracule
(why do flies sink in lakes he asks well because of their spiracule)
of light and fission a fission of faces that now look
the fire the inquisitory press beneath which most things
cease to struggle or digress it is a rusty iron level
a heavy flat of a fatherhand but the witch stuff in this fug
the chug chug burd aloft jug jug bird O gone soft
is entirely contraband outwards eyeballs squeeze
inwards air doth rush upon the flags that gutter there
some ichor now doth gush and geeze & wheeze & fleas
O fleas: Mark, butt these fleas...

it is a heaviness and heft dragged up from in a delf
it is a squeak of kick and cock collapsed upon itself
a leaden place of heat and beat and it is then a river
slowed almost now to death
there skinned unto a sliver

now nothing can be known as true
as this press yet obtains
now sideward slick the sluices-oh
now outward slide the brains

I look upon myself anews
as planar kangaroo
what I awready knew's
in hi-winds i has blew


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