Friday, November 28, 2014

cowarding the dread mythopoeia of lissome some-fay and ancient self-hatred/anger of others/the other and as if the duendé were for the moment shielded/occulted by a passing body far off/close as the fug of hot-oil kitchens and bayed rooms: in other words, disaster

and I'm on my knees
looking for the answers—The Killers

How to Succeed and How
to Suck Eggs
—The Book of Lies, Chapter 69. Aleister Crowley

how to ruin a space a body a time
with continua such she/she in fervours
of atavist agitate done this/then this

must follow like a river down a throat
of crime against the future writing
crazed patterns on your bedmaps

hold hold one would'st cry aloud
there or not mid the [eschscholzia
one inserts for mere linguistic relief]
all of it dream made real unreal

city full of rats how you wish at heart
that you were what you wish you
were at heart back then in the dichot

but no the word/world must erupt
in tomy the cutting if there is injustice
to match or swatch your innertomy

in fever in heat in must your spoor
your blood trail led you to this to arrive
fully unformed from the head up

or down as though a wind or other
irruption of blowing or sucking
had'st tooked it all away left nothing

no responsibility no reason
no understanding just shrinking
delight und horror unmappable

when/where it matters
most or mostly least seeming
now leastmost and hindmost

echoes through the wire the boast
along the coastways of that
that forbidden and most-bidden

to arrive at the midnight door
dragging her corpses laughing
hoping both for resurrection

and the deep omerta of all
that is past, unhearing
of its own laughing

about its own midnight
unsecret garden


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