Tuesday, November 25, 2014

where big birds bask in the methyl

a beginning, a muddle, and an end — Philip Larkin

it is all so big

like a chicken he danced across it the whole desert cape
and others of which one darest not
that was anyway only a thing of the stars
look at it now in the filth
(like that she stank of the chemical)
(think of Wednesday and what it has gathered,
what it has become — is it even possible
to recover?)
that escapes from its broken mouth its south mouth
look and maybe kick at it as you pass by reviling

[a little black dress of a day-flying moth—
one must say, cinnabar in the marram]

sin, abar, sin nombre and you anyway the buzz and battery
not cell not uni but multiple we name you electrician 

you and your stars anyway, is it always about you?
pshaw, unholy earth and unfinished unfinishable blowjob
that you are or would be for all of us saw you

]empty-eyed (whisper etc) as starry spaces in that bath of lead that night
whereof anyway the openings of tiny cameras but of course
that means flowers for chambers are flowers by definition

and reason alone would requite it so just watch[
(who/hoo and what is that that bangs in the wall?)
if you don't believe then dig deep for your hexenoic acid

freak and fertility superfecund triorchid of the noon star

O dead thing, we are only here to worship your trail

one had something to say but that is all so lost

you, the vast and continuum of you
your own f-stops fuck
dead in your silver/gold emulsion
light replaced by light
box yourself, box yourself
think of it and box it
at last, as love, boxed in, yes
covered and worked out
in all your seams


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