Saturday, April 25, 2015

de quidditas et bedknobs

It's not a smile, it's the lid on a scream
—Julie Goodyear
I'm going to be a star

(Oh the shock has pretty teeth, dear)

who anyway, not Lotte, the male, sang that opera?

//Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in mini-series

the magician in armani the guru

stands there looking like that
i'm going to be a star he says
with deep sheepish ignored
or (try got better( therapy from my future
think of him there that day all flowery
and embarrassing with his trying

(as they don't say in whales, Keep your Aberaeron

keep your bloody Abertmesisaeron!)

imagine what they will think of us

in 200 years, how cruel they will think
how cloddish and stupid, how unborn
how dead to technology and sophistication

/where is this line of the god flew up

what Hebroo scrip what desert codec
rcds this friv?/

¿but is anyway unborn dead

or only that sunlit moment each morning
before you remember she is gone¿ 

[singular they for instants 

when i tell some a joke they laughs haha]

hoho you see like unto a god that flies up 

it is as a heron what lifts water at dawn 
rises into silhouettes
of maddened saccade beatwingxz
over perhaps Dresden or othermother
flaccid with potatoes

O those mericans and their exorcised lingua

shorn of antecedent at all opportunity
down to mere function
for why should one waste time 

with the waxing god when one can just ask straight 

out robot I fuck you now—if denied

move quickly on it is best for all
¿why flourish and perform why¿
get it out of your mouth quick
so it is over efficiently, without superfluity

without Greek or French

and with as little Latin 
as may be contrived
for language cleansed of excess
to clinic sex-negative utility is all atavism
of the expressive, sharp, decisive
nostratic and primal grunt such a height
such an idyll from which we fell and fall
thankful at last to the elbow in the teeth

of a pre-PIE Webster—little wonder they elasticize

& plasticize each into triphthongs
of unknowing, delighted, savoured necromancy

the reanimation of the banished the instinct empathy

for/with the slain or bootstamped facial zones.maybe 
then nothing is dead but still
from crevices
where the lost invisible god jumps up

(do you hear me when you sleep i have died?)

wordy, well word up

fuck you, he says with his dripping schticks, I am Nature

watch this car.keep watching

80 miles per hour face first into a tree he attempts

to become one again with Nature
but only succeeds in dying drunk
on a bright day dripping his most ambitious inevitable

no you ain't phoney no more, J


youse all murder in sunlight new york fuck


as they don't say in whales, there is a taid
in the affairs of men

and a god flies up


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