Рroportions of a giant in monument valley
inside the bottle with the ship
were several Drowned sailors
elegy acts on inward skies
what you imagine about radio waves
these elegant machines bend sinister
sentience itself, disordering of the senses,
sentimental disgust, disuse, unease
by palliative measures supply
sufficient echoes to eliminate our organs
scattered bones prove the date of the body
they are rexed beyond the farthest shoal
consumed by a mosaic, a forest of saltshakers
an obstinate minor puzzle
at my bidding everything is procedural
a relative view is counterintuitive,
journalism is not written by journalists
the diaspora was juggled, then slain
intercept a preferred designator
a kernal, a Trophy
low birth fashioned a hallmark swagger
to replace geometrical dreams with scant leviathans:
is this an improvement?
where is the life that later I led
how to account for the
strategems, in what I am weakest exemplify
I am departed, protean
twinned stick figures cut
up drawings with scissors, put
the pieces in their pockets,
confidence in shapes . . .
this picture is not very accurate
inner turmoil is as oblique as
how fair realism fares the objects
of its attention; externalized
or just compacted to
a fêted untouchable Vitamin doll
exception spines boundary
what kind of skirts are outskirts
a primitive, endangered mahogany mask,
a convict’s garb, soil cleared from weeds.
these teeth sown won’t become full grown:
prey talks foreign; heads hang in the halls.
habit is only two dimensional, as with any tool
barbarous cattle, drudgery of ammunition,
improper use of artificial blue collars
I died of foliage; I died of typed patterns on carbon paper;
I died of a chief delight. fare thee well, crackpot.
I break a sweat, the dish is still cold
read my Palm, do what it says
it’s time that we get up on all fours
rotten oasis
Treachery abounds, look
inwards! Your bird jangles its small
swing. You’re getting sleepy, very
sleepy. In a vulnerable tyranny.
Leave for now the marksmen to
their desolations, they ruin everyday
life. & luck can’t do anything
about the undying devotion of
the undead, putting their backs
to the bus shelter while
crumbs still stick to the dishes.
I guess someone is a king of France & apart
from whom nobody is a king of France. Same
rockstar, different poem. I like icons
& the toxic halos of figureheads, I like
to beat people up & rehash among the swan.
I was born in captivity, having
fucked the right people, thick
in the France of it. The uniform you
design may still be stripped & not in
some pleasant mannerism. I guess treachery
abounds & scruple keys the addresses
out of their shining wrappers. I guess gin
relieves the need for whiskey, I guess I
can think as well as talk. Come to
think of it, I spoke to your exo-
skeleton. It had been
sacked for cribbing a back salary
from your stunt double. I watched
you chewing & the human body
is a great mystery. Sun, look out for yourself.
Embody your own adaptation.
You’ve got no corner on fire
& marauders upbraid those
vehicles invisible to them.
Nobody is a king of France, licked
all over like a stamp, my every garbage at
the actual border,
making it, making it over, taking up the slack.
The bottle broke in your bag & you’re
getting flammable, very flammable. Luck
knows nothing, peels down
like a stocking & I
thought, why wait any longer,
& found myself caught in
the breast of the beast
as it staggered to carry
me up the stairs. His clothes are
dirty, but his hands are a sumptuous pyre.
What’s so perfect about a stranger,
the greasy smoke of being
swallowed up or disappearing.
I can’t carry the remainder.
