1
Take me out of this mind that runs on appetite
And drinks of its own spit.
It rears its head on itself and then spins senselessly, illuminating its staggered seams
Regurgitated each time tighter
In an appendix of vowels not yet pronounced
2
I need a woman like I need a priest
To ex-conjure my demons
He is not unaware of what you do
I do not need a woman like I need a mother
My mother is the love that sees but knows when to show its countenance
Though it is rarely given
And though it still wasn’t love we sought sitting atop a rock on one of those islands
We couldn’t resist sitting it out for solace
He wasn’t unaware of what we did
And maybe it’s him now, from atop a rock
Playing the observer watching the shore break
I need a shore like I need a mother
To fracture my demons
Though it is rarely given
It breaks even all things from afar
I saw the cleft lip and bit harder
She carried with her a holy name
The name of a nameless divinity
Who plays the observer watching the shore break
3
She was my exorcist and in spite of that she was my possessor
With that, she was my balance epitomized in violence
Crowned in the quiet gesture
of an offer well-groomed and insured
Whatever she took out was traded for a few franc pieces.
I drip money like an exquisite chimp
I have no use for it, I sweat it out until I’ve slimmed down to the thick disease
Waking back in the prototype of the stance That plays an exorcism down
Who reaches in and finds the tape
Observing the time we saw the shore break
Dripping still-sweat, our crevices, the same
Like the books of El Enida, the same
The orgasm between the cushion, swept clean
Dripping stillborn, Stubborn to birth
A thick paste, what a life
4
sometimes there’s a coarse numbness
other times I want to beat the man who did this to me,
the same ever-present non-existennce that’s been chasing me as much as I have it all these years.
Because he looks at you as if he was looking up when he is in fact facing you
His head isn’t on the right way
And yet his eyes are well placed,
firm in his skull, on you at all times.
Weaving spiders do not come here – the end of a game in knots.
Knots that were subsided,
There was only one place to weave
And another to cover your head – A castle of the motherless, a castle in the forest
What was handed to bastards
I approach the angels one by one
to finally chose none
what joy now to see each fall before me
in death, in sacrifice
in dancing against our purgatoried parts.
He climbed to a sublime station
And later on, they will say he was raised
Reborn in Safran, in flesh, in robes too dense to wear
And in the nameless absolute,
A divine crooked line of broken Els, therein
In the name exconjured, therein
of a nameless divinity
Who plays the observer watching his sight stray and the deck break
5
The monkey mind’s mother was a doe
Who died on the seventh day of praxis.
The monkey mind was asked by an El to bow
But in its facets he did not find either the El within nor the El without nor did he find the El of the doe that had nurtured him all his life so he held on.
The monkey mind held on, always listening and seeing with knowledge.
I wanted to write about it but I never did
It wasn’t out of spite, I kept it with me
And everything else I did was to fix it
Any purpose higher or blanket substance
All the roundabouts I could go until feeling sick
Well now I’m sick or maybe it was earlier
Earlier even I was still warm inside
I wanted to write about it but I never did
6
I feel alone with the gods
It’s a slow day
but it’s better to drink.
Isolation is a gift
moving me into a slow night
giving me time
cocooning me into perfect laughter.
On the lowbrow, you got your tenement tenants with their tenement smiles
And then the birds, pigeons
with their euphoric melodramas heard twice over before noon
low-class replica lovers whose hearts all eventually melt into constellations of
“fuck” that pile up at their doorstep.
“Give me time”
After all these years, time is on a swing. Time is on my side.
It’s a trickle-down law where nothing really happens
We must walk down echoing whatever we can and say the raindrops will miss us
Like a bull on mad cow’s disease
Slipping through his own cracks
Agoraphobic after ripping through it
Like the first bite of a ham sandwich
What decortication of his hammered parts
He needed softened
And rectified as meat
Like a Bull with mad cow’s disease
Loving through the severed lovelies
7
Three wounds on his side, three lines on his Brow
“Inhabitants of a behavioral sink
Polished just enough to hide the layer of phlegm”
It winds its head and ripples of every move that itself: ripples of every move.
Neither by time nor by design, he devours his own tail, hyper-active
Saying to him “Fisher king, fisher king”
Pressing and choking out what was him own
Is now his feed, mouth splayed open
Is now the crowd what makes him smile
Is no longer a fool, the longer the fool
A triton-basilisk whose teeth extend far below the belt
Hyper-active and hyper-sexual
Bulging with the pain dryly washing out your remnants
I am that I am
that I am your remnants,
the sweat built up in the crevices of your back when you lie on your stomach
I am only the remnants that you wouldn’t guess
And will be pulled apart from bits of flesh
To make a bigger chicken
8
I grew up on corn culture
Most of what we drank was cheap and like gasoline
It all tasted of corn and puke never bothered the ones retching it
“I prefer dark beer”
The old grandfather, closeted son of a bitch
Most Europeans are fun to be around
And Central Europe was always at arm’s length
A clasp away until you bit your tongue
And sprained your joints, green with chivalry
Perchance to dream?
Only if my eyes are sewn shut
And my mouth splayed open like a cunt
I need mandibles again
We came into the womb blind with fever
Pecking for an irreconcilable fourth
Though a third was never far, nothing was pocketed
We took for given and so were thieves
We reached out but only just enough
Remaining seated with flailing limbs
We couldn’t reach it the same way twice
And he who knew came and chopped our stalks doing so three times
Leaving way for an irreconcilable fourth
Who plays the observer lying in wait
Watching the shore break
9
I ve started countless thoughts with “here’s the thing”
There is none, there never was exactly
What can I say?
I am a hollow behemoth with my legs spread wide open
The lead-up was only a strife to say so
There was something to be looked at
And we gawked, never looking for Troy nor waiting for Godot.
We set out to make chimeric what was initially only cylindrical and blasphemous
We bent it all out of shape
And along with the keys it lies in wait
Touching itself, warm and spared
Leaking in the face of absence, the seven coils of the snake and the exalted dove saying: We should be home by now
Christ went bald and there was nothing he could do about it
born of forty thousand years
Into the senselessness to know
There is a testament still to reprise
Sat between the thorns, the looping crown
He presses his nose against the floor
And feels the weight of all of his worshipped Els on his back
Letting them converge on the tip of his nose
Which breaks at the sight of ___
