Soak it up, fucker
Insufficient utterances
betray unclear intentions
Varying degrees of impracticality
form sinuses along a spectrum
of chances
Right and left
these hand-maimed clocks
assemble ticks for the waiting
Idle Idle Idle Idle Idle Idle Idle
the earth itself is a Tick
sucking time through a straw
There is a hole in my straw
There is a hole in my stomach
Painless holes of the afternoon show
Soak it up fucker!
Brain Pickling is only one
of my many tacky fascinations
I move through vats of emptiness
and none can stop and search me
for I am stationary
I am fermenting
aspectually progressive action
Negative
I am ferment
A broken brass note heralds my stillness
I am curtailed of no proportion
I have no agency
for I demand no action
I
with my one-thousand-six hundred and sixty nine
serrated tongues
Declare this thought dismissed
Have I grown taller in my expectancy?
Or have I filed away at skulls with
Labor Limae
Sudden anger, quieted with song
Tomorrow
I will say
Everything I want to say
With perfect pitch.
Place Sœur Louise 16:04
And so you wait
unwound
In this unfinished painted world
Of sterile plans and pregnant fears.
Flying dutchmen, lounging martyrs
memorable defeats and honest parasites
You take your time
And you like to take your time
with the candle and the stomp
with the washing up
with the floating ideas and dentures
and the serpent heads
The homeostatic ballad
of forgetfulness and enterprise
and second suns
second chances
and second hand Moonlight
The song of severance
and artful sense
Command the choir to stop
And let the brasses hold their breath
Demand the winds play the string section
And mandolins to drum ahead
No one will hear
So you just wait
Just
you
Wait
Today you play the orchestra
tomorrow waves its wand
to halt the beat
Today can play you like a pipe
and blow you like a horn
‘Tis as easy as lying,
after all
The Veronese Riddle
(a translation from anonymous Veronese)
Kept before it all its oxen
ploughing alabaster fields
and had an alabaster plough
and a black semen sowed about.
La morta bfanir
U contadin disc a la gatt
La gatta, uè do fav?
La gatt s’ aggir e fa:
com ia mangià ca nan teng l dind?
Survive, defend yourself from that which they call peace
