Monday, May 07, 2007

From Thirsty Poems (last work)


in there

codex:
in there is the rustle, the rustle is the bait, the vortice.
on leaves, what’s left of storm, weeps on veins.
open up the vista, let billowing go bellowing.
creatures, I am obsessed with obscene, impossible, creatures.
in there is all we have left to work on
with, where my intention monkey-shined with the happening.

dalmated polkadots dance archipelagos on the parquet


1.
in there is the rustle, the rustle is the bait, the vortice.
from the twitching bough, extrapolate my twitching heart.
where the hind’s hindquarters draw you in.
berry factories burn off the fuel that they can cobble together.
are you intrigued yet, are you, are you intrigued?
in there there is another chance to spree, to see.

emasculated transvestites prance amiably in civvies

2.
on leaves, what’s left of storm, weeps on veins.
you heave! you retch! you tight! you ululate!
not too much to go on for the weather detective.
nice to see the system throbs as much as it misses a beat.
come by, stop by, drop in and see me, see:
in there must also accept the courtship of what’s out there.

crewing key-hands jig in full in jerseys

3.
open up the vista, let billowing go bellowing.
the claustropheme tells us more about the internal exiles.
it’s a happiness of sheets to the wind in starch.
hoping the thorn will end, the root give way, the clearing!
I went too far to the west, too near to the east,
in there sported a plume that swished against the enclosure.

hardened helicopters jitterbugged jealous territories

4.
creatures, I am obsessed with obscene, impossible, creatures.
how can we talk of outer space when we know not our inner space?
in the colony the distended abdomens must be groomed, kept cleaner.
the vaulting is the cavorting mixed up with an arachnid.
I am the piteous mask pressed up against the gorse bars
in here there are so many options its all left out to go stale.

left handed lepers plier into a pile and cry

excess:
in there is the rustle, what’s left of the storm, billowing, impossible creatures.
how can we talk of outer space when we know not our inner space?
it’s a happiness of sheets to the wind in starch.
nice to see the system throbs as much as it misses a beat.
from the twitching bough, hindquarters draw fuel that they can cobble together.
in there is all we have left to work on
in there is another chance to spree, to see
in there must also accept the courtship of what’s out here
in there sported a plume that swished against the enclosure
in here there are so many possibilities:

polkadot, transvestites, key-hands, helicopters, lepers.
the dance, the prance, the jig, the jitterbug, a ballet.
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