I’d rather be asocial if Aran Tron’s going to be there. I mean, I’d be ashamed to see you hitch your decorous belly’s epicurean car — my own more assonantly edacious one, too, il va sans dire — to the caboose of assiduous gluttony lunch at Utressa will surely entail if he’s the atrabilious one stoking the fire and stirring the pot and generally attending to the Augean fodder of that audacious cha’abran — no matter what aesthetic coast-mountain prospect our astringent voire intrigant maître d’ will have opted to set us athwart.
Like Io for Zeus. Well, in that case, count me in! I wouldn’t miss it for all the — what’s the opposite of red?
I align the drudgerous tropes, x, y, z,
such that what they share may be sound, sentiment,
theme, or whatever — thus, a hole dans mon cœur
will rhyme with the irksome brêche in the same rock
face of my soul to which the dull orchid clings
cryptically disguised from root to corolla
as a jagged mottled lichen-covered crack
and only the most undeluded eye can
spot the heart-shaped petals, the dangling racemes.
Primary rhymes rotate on a hollow hub
from which the spokes of sentiment radiate
and lock into and support the durable
rim of the wheel of the poem as it rolls
over the rocks trundling to the rhythmic pulse
whose heart is the axle whose bearings are blood.
Your lap first, or mine, backward, forward, or both? O, ye olde sodomystical sign Thou Backward God sealed our limber primate’s too oft-despisèd fate with da capo ad cloaca da capo ad cloaca in an infinite cancrine rondeau of introrse conid cardioids!
Meanwhile, about a foot’s worth of clean turgid Maori amori (I pluralize on account of its flaccid heft, its turgid sufficiency) grinds into me like a long multitagmatic word indolently snaking clean through the turgid underbrush of a flaccid phrase, sentence, paragraph, chapter, entire book!
It moves rolling my rolling depths. Oh, my you! My I! Yet fear rolling in orbit around the squeaky wheel of shame —
The ravaged infamy of shame, and the fear of shame, and the shame of fear — from those ravaged depths, do I ravish you, my any, my more, my only.
Unattended, propped against a bollard along the path of the journey of life, a crossbow, loaded and cocked, no owner in sight — which of us will grab, aim, and shoot, and which, be target for this unattended engine of painful though relatively instant transport to some other unexpected path?
Just a small dart, nothing more, shot from Kāma’s crossbow of little journeys bound in a quiver and called, in toto, “life.”
They are the emotional weavers of that enduring sympathy between moon and emotion, the enduring emotional tide that compels the brows to knit and needle above the eyes that reveal and perceive us.
Whatever elementary they is is some elementary other. The moon in its element of enduring orbit, showing always the same essential eye, the same basic brow, despite the fundamentally curved needle the crepuscular surgeon of cyclic endurance uses, like a virtual rhapsodist, to suture night to day every 28 elementary units or so of same.
The acanaceous seedworld of time pierces with one of its barbed spikes the brambly moment at the stilliform center of which prickly chaos reigns like an echinated rock which is the municated pericarp of the very thing we started with.
In the drunk world, drunken chaos reigns. The drunk moment pierces the drunk rock with its drunken point of, yes, something we, in our drunkenness, find difficult to call anything other than “time.”
Tu me lèses and the ivy coil of blood wells from the mystic valley’s schizomythic pit, entwining hips that beckon with the eternal melos e artes of their voiceless thrall. This drippy portal’s ruin is a sacred site.
The existential entrance to the subjective site où tu me lèses aussi would pinch the child that silently trespassed it. Existence is a frivolous bulge in the sacred valley, no matter how crafty, how musical the voiceless prose would paint it.
Giant stallions flank the carved portal. They ambush the unwary with their raging giant phalli spewing the glabrous flame of their semence gibbeuse. Ç’avance, ton roman gigogne?
Tight stratagem of the titillating seed. Tight door the serried horses rampant guard. Thus the burning book retracts into the fictive flame of its own titillating rage.
And so death, its head full of calumnious calculations, creeps about on its pedestrian volars, bowing its calumnious face towards its calculous feet.
That is an inspiring bow of an image of death! Always something repulsive — yet why not, from its face to its feet, its head to its soles — attractive, inspiring, seductive même?
The scary pause flags me with its scary eye.
The autumnal pose eyes the various insignia of autumn. You know the list.
The breathing master points out the suffocating sign of Io in the choked off sky.
Day three, cunning you. I’ll stay a while, says cunning me.
How many thirds inhabit the purple day? Purple triads abide from dawn to dawn or dusk to dusk, depending on where one marks the day’s purple terminii.
In the rough hollow of the universe, on the rough banks between which rough evil flows and carves a space for itself, we too take up space, use it, exhaust it for our own rough ends.
Walking evil in the wrong universe. Wrong slope of the wrong concavity walking the space we define, rightly or wrongly, à tort ou à raison, as us.
The sound of horns and reeds ehcoes through the pale chasm walls. Crashing cancelling rebounding warped and muted against the pale silver limestone above, pale golden sandstone below.
Unfortunate conchs with silver mouthpieces they blow, and the unfortunate whine of some oboe- or bassoon-like thing, its high-pitched whine rising golden above the unfortunate silver drone of the canyon, its walls canted all wrong against the music’s highs and lows deny any melodic sense to the ear at all.
Each annoying tomb bespeaks the annoying hope that some annoying power might allow, even command, that the annoying flesh retain its annoying form for all of annoying eternity.
Eternity is arbitrary, as is each grave. Arbitrary. How might, and why should, the arbitrary form of the arbitrary flesh be retained, ever, under any circumstances?
We fork together like two convulsive furry hooks.
We hook together like two palpably convulsive forks.
The phallic tubular heat of your king-sized organ of phallic love slips so lovingly lovely between my phallus-loving love lips.
The glittering tubular heat of your glittering lips envelops me, castles my glittering king with your glittering rooklips.
C’informiamo (we inform ourselves or each other) of the paltry poetry involving some rimo infamo (infamous rime) tra l’animo firmo (between the firm mind) e gli orfani immobili (and paltry apodal orphans).
To master him with intimate hands, dog him with the boat of intimate mastery.
Insensate hands of the master. Insensate dogs in the insensate boat.
With a cast-off man on a cast-off path I am cast-off and giving him cast-off head.
The physical road of the physical man is the physical head I give her.
Sort of how rocky D. I. Swopes circles the rocky spoils of him or herself.
Special circle of the special prey D. I. Swopes is especially fond of circumambulantly stalking.
As entertaining to me as you, the entertaining breath I whisper.
You take my trunky breath away.
Our guide, limp with rage, leads us past the limb bollards and up the limp stone steps.
A more intimate rage, methinks. Intimate stairs and intimate stones and intimate guide, fair Mona.
Different eyes mourn a different cad. Bravo! May different tears and different spittle slime and sully and dribble from different chins.
As for death, I say, Let’s drink d’abord! Cava, rum, scotch, morat — whatever! Let acrylic eyes weep acrylic tears, and acrylic chins besmirch themselves with the acrylic, meaning, e.g., ersatz, or, even better, hypocritical, foam, but we — let’s drink!
Does the eye actually perceive, or the brain arbitrarily interpret, that pale bank of sky against horizon, pocked with heat, while higher and darker, rimed with frost?
Against the black branches, the shepherd’s dark silhouette is almost white. Animal shadows too in the moonlight seem paler than the black forms they trail.
Does the deceitful shepherd fool the honest animal, or do the wily beasts outwit the innocent shepherd? Shadows in the moonlight or not, only the forest’s dark boughs know the pale truth.
We all, inevitably, dwell in the public consequences of public schemes. Pubic schemes?
Such tired devices that tired thoughts furnish their tired schemes with, as if the tired effects live better outside the tired means than in. Tried means, tied effects?
Important creatures like us find bliss in the blessed sphere of important space they occupy.
Creatures as motile as she or me participate in, and create, their (our) own mordant bliss, take blessed capacious bites out of the mordant, motile sphere of existence.
Yet, no matter what we do, it seems as if the daily dragon of quotidian toil crouches on the sagging nape, its powerful daily wings hang heavy on the powerless shoulders. Flight is futile.
Such particularly metaphorical conceptions of the particular burden of labor’s past is outdated. As if work were a foil or failed instrument of the winged dragon of the particular power one feels surging up through the shoulders and past the nape when engaged in doing anything in particular. The heavier the burden, the tighter the coil!