outtakes of distant sidewalks, noir

streetlights editing suggestion.

suggesting what exactly?

the average value of a snow event to a

snowflake & the forced symmetries of

a populous.

where it all evens out, as long as they

make it through.

nearer than perfection, someone wears

a purple & gold Venetian Jester Mask.

carefully observing the tracks of bicycle

tires--that resemble spines.

a boogeyman coated in moths assigns

each a person.

then boils deep blue milk--to digest

nightlights.

as he poses for sin at three a.m, in a

mansion of closets.

the life force of mustiness screaming

trespass, outed by storage's: no more

room!

our boogeyman makes himself belong.

muffles claws in shoeboxs--an

open mouthed simpleton's birthnights.

drip-dropping drool, the way a faucet

taunts a drain.

romping about as a ball of clothes, a

vintage-scented orbit highlighted by

his solar plexus.

the thrill of being discovered!

as he fantasizes of donating his brain to

science--the opened halves of his

bedtime story.

at death, life is relived--all of it.

we've died so many times that even if

each previous death were a hand clap,

that would easily constitute a lifetime.

near-death experiencers sing of a few

minutes that seem like a few hundred

years.

that's what occurs when eternal presence

toes linear time again.

it's to compute that crossover, what three

minutes of clinical death would be

relativistically quantified to.

the hard numbers would whiten hair.

imagine how many earth-years one

spends on the otherside between

incarnations.

those figures are for poets.

a wunder flute snapped

like a twig--a hole's universal

holes of air.

frenetic enough for music to

chase out sound, around  a

journeyer carried on the far

side of grazing herds.

poppy-wreathed, sending

himself away to receive what

stays.

as angels that fear to tread

follow behind.

black collars pulled upward--a cold

confessional's steady clip.

a pouncy underneath-it-all making

for dark corners.

as observant been-theres liken public

privatude.

unattached to distance, the way of the

walk becomes more cathartic.

wet nostrils raw enough to smell city

lights.

a den waits & will change with what

returns.

no doubt shreds will be made of any

blessing & curse that try to cohabitate.

I astrally projected to the flat depth of a

specified sky--emptied out with upturned

eyes.

saw lightning come down like a cracked

body.

I heard no-sky move & the earth sink.

electric ants colonized me back to my

feet, on forest ground starving for dead

company--as the living lag between:

let there be light.

there was the same crack of lightning

that passed through me.

the supine speed of itself on snow,

motionlessly making brilliances more

exceptional.

turning snow ashen by comparison.

my awestruckness took longer ways out

of me to approach it.

as if reaching down repeated the initial

impulse to touch it--which felt like

translucently warm skin fresh between

worlds.

it was to hold an imaginal hand more

real, all-knowingly possible.

all the way home--I held a blinding let go,

I couldn't let go of.

the plan was to stay up all night & look at

it with the lights out.

there's a tower for every watcher,

you're not the only one that sees--

i mean right from where you see.

forget behavior modification reduced

to paranoia-- you're observationally

angulated to a star.

you & a priest may stroll around a dim

screen in your minds, while the priest

guesses who you are.

just as a guard may be picking at his

cuticles while the necks of prisoners

needlessly tingle.

what is it that feels watched--from

genitalia to 665 secrets cutting a key for

the next & last?

the Panopticon creates a surveillance

pressure cooker--which's rudimentary

compared to the supernatural.

it's this film viewer's obsession, this film

viewer's established meditation--what

was captured before his birth.

when film entered into a covenant with

consciousness--the dream became lucid.

immortality is no longer a leap of faith,

corporeality is what makes cameos--not

the viewer.

I Am acutely drawn into footage

before my birth--i look for myself & am

everywhere.

somehow more familiar than myself,

then wonder if i was out there as

someone.

swept into colored footage of Manhattan's

bustle one hundred years ago, how its

pace bursts through slowed fluxes--where

all film is posthumous.

one would have to view nothing but one

frame lapsing into another, & still miss

its breadth.

how can one view film with

consciousness & not see through it all?

motion revisited a happening,

as it happened again--for the

first time.

the sun's scythe cut into view,

black came to black rest in the

space of its blade.

as the grainy wield of film had

Venus' head.

it can only be called hell after the fact--

it's impossible to entertain otherwise.

so what the hell is hell to you then--that

takes too much energy.

art imitates nothing, you can't even

pay respects to yourself.

as inertia's demoralizing vigil goes from

you laying there--to watching yourself

lay there, when being that body is too

much.

back & forth--totally indifferent to that

back & forth ever again.

seasons are a knocked over lamp, a

collapsed shade--a meal tasted in parts.

after-weathers.

a bed & a hovering vitality,

superintelligently breaking down

Zoloft.

finding yourself in the shower & realizing

there are basic steps.

that light hurts--not as it would a

vampire, but one late to its call.

caked in something earthier than mud--

you could taste it & it's sickening.

light not the absence of, dark not the

absence of--just absence.

as if overnight you say: now I'm going to

take physical paralysis for a walk.

it was advanced age at eighteen years old.

it knows everything about you, you are

made to know how it feels.

a ******* dog

locked out of a mirror--

let out a threshold's

whoof.

Manson's warlock

gobbledygook played

backwards--viscera's

whoof!

a neighborhood's

vacancy intruded--

drifted by like

lubracative film over

eyes.

winter cerulean

searching for blue.

mammalian cheese of subway system

heating--lysergic rails & drilled cavities

to gurgle-boings.

media frenzy lightning of boxcar

undertakers.

next stop.

where flouncy tiled walls are the

annihilatory scanners of a famed minute.

cleared for broken elevators that require

one to actively participate in what their

lonely height means.

then Canadian air fumigates the near

miss of a gigantor"s back door supper.

steaming creme of city beastliness,

right outside well-into-the-night's cave.

the snow we received seemed to put all

its effort into indenting an unfinished

paragraph.

something about depressed levity &

footprints.

which called for Chopin's: Nocturnes--

that flapped with yellow caution tape.

which sectioned off a massive burial

mound of Christmas trees, heaped

individualities brushed white in a

parking lot.

how memorably Chopin played to their

lying positions, clean cut stumps sticking

out from weighted litheness.

cut, dressed, posed & tossed--the

overstayed welcome of hysterical

merry making.

one could almost see every single pine

needle in the scent they parted with.

Chopin knew just how to reach them

with his sensitive phrasing, getting into

those frigid hollows awaiting pickup.

purgatory is going to be sick on its path,

unable to hold down being used.

they all end up there, where?

purgatory doesn't even know.

it's the heaviness of their visualizations,

the present's crushing half-light.

so purgatory is a banished overseer, that

has no substance save for their

visualizations.

black & white images struggling in

swampish murk--with brilliantly vivid

gasps.

people, places or things one thinks

they've committed to memory suffer

this--I myself get high off that spookiness.

spy purgatory stray from its path like a

doomed Romantic.

I visualize our back brick wall facing the

garden at night--with the certitude no one

is observing it.

the crept summonings that strain to see

as above ground, so below.

does the impish rush I get--lay into its

brick, alter its stalemated energy?

I know so.

a: cry-me-a-master Steinway was raised

up by a streetlight.

sharply concentrated as a protractor's

return starting point.

whose pressed encompassment shows

through, hours after lights out.

hotly bright on the Steinway's black hood

like a cow's patch.

as its shutaway keys rammed defiantly--

with reverberant bangs that bang

themselves.

aftermath's overintellectualization.

then someone that knew someone, that

knew Charlie Chaplin--skipped him into

frame.

where he stood his cane on the sidewalk

& pelted the Steinway with mothballs, for

good luck.

there it was, flatly suspended from the

streetlight--a musical ear's eclipse.

pantomimed sounds.

chi brought food & form was martialed--

feet struck, feet said: asphalt, feet said:

seawater.

as such a walk harnessed its entirety

before it began.

while feathers left birds on this or that

note, to touch pressure points of air.

whole symphonic collapses of earth thru

the blind conveyance of an obstacle

course.

the flexibility of weirdness is not a

parking sign peeping out of an

unstoppable tree trunk.

it's how that megaphone of pain acts as

a leyline.

reverse momentum knocking underfoot--

built-in everywhere.

loosed catapulsions on the verge of eyes--

these.

see just short of a walk's conclusion, the

side of a bush blow open.

exposing a few branches--one more

deafening than the other.

'I thought I saw something', is all she

sees--as moonlight, so her shine moves

indirectly.

the heightened allowance of two trees

appear as if they escort a satyr from

cover.

while he steps forward wearing a biege

trench coat, like Robert Stack from:

Unsolved Mysteries.

horns as rogue branches deformed by

blows to cycles, the dance-broken

amorata of his crown.

an ancient boyishness layered over by

sudden curdles.

deepset overread eyes, ruthlessly

sideways with a goat's revelation--

cheekbones defined enough to anticipate

a fish's pucker.

outlied by a copper-colored beard, thick

with nervous curls as of the rest of his

body.

his hooves' harsh prints moist-test the

mud.

he stands there bracing for the cellular

shock treatment of ringing a colossal

doorbell, not knowing why.

he is as he does--which are two things:

step forward from two trees & back, with

no memory to offer contrast.

Selbst the satyr doesn't know he's dead.

as holiday lights are relegated to festivus,

or the process of elimination--the eyeing

discomforts of the last to go.

there's evening air traffic--which implies

congestion, accurate in the sense that a

plane brings the sky with it.

a double negative, straightening out how

it should sound--from how it sounds.

the outdistance of a thing that shouldn't

be there, that's nothing but there.

the spiking rondure of a printless blurb

from reel to reel, as spot-on

abandonments of sky.

sky--the unabandoned.

where does that leave the hearer?

upon hearing the magnificence of

counterintuition upon hearing.

ice too is structured, I have witnessed its
appalling unbrokeness for longer than I
care to recall.
as with the guiding principles of
silverware, conversation should follow.
any misapplication would be as rude as
one cut off midsentence.
the mark of polite society is cultivated facade without imposition, hitchless
ritualism.
****** muscles uncramped of miseries,
poise is how stock is measured.
yet there's Michelangelo's: David, even
more poised with his pecker's forbidden
talking point.
tonight we exchange the currency of one
year for another--as the fog goes about its
yellow life.
no yellower than these so tight-lipped
about teeth.
the first time it happened, tobacco smoke
stratified layers of breath, cologne & perfume--letting fall delinquent unwash.
they all spoke at once, their features grew till they were competing panoramas.
as if they continually crawled out & came
for me with their airless truths.
how I learned to see with one eye, use the
opposite hand natural to me, balance on
one foot--to disalign with their choreography.
I increased that split second, I lingered upon it, caught others stitch a seam.
I saw the easeful converse of skulls make
stark headway, stiffly tolerant of arms left
raised in toasts.
the polished hatred of servants complimentary with movement & stationariness.
fool, martyr, poet--isolate any of the above & I will be indistinguishable from them.
it is I who lowered my guard, not they--throwing my nerves into the pools of impregnable circles.
hard at the art of hearsay, a one to one with a King--one with no dynastic
trickledown.
I drank from that chalice on New Years Eve--white flannel trousers rolled up.
masticated peach in my stomach, my ankles cuffed by a shoreline's puzzle piece.
splashed in the face by a mermaid's tail,
as to revive me from an undreamt year.

an elderly woman on the upper east side

leaves a red ring around a baby carrot

while gnoshing.

imagining Matisse cutting up fauve

confetti in his wheelchair, while he rolls

backward on a promenade.

then she lazily gropes at her neck,

observing a touristy swash--primed for

the annual rigging of Newtonian physics.

a man stands stern as 86,400 condolences
in front of a Grandfather Clock.
he resembles Lloyd the Barber from:
"The Shining"--except for mustachio &
monocle, a leather whip in his right hand.
dressed up to the nines for his
sadomasochistic relationship with time.
the pent-up tension of its purposeful
waste, excited him to no end with its
insightful extravagances.
the heightened state of foregoing all
possibility, rides the penultimate crack of
a whip.
oceanically wrought drops of milk &
honey--pelvic ache in-between no two
points.
the adrenaline dump of worlding an
infinitely broken silence--over & over &
over.
surviving deferments of dust in an edenic matchbox, quavering to hear--holy make the round of holies.
until sweat shines his shoes & the whip's
floored by undulance.
as his fire belly newt: Gozer, singles out from a camouflaged environ to be fed.

at nearby train stations purple lights

were installed on platforms--which

further mystifies locality.

astronomical figures are a given, but are

grossly underutilized.

wait for it...wait for what?

every sound is the echo of another sound,

no sound is forgotten--neither is silence.

canines & felines hear each other's

hearing.

this sip of coffee is a brew for every

grain--the aftertaste of individual

conjurings, whose compaction is like

pastless deja vu.

or these hands that wear a cold draft to

the wrist, the rise & fall of phantom

gloves.

left palm indented by a spiral notebook,

right hand holding a: ProHealth pen with

two spotty contact numbers & an

address.

gratis pen omitting impertinent

information, while writing of it--sort of

like a loosely based fractal.

do these walls overthink me as I think

over them, while playing egg hunt with

the five senses?

an imaginary friend finds all five,

each with cracks that appear as if

painted.

the prehistoric glacial kettle pond sat

there like a sorceress--her bent mirror

pulled at your guts.

bored by the freezing spell--as one would

a predictable lover, her twisted mood

kept ice on ice.

the wetness of cruel enticements blew

blue smoke over its humiliated

seriousness.

as the afternoon paraphrastically

butchered a Bible verse, mallards

untaped their bills in gaseous protest.

the treed hills that sunk at the sight of

her, resounded a chopping block

earthiness.

then a schmear of seagulls undid their

bony gate, as for insurance purposes

above.

when a bench's favorite bench took down

sunset's late cancelation.

Dostoevsky's nerves were a massive

plasma globe poked at by surplus genius.

a spidery fry in a garbled clump of

hypersensitivity--to unrealized

characters.

the crystalline dryness of St. Petersburg

snow taken from the top--unremittingly.

as a depressurized silence sounds a ******

miles long.

Fydor's thumping fireplace, blinkered by

tight flashes.

Icarian quill cocked & expressly warning

at the dangers of his deep sleep.

a bevy of notes strewn about, for the

benefit of a sympathetic reader--if he/she

should discover them.

notes that safeguard against a premature

burial, his uncontrollable: Taphophobia.

that he should be allowed three or four

days to sleep off death--before actual

interment.

wide water broke in white tones--a baby

is somewhere in there.

kicking around down there, twinkling up

there.

surrounded by animals telling him they

were once human.

his father is good with his hands, but

never touched his mother the way other

fathers touch other mothers.

wisdom in white tones, a few men were

moved in place--to find what was already

found in him.

he could smell the body odor of

centurions far differently than his

parents & the animals that surrounded

him, their scent made him convulsively

weep.

then out of those white tones emerged a

breast, also bursting with milk.

followed by the prolonged musculature

of a porcelain like serpent.

with fibrous cracks scraping to its mouth

as it bit onto a ******.

a ******* invisibility--except for the

blood running from its eyes, with every

gulp of milk.

as if to mock his mother, with maternal

evil.

there it was--verdance under snow.

its geographies of memory, passively

unrecollected.

tapped into by charged revelers,

drained from the outset by expectation.

the specialness of once a year waits

around for all to go well--very well.

yes--there was verdance under snow,

that seemed to gloat.

the cold is never present, to say it's

a complete absence implies it has been

present.

though the obvious must be stated--it's

cold out there.

which sounds like the telepathy of

corpses.

even so--I put out some leftover

cornbread from Thanksgiving for the

birds, was meaning to ever since.

they must eat my sister's thoughts, now

that it's the eve of Christmas Eve.

what's more, the back of my fridge can

preserve a brighter white.

a part of me believes winter birds are

"out there" at night, do as cold does.

couple that with preholiday inner

monologues & we might have something.

silver tinsel combers...garner the stagey
magnetism of a bloated rock.
white with premadonna
enmities--a voice of mint tea.
burnt cold to the aureole of an angel--
that chews a piece of straw blown off a
seaside manger.
walking into a darkened audience--
as wind's follow through too numb to
taste salt, spreads it.
under the crackles of tires and feet, going to the head of deader stretches.
to the whelming twenty-one grams of each holiday light, save for weightlessness.
alighting against windows that respirate a scene.
where a current of air made by an originless movement greets a red candle--
its flame does not recognize.

colors of the undwelt, the violence of
letting go--read in the expression of flesh.
hidden away in garbage, forests, coffins--
right now.
as on this day dying so young.
the mourned as the mourner bore away--
to gradually put to light that moment again.
it feels as though spirits deplete nothingness to get at a moment that's
its own.
their powers of observation seem to command: look still, look still, look still!
if direction is traffic's singular will, &
motion is salvation--imagine if motion stops short of what has come to pass.
it would be as if spirits realized they were
breathing for no reason.
that there are far more delicate balances
held therein.
it's as if darkness becomes more of light than ever, & light becomes more of darkness than ever.
right when polarities are most distinct, they assume the other polarity through
relinquishment.

your mustache became your

mouth's permanent hibernation--

"Thus Spoke Zarathustra"

no more.

your brows fell down on your

cartoonishly crossed eyes, fighting

to get a last good look at you.

as if a cradle's starry

revolutions counted you out.

your snowed in smock neatly tucked

in for posterity.

your sister's doting hands trailing off.

to where that mare waited in a flurry of

blows--so it could saddle your mind.

the ground palms darknesses & pours

it over my head--it shouldn't be so

easy to forget a name.

think an impromptu baptism with

shades on.

it's how one sticks out to another

world--a monolithic displacement,

undeniably there.

always prepared to say a few words

about the body's warmth...

followed by: I wanted you to have this.

he knows it as something emotions

are herded into--like savage first contact.

that blurs to protect identity, blocky

skintones discombobulating

b movie shame.

highjacked without being plastered

everywhere.

or the naked motions that play catch-up

behind glass shower doors, as if wrestling

with a dagger.

not necessarily protecting identity--but

what comes after it.

much like initial snow that stalls right

above the ground--for an entire winter.

to be walked through with the fragile

care of floating styrofoam.

so gravity can anticipate itself & maybe

understand.

all beholders see beauty now--

in an eyeball.

the gods were entertaining, there it was

like a mint after an imperial feast.

with more presence than a whole body.

it can blink once for yes, & twice for no--

if only to break up omniscience.

it is swaddled in mulbery silk, that

creases complexity smoothened to

simplicity & back again, as in a wakeful

sleep.

a gift placed in a self-luminous white box,

more benevolently pensive than milk.

whose fourfold hatch will unbox, to see

what was seen in it.

could you love an eyeball?

the fog tweaked its percentage of

visibility--as if to pull London across the

pond.

on my left periphery, headlights turned

black rails into a sudden downpour of

spaced glints.

elegance without inclemency.

further down, the upper floors of a lofty

apartment building wore the unreadable

glow of a mothership.

its discursive headway of private agendas

contra-fog.

then fog contra-smokescreen, carpe

noctem coordinates of drones following

suit.

as if high strangeness stooping to our

level--the field's too unfied for that.

nonentity's curvature won't

return from its hermetic seal.

moved to envelopement.

as someone turning a corner,

that you'll never see again.

its depth & volume wound all the

way (an unknown).

despite this side of its curvature

making it so (a known).

something among billions of six

senses coincide to keep it both

sealed & unsealed.

curvature canceled out--shelved.

I eat for three, I must be showing--they take care to plump me up with elite takes on food-a.
*******, dust, ****, *****, glass, staples, *****--you know.
a pizzazz that heaps years on to their vidas,
finally cutting the key to the teeth of their monsters.
I see those glued to the veil, struggle like flies to avoid what I singlehandedly spawned.
A hatred that runs so deep it almost comes out as love, the potentency of its vacuum is unmatched.
I know how many thorns are on the crown, fashionably so--like any good dramatis personae, I try it on.
the wrists & feet are a bother of fixity, I'm still spreading my gospel--no Paul, just three of a kind.
I have been dutifully informed that I am a danger to myself & others, that I will most likely spend the rest of my natural life in confinement...
"for the criminally insane" is too long-winded, I prefer: behind bars.
I may be a danger to myself in here, I've endangered many out there, & there are some for whom danger is over.
These are but minor logistics, I offer them such a prismatic sacrifice, a darling rarity to be carried out like a festive procession.
I Am: The Who's Who, whose seasons will never be canceled--I Air.
I Am a slow cult suicide--I run the risk of rays, I encircle before they encircle.
I will  encircle them once more, as all good things come in threes my friends.
You must know that I've abstracted them in blackout blood all over these padded walls, like Francis Bacon's studio.
his murderers' kit of paintbrushes clotted & snapped, forgotten in turpentine.
I would rather they do it to themselves, think of one buying rope for the purpose of straightening up a tree--only to **** up its posture with their weight.
hanging there with burdensome repetition, ******* by proxy.
they've all gone limp with oppression, they know not what they do.
I must whittle down three possible outcomes: Nicholson's Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will commit professional suicide by sampling the flesh of his underlings like hors d' ouevres.
Ledger's Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will separate a blade from its handle, into Three of a Kind--
will commit ******.
Phoenix' Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will commit suicide.
well...from Gotham to urban areas all over the world, iconography of: "Three of a Kind" is handed out & sold.

I can't hear the voice in my head, because I affected changes in the way I spoke since I was able to manipulate its medium.
I never thought about it--another incarnation just toyed with my vocal chords.
as if my foundation knew it would tilt what sat on it.
I was compelled to make sure that I would never know myself, its origin hissed like pissy holy water.
all the rest that crank out humanity would revise their approach to fiction because of me.
it was never enough for me to know that I too am God, I could never share my image, yes--my image!
of jellybeans & colored time capsules,  let me dissolve in this sugar cube!
I'm astonished that I was unhanded by so many once touched, they will thus feel the chills of my mania without the ability to shiver.
this will dull them with empty-handed inspiration, they won't be able to walk through deep-freezes of cloud to ground lightning.
how the psychologists circle-**** to me,
I really want to symptomatically convince them out of their misery.
I lower my gotcha-green head like a worry sick Madonna for them, all this superfluousness authenticates my unknowable selves.
now to my voices, how do they sound in my head you might ask--well who's asking?
I talk to & at my selves, so the voice is most certainly vexed--but in a whiney & nasally way.
it's an exorcise/exercise in futility to describe, nonetheless...I always sound like what I'm looking at, I can sound like a chair.
It's all the voices inside that do this--they don't like company so they become it, anything external basically.
it's reflexive & creatively fruitful, you should hear the voices in my head during vows of silence--they both regurgitate & originate.
I'll gift that can of worms to the head, head-shrinker...picture channeling a phone book into the ear of a whitehole.
I can speak in an assertively calculated voice on a slippery *****, that gains the footing of trust, I favor that one.
I also do famous serial killers when I'm most peaceful, it helps to fertilize the soil.
I need to cultivate one for the books, premiere it right here--the egregore of this
eyeless capstone.
I gouged it out in plain sight--I have a voice for that too.

Joker is confined at Arkham State Hospital--he's an amalgamation of: Nicholson, Ledger, Phoenix.
the essence of these portrayals will fluctuate as would a possession.
the following will be written with all three in mind (no specification)--the reader is free to infer which, there is no incorrect imagining in this case of psychosis.
greener to the pasture hair, cropped short & feathered on the right side--shoulder length scraggles, that stream oil from a receding hairline on the left.
**** pillow-talk padded walls, an experimental recording studio--millenia of disassociative voices.
institutional-white disciple wear, beneath a straitjacket that can be tricked open.
he takes to contemplatively stalking the room's perimeter like John Nash's doppelganger outlining university grounds for sanity.
suddenly sawing himself into boxed halves, the pros & cons of junked minds.
then stands at attention as if absorbing the insults of a commanding officer.
he's unmuzzled, but his iconic makeup was polished off as an immaculate castration.
licking his lips like a perverted lizard, hot for his cold bloodbank--a cleaning product salesman's ear-engulfing grin.
a: Try Again mouth swallowing beanbags.
an overdeveloped feature, circled red over & over like a happy accident--boo!
a cosmetic surgeon's: Project X, a scorned *****'s unevenly applied lipstick spread around by a passionately hateful kiss.
now just a presentable choirboy with a hardon for the whole mass.
a choppy quack rolling into a chainsmoker's weepy guffaw, self-heckling giggles of bozo persistence.
a hung jury of tears snorting & spitting out antecedent laughter--reeled in by a forced seriousness that believes its deadliness.
as comfortable with one-way humor as a malfunctioning parachute, that dead silence that breeds bat symbols.
contrary to the funny wastelands of his surveillance footage, a notoriously unprivate life turning cameras on themselves.
three of a kind, says he without saying--each having explosive dance offs, while cutting into unrelated dances.
the lighting in his room is as changing slides, that look for patterns of behavior,
with a misleadingly stark evidential buildup.
a Joker--that Joker needs a smoke, that Joker stares up at the cameras, motioning to guards.
his eyes are dead set askant, with a backtracking deviance slyer than a meat hook without a carcass.
a drowsy pick-me-up, melting with baby's candy, a cocky knower of inner names.
whites like wet dreams of glory-holes.
a feminine ruefulness that signals overkill before the ****, eyes that victimize rehabilitation.
brass that will be unaccountably drawn to them like Poe's: "The Tale-tale Heart."
a gaurd un-maximizes security enough to slide a cigarette into the Joker's mouth, then removes it.
the Joker looks up & disentangles a plot of smoke--then smiles sheepishly at the gaurd.

the sky was crookedly airlifted by BC & AD--as two strangers walked toward one
another on a sidewalk.
wanting to appear polite, they both delayed choosing a side in which to cross paths.
consequently--they both chose to do so mere feet away.
a blend of of irritation & awkwardness held them right before they veered aside.
recent memory is hardly history, so any unlearned lesson may not be doomed to repeat it.
their day will be comprised of more subtle & overt disparities as this.
surely there was a place from which they emerged & will return to--in which they encounter themselves in a similar fashion.
a place of fanatic familiarity, a place where things don't dare move--as not to
displease their master.
a place where a degree's dereliction would rack them subconsciously.
who knew homemaking could be a dark little art.
even if you subvert personal history & the world from which it hails--you've still done nothing.
the most controlled environment, which one has to work hard to interface with as a: "known"--doesn't sit tight.
its alchemy uses this life, this world--for starters.
whereas subject & object keep crossing paths as different subjects & objects.

it was done through you on April Fool's Day 1876--Offenbach, Germany.
even so, irony is for the pairers of unlikelies, wowed by what poetic mystique they can milk.
you were carefully stacking fresh copies of the first part of your magnum opus:
"The Philosophy of Redemption"--on the floor of your apartment.
the weather must've been hiding evidence of winter, with sloven chills hasting its spine.
a raw cusp of bipolarities, like an unwelcome lovesickness.
you were winter for thirty-four years, its
last will & testament.
it was ****** upon you with your mother's ****--no one could see where that would go but you.
as far as death can go as a religion, it got into you as the only purifier.
there was Phillip, death & its world.
it was more than the transitory triteness of a: "living-death", you were its absolutist.
you gave nothing time to transition to that inevitability, death was--inherent & imminently supreme.
constance with no need of reminder, this
rootless seed durated until your philosophy was realized.
strange was the way that had you, finding it appalling for heads to rear at the way you were--you published under a pseudonym.
outside was a pregnant music box, atypical sounds made by soundlessness.
your four walls unfortified, they stood after the fact while before it.
you stepped on to the stacked stair of your philosophy--to the word.
as you were given to a noose whose knot
tightened with more confliction than you.

Artaud consults a witch doctor, as

chicken wire winks around a martian

sand dune.

a screen experiences morning sickness

during the moon's live feed.

who's busy drumming in-between her

knuckles--as she squeezes through tunnel

vision.

just to see Pythia rolling on the ground to

put herself out, in preparation for an

offering to Helios.

a sallow pouch of poultry skin with an

egg in it.

to exchange her all-seeing blindness with

Helios'--as his: "Nerve Meter" twitches.

a shadow comes off her when she forgets

to lie in wait--as one when there is no

one.

submission as much as movement,

answerlessness in the praying--grace in

the lack of sign.

the tentative quality of the miraculous,

as if something to be settled on--what's

everpresent.

a pearl white necklace worked

backwards, soft round breaths on the

curve of her spine.

every pearl a grace period...Fur Elise.

a little silicone monk--a baby boy doll,
wise beyond the years of any say-so.
convincingly timeless.
a meditation mistaken for controlled
derangement, the smell of silicone--
exempt from olfactory free association.
mysterium membrum virile by production, bald-body austere.
an earth plop, feet out/hands out--as if
to be raised up permanently.
left eye sealed shut, its slow illusory swell.
right eye's blue slot stuck to what sped open.
a myopic forest pushed out, its almost fake nature--now where's the would be
foundling?

a vinegary ripeness dabs fall's thirst--

an unnervingly tasteless demeanor

prevails over trees.

the strength of passing facts at their

feet, unprotective of experience.

what witnessed dwindlement looks like,

without appeal.

as for the rest, that stands to regard--

an understanding without imposition

will move across a prior transparency.

winter nears.

an almost normative nonchalance to his
absurdism--as if it's just fine because he's
doing it.
there he was, making good on what was
not--rather than what was there.
wala's quick brush of a gestured once-over, where gravity sank.
left pinky claw in his mouth, with the false modesty of a centerfold.
the frills of nausea knotted by abject terror & stage fright paralysis, was the confection of his presence.
buddy boy Beelzebub standing in the living room like: 'what do you think?'
a red-light district glow about him, Tartarean yarn's hypertrichosis, curly Tim Burtonesque horns.
unhealthy *****-colored eyes, with
see-no-evil reptilian slits & fangs that ate
their punchline.
he just stood there--coring out a cave of
grandiosity, then leapt to the refrigerator.
turned it on its head by tapping his claws on the freezer door, a little hunger strike.
grabbed the magnet of a Monarch Butterfly, forced a few flits & dropped it
on the floor as with the lot of them.
tip-hooved back into the living room & said: 'the lamp's bulb in your study needs changing--it's been driving me bat-**** crazy, I need you to see clearly so I can manipulate your knowledge.'
'Pretty soon you'll have two pulses & two heartbeats.'

you're a brilliant lover--below pinned down at the brink, above pinned up at
the brink.
circles to the contrary--more perfect than
circles, broken out of with an ache.
so susceptible to more reciprocation...
curled talons holding it.
you have no recollection how you got up there, the sky is synonymous with you--
not the other way around.
it's enclosed to the contrary.
your freedom retention pulled complety thru air--feathers band to your flesh, wings band to your will.
it never occurred to you as an active force--which's why it belongs to you.
you're already where you appear to be
going, one sees--but one cannot see you there.
it feels too **** good, only you can hold
it.
you're probably waiting till your eyes close to let it out.

a hermit well to the bone--dressed like
a beast in the birthright of elements.
lies four times removed from breath,
with his back on a stream.
puddied face wrinkled like a treestump,
frizz-bale beard, a kingdom's expendable.
stiffly resolute with communions of
sunless light, all he let live--lives him
hereafter.
untouched by the temporal, the long of
his lay will be discovered during the long
of his lay.
a whistling wodnesse will come like
Ariadne's thread from castle walls,
Boschians will leave no sympathy card
from the blazes.
the hermit will have simply been a
feature of the landscape.
if want was a thing at all for him, it was
to be as it is.
his decomposition will be as his favorite
verses, revisited while coming away with
newer & deeper meaning.
a holy pandemonium in a most unlikely
place--a bird for every other bird that
passes it on.

morbid curiosity is a luxury--the art of
the Middle Ages lifts the ground to meet
its vertigo, as huntsmen signal toward
the observer.
the gamey odorousness of fear downwind.
nerve endings drafted their maps, unable
to find a way out.
dread gathered wood & chopped it untiringly.
reacquainted shame scrambled for leafage again--under a greater Fall.
a potion goblet for every kind.
a unicorn on a green velvet hill, became
visible in the current of a squirrel's tail.
there was never not magick.
though digression can be as quiet as an
exiting servant.
depictions of persons hardened as they softened, a very peculiar ethereality.
the look of snow as soon as it stops.
a bud held tight in one's palm, just as
it's about to bloom.
it is this, from crown to soles--what a
mottled column of light to move in.
from nobility to peasantry, something
burst in on clay--they couldn't be natural even when they felt they were.
animals do not take a headcount in a
burning stable, they even forget to say grace.

they had to exorcise it--that thing in the air, that thing in the water.
earth, then something other--that's how
it happened.
not the dance instruction of a tarantula to sweat out venom, but by the lived
eschatology of medievals.
worked off in mass dances (tarantism)--
till exhaustion/death.
as if they were the herd of swine that
evil spirits were cast into.
the Gadarene demoniac which Jesus
eighty sixed, caught sniffing around tombs, en route the left-hand path.
bells rung by flies, leeches bled out the: I, flames ran up the: I--heresy!
blood/yellow bile/black bile/phlegm--
the slop bucket fluids of: The Four Humours.
corresponding to the four dispositions, the four ages, the four elements--a feast
of fools attempting to psych-out wodnesse.
as medievals finger-pointed in their sleep, exacerbating toothless drool while
giving over a name.
smoky villages trampled with commotion, then nothing--closed doors taking on a
life of their own.
peace like a frozen juggler, beside a breathless flutist, you could trip over prayer only to look up at an inquisitor.