I am friends with it
understand its feverish desires
its delicious sensations
its equatorial liquid chocolate brown eyes
that cause a tear stained face
and trembling lips
know these grieving stinging tears
they cause me to crawl on the floor
make my hands dance
like bleached white skeletons
disrupting the rhythm of my blood
I know I will be finally finite
and can quietly disappear
like sour ***** on a morning pavement
after the cleaners have been

there are ashes in my mouth

the residue of flaming words

that scorch the silk savannah of my mind

they drain the blood from my skin

as if my wrists have been opened

bleeding onto the pages before me

a great ******* of half-formed consciousness

these words, these flaming, fiery words

erupt in rapid torrents

of strange improbable happenings

their clatter grows louder, they yell

now I understand the nature of my curse

it  is to look for something I have forgotten

a beautiful yet tragic gentleness

like the femininity of my hands

that calls to me from across

the infinite blackness of space

there are ashes in my mouth

and in the hairs there was blood
strange blood
like that which has concealed yet flows
his fingers probes the feeling
a feeling of immense tension building up within him
like the grieving of a mother for a dead child
that sentences in a mournful court
that which is personal protest
the earth to death
the blood wanders about his body
it feels the geography of his bones
his skin
like some inner universe it navigates itself
to the feeling that is probed
but it is to late
for there is a silnce now
which grows in darkness and consistency
curdling thought
yet when he smiles
he is beautiful

am I awake dreaming that I am asleep
or perhaps asleep dreaming that I am awake
yet I do dream. I dream of Brazil
where antique rages like great storms
announce themselves with a small breeze
that stands against rust in mighty waves
and stares at the bleak mid winter
eyes of oppression and by
crimson haste, dithers in despair
and watches the pages
that unleash such rages
become the cobalt colour of tombstones
who ***** themselves behind the eyes
in dramatic stages
yet is the announcement of all these
historic rages
that are outrageous
placed upon blank pages
that butchers compassion
which is almost infinitesimally brief
yet so poignant and dislocating
has a momentarily almost faint identity
that singles indefinable loss
that is expressed in all known language
and splinters the mind into dark deep waters
that the only thing that can be
trusted is this moment, this moment
is the realisation, so powerful
that one cannot do otherwise
but confront it and in so doing
feel the immense vibration of change

is it serious
do people like words
on the inside of their fridge
are they happy, or am I happy
no, no this is ridiculous
though a relationship
with a fridge door
with incorrect spelling
of words upon it
and one without
i fear will not change
the position of happiness
and yet makes one yield
to a magnificent beast
that leaves me to grow
the ingredients of soup
though it sounds like the
impossible language of ice

so many faces, so many faces
disfigured lives in hushed tones of living
find  they have no choice
and with eyes discoloured
yet not blind destroy the flowers that bloom
they recognise the work of the infernal serpent
in Miltonian affirmation of a stranger
and a more deadly disfigurement
than that which like sun baked clay
bears its cracks in the haunting of lives
with a medieval gargoylian curse
to becomes the orphans
of nothing, except everything
and ask how does this equate
with so many faces
faces that are struggling for
the paradise to be regained
for the infernal serpent to be slain  
so many faces, so many faces

there is a photograph of a blind ******
that stares at me when I’m not there
and a footless boy that wears my boots
who eats my toast with teeth so false
they make no impression upon its worth
there are leather wrinkles in his smile
that make me blush and wait a while
to watch and stare at his wolf red eyes
at his forced composure that does exercise
upon his boast the eating of all my toast
though I do not mind
for he is kind
and has lips of cheery red
that I wish instead
of eating toast
if all were said were kissing me instead
then I look at the picture of the blind ******
and find to my surprise
there’s no one there

an unpardonable aberration
in possession of an adrenalized
dynamism of energy
which emerges
like that of the dirt on my face
but cannot hide
the strangulation of my hair
nor the red that fires my fingers
nor the desire or physical location
of my marvellous sexuality
or the ink that bleeds from my nose
when the excitement of creation
reaches its unmonitored theft  
of psychophysical *******
of writing upon the page
those elusive words that once written
become an imagined ****** fantasy
blurred but cannot be retained
for the words must be free
free to be the poem, to be themselves
to be ourselves

there is a plurality in the times
for I cannot stop for death
it cannot stop for me
and I hear the roar of silent space
as it  hears the roars of me
driving one towards
visionary liberation
like a frenzied shaman
in his dance
deranging sensories to be found
yet still known in this trance
and punishment for poetry is not new
nor is the strangling of my hair
for we are all solitaries
placed, situated, somewhere
so I wish I was in Zanzibar
to walk upon its sand
to feel the impressions of words
explode within my hands
and to drink all the ink
that baths upon me and calls itself anew
it is the shimmer of this violet haze
that echoes in my view

a voltage feeds my mind
like that of a brief rainfall
where there is an asterisks
of insignificant social commentary
whose reality pertains
to disproportionate events
whose commission
makes a profession out of trivia
which is no more ******* durable
than accumulated dispersion of adrenalin
that of a psychophysical explorative
exploitation of unrealized
perpetual fermentation
that seethes with the singeing smell
that accompanies its lie
those demanding untruths
that lock each and everyone
in a burning prison of panic
a prism of unfocused
visionary liberation perhaps to some
the realization of the cosmos
that lives within the poets interior
a mighty roar of space
waiting to be filled
with visions of future worlds
of future social commentary

my imagination scalds
with violating stains
of contemptuous familiarity
agonised shrieks
confront my mouth
with an unremitting combustibility
while a frustration like a volatile tornado
engulfs me with an hallucinated savagery
detonating unrelenting explosions
within my consciousness of perception
causing a hurricane of momentum
bringing such oddities to my mind
as such precludes their proper elucidation
yet a tempestuously implosive inner cosmos
is located a volcanic insurgence
the accelerative storm on which
the poem like Valkyries rides

i hear only the music that he hears
the red satin of his mind
the thoughts that drape themselves
upon the willing advancement of our spring
that self chosen fury of barbarous love
stars, flesh, flowers, tongues
compete in the magic without tears
like lazing upon endless beaches
in retribution to those
that refuse, either by inheritance or design
to recognise the precious emrald dewdrop
that lies within the foetus of our understanding
that space others cannot occupy
he has turned my rags to gold

in that moment
that most precious moment
all moments disappear
and before me
truth fills the open coffers of my mind
and leaves upon me the most openness
that my heart is as wide, open I say
like a scar on a wounded soldier
yet his voice makes me feel
like that of a girl with a bright blue dress
I don’t know why
though to be with him colors are much brighter
mirth much more merrier
and the velvet complexion
of his softness consumes me
and I smell the scent of his hair
blinded by the tiger experience of his eyes
feel the slightest brush
of his fingers upon
the upturned romance of my plam
a 21st century Romeo
shall I return to school
and face a turmoil
or relent and let torment
by betray that has not led me there
then now I think
this is like another skin
and feel that I may fall victim
to an infinite permanence
of lives accepted
for when he speaks
I see his sentence
visible in the sky

and on my breath
i feel his talkative
and in my heart
feel his words so beautifuly evocative
and in my mind feel his wonderful
and whats so forbidden is so beautiful
if only all the stupid fools knew
they would all feel so wonderful too

watch gray inking night
turn to amber
like a special ink upon
some mysterious blotting paper
and the same state as previous
of profound emotional turmoil
thunders within my heart
what cause is this
that has so overwhelmed me
what sorcery is it that binds me to tears
that blink through wet stained eyelashes
and wash upon my face in tumbling droplets
form a recreation of heightened moments
of my consciousness the weightlessness of inner thought
It makes me know the winds speech
realise the attempted elimination of identity
and I try desperately to hide
from the gargoyles that now stalk me through the streets
and smell their black breath hanging in the air
like some kind of numbing intoxicant mist
and I try to resolve the enigma that is the core of my being
that which contains the esoteric voice of the wind
in rapacious resoundements of remembrance
that cannot be recalled to mind

there is a seperation

a pain of seperation

such as a seperation

that only lovers specialise in

where the prevention of thought

is like a fortress overrun

where trampling terrains of concern

stampede upon the praire of the mind

transforming it into a soft savanna

of wating engagements

that murmer with comforing enchantments

lays upon such pain of seperation

as that of a perforated scar

seared across the heart

bringing tickles of soft warm tears

to the cheeks

the happist time becomes

a chasm only conquerd

by that gulping unification

of embrace

where soft burning lips

meet in that unknown

but express language

of clasped reunion

it is that pain, that awful pain

that only lovers know

Silvine Blockster

had a book

which it seems

everywhere he took

and thus as is

always the case

as when such books

are ferried in open space

it was not unusual

for folk to ask

if they could look

inside Silvines Blokcsters book

But upon not such uncivil pleas

he would become incenced

and wobble most peculiarly

at the knees

rant and even rave

shout and squeal

but he never would reveal

the pages of the books appeal

so once upon a dark and dreary night

when Mr Poe was real and truly out of sight

some citizens upon themselves they took

a vow to knock Silvine Blockster on the head

and steal his precious book

but alas dear reader

the blow they cast

caused poor Silvine Blockster

to breath his last

all fled in panic but one

who stayed fast

and stood there to the very last

he took a furtive look

inside the book

his knees buckled

his face turned white

and from head to toe

was filled with fright

but the book

he could not let go

this brought a smile to Mr Poe

who was not there

as well you know

now Mr Rephil Pad had a book

which it seems

everywhere he took

and when citizens

begged to take a look

his face whould turn green

and he would puke

and dear reader

please beware

for I do not mean to scare

if you encounter

Mr Rephil Pad

under no circumstnce

ask to look

inside his book

or enter into confederation

with those, who for just one peek

would crack his skull

and watch blood leak

for upon this crinkled parchement

fited and forgotten ink

tells of a curse

of which you must not think

a death note

you must not read

on this very subject

Mr Poe and I and of course the Raven

on this subject are all agreed

a yellow leaved flower
with a black mustache
and a very peculiar hat
well perhaps no to the flower
for it is after all on its head
then again the yellow leaved flower
may find the hat funny and well, most peculiar
and thus sports it in defiance of convention
for yellow leaved flowers it seems
are by law forbidden to wear hats
peculiar or otherwise.
how strange

a white pinked pettled flower
that looks much like
a flying duck in destress
is a friend to the yellow leaved flower
though to be sure does not wear a hat
either by choice or design but by decree
because there are terrible anti-hat laws
directed at flowrers, who to some
though not to me, maybe of an oddity
for I am of a mind to believe
if flowers wish to wear hats
by all means they should be permitted to do so
so let them deal with me as they will
for I do not fear them
flower hats and for-get-me-nots
shall be are call

by god something has taken control of my mind
for it is no longer mine
what do I do
ha! ha! ha!
I am overrun with joy and sadness
at the same time
what does it mean
whatd does one do

how can I make a translation
of these never before felt feelings
if their language I don’t possess
one of which mine ears
have never had a previliage
of previous precous encounter
and one which overwhelms so powerfully
mine eyes;  and my tongue but in realisaton
is powerless to pronounce
yet can do nothing else than confront them
these feelings, these feelings, oh these feelings
a painted mosiac of plasure and gulit
that leaves me in such a quandadry as I don’t know why
yet has me beliebve that the only thing  I trust
any longer is this very moment; the moment with him
where pure and untainted feeelings break upon me
as foamed waves upon a pebbled beach
where convention does disintigarte
in splintering bursts of Vulacn light
oh to be yet disintangled in my mind
to be detached, feeling each succeeeding thought
as it seperates itself from the centreal core of my mind
to examine them in the srange sub-lit detachement
where I find myelf now floating
there is no known languange for its expression
these feelings, these felings, these feelings
only Raleigh, only Raleigh, I hope

oh what a darkness of consistency
grows around this silence
that of a lonely sentence
fallen to earth by itself
offering hesitated thought
that which conceives, yet conceals
a deep misery
an unhappiness that blinds the eyes
that does in its silence circle like poisoned incense
around a badly carved pentangle
squeezing tears from the corners of clenched eyes
forming a violent trembling
from neck to ankles
its silent translation a feeeling
of immence tension vibrating through the body
Ah, this fallen silence
is the beauty that Isaw, I see
the change incredible that brings
this silenece to me rather that someone else
where bliss does come down
and envelope in a mist of passionate lips embrace
imersining itself in a liberating tumultious emotonal experiance
resurfing as internsified passion
intricate in its dipiction
dazzling in its dencely textured matrex
of intimacy in its silence; its fallen silence
the silence of a kiss
that kiss
his kiss
my first kiss with another boy

wouldst you in the mist of my confusion
have me become a white mosquito boy
that by a grafted tongue would
mould powerful changes
around bliss and ecstasy
that by garb and candor grafts defying gender roles
causes by his spaces openness
a sexuality, moulding, mounting new and explosive intimacies
and yet my fevered brain
hotter than the hottest summer
wishes to embrace  a white mosquitoe boy
become the cannibal of his dimensions
be subject to his unremarked experiments
Oh, will I become a native of these everyday practices
a white mosquitoe boy
evolving into a public ethic
a dangerously obscure central truth
the ink lies still wet on y confused thinking
while the white mosquitoe boys call me ” Le Mome”
shall I enter their grand boulevards
the ink drys, it speaks
its beautiful wondrous notation
says “YES”, yes it says, it says yes
you don’t become a mosquitoe boy
YOU ARE BORN ONE

is there hope between a stone
like the figurative speech of abstracton
those fragile metophers of life
an essesnce of fleeting moments of existence
like some iconic inventory of bourgious values
that reinscribe themselves
on the inside of your eyeballs
so when you close them
they become a cultural outpost
here where inventory shades into affermation
where poeple come, clamour
to claim it as thier own
where a thousand seductions become one illusion
your eyes closed peer
into and enchanted looking glass of stone
where brooding darkness
offers beauty and hope
but rules here are different
language, customs, values
are not what they seem
for if you look back
it is a piller of salt
who will turn into you
for this is a place of images
images built upon images
constructed upon layers
and layers of so much paint
and you ask yourself ( without much instistence)
is there hope between a stone
and in this brief moment of asking
you give a life time

once I saw a blue moon
shedding the underworld
of thought and time
it wallowed in a pink sea
where out of the depths
sea blossoms came
to be beyond the rain
to be beyond the rain
and a litle bird found
a pool of dreams
the birthing pool
then she was gone
flying under a soft black sky
growing hope after
beyond the rain
beyond the rain
whose creations and distractions
are the prossessses
that are necessary to show
the true feelings
hidden beneath the surface of things
beyond the rain
beyond the rain
where there is a combat
a struggle between darkness and light
the emotional duality of life
BETWEEN THAT WHICH IS
AND THAT WHICH HAS ALREADY BEEN
beyond the rain
beyond the rain

an intimacy of affections and intimate attentions
hovers in the air
sometimes shimmering
perhaps swirling
this way and that
creating at its core an impulse of hope
of a shared dream
drawn to each as each is to each
as in pursuit of that which is hidden in our hearts
obscured by what we think we know about ourselves
yet we are drawn into this thing
and find ourselves called to each other
in pursuit of our dreams of love
yet we have lived this long experience
these shared echoes that we realise#
each without each would be stunningly incomplete
a lavish perfume it envelopes us
invests us with new forms
in the most powerful and novel ways
with new rituals and language
we bristle with unexamined interpersonal connections
so gentle, so powerful, so beautiful
like the terms borrowed
from tow different galaxies of homeless stars
yet complement each other as a whole
for we have found it
what
love
what is it
it is the music only we can hear
for we are the duality of our dream

what is this discovery of a cheap corpse
whose tightened jar contains imprisoned sunlight
whose hallow sheet now beckons
whose tracked eyes through my fingers weaves
and makes unjust shadows linger on the mind
and whose cause is that of trickles
that would gauge the cheeks
in unwarranted departure from clenched
and sorrowful eyes
what is its language, how does one speak it
this discovery that melts with a black proclamation
of lost intention that no longer lingers on its breath
but departs not in sorrow but in a chaos
and leaves unanswered its own existence

the words lie about
small pieces of crystallized thought
communicating by sympathetic tangents
like the speech of the wind
attempting to mediate in white light
at the edge of an emaciated desert
their invading pressure threatening
to drive me out of consciousness
into a whisper
that darts along a tongue
the intimate recreation
of the speed and space of thought
energizing a concentrated existence
forcing me into uncompromising solitude

do I possess an inner reality
one of hallucinatory psychosis
and if so is it
incorruptible
immutable
does it float on my breath
confiscating my words
is it a projection of my self
like watching a movie
disconnected
yet caught on the edge
of a dematerialization
which reflects images that mob my head
causing me to think of rats
that slink out of drains at noon
and whispers in the mouth
like a static interference on my mind

defective, with every ancient deceit
a terbaulant calm within me rages
and I leap from a great hight
into a shallow abyss
where lurk the stains you cannot see
that creep in this petty place
where the speech of those who speak
lays open like a drawer of stained knives
and a stone terrain of thought
recollects the gestures made
where a confrontation with
a corresponding fictionalization
places one in an unquantifiable location

nor does the love of flesh
portray the enormity
of the ink that weeps upon my page
nor give sufficient life
to the words that cling to me
like orphaned children
in search of a family
such as pain of mind
that amplifies an unjust justification
that allows shadows to linger on my mind
that which allows the trickle of tears
to slowly wet my cheeks
a blue blair, dead, still
that adds to the temporal ruins
that violate my freedom

the music of old fashioned births
is no longer enough
and this thought becomes
a magical opera
where all promenade a century
entertaining memoires
that beg release
like an early summer
that is to late
we shall not retire to a wilderness
for we are a great and radiant sin
like exploding nebulas of the mind

I wish to see the mountains
but they disagree with me
the sea it cries
its tears unseen
there are coloured winds that sparkle
and flay a million reposotic waves
who on call
dilate to a lacerating urgency
of anarchic, elliptical rebirth
supported by nothing
again and again and again
I wish to see……………………

there is a call to the recollection
of impossible probabilities
so difficult, so difficult
my parchment weeps  
it has led me here
to choose complacent melancholy
in a private odyssey
that won’t leave me or come back
i shall go tomorrow
why?, will someone tell me
where have I been
must go to think it over
it is an invitation to a suicide
left unanswered
in a place where promises
linger in the air like floating sorrows
or perhaps the ****** of stubbed metal
in a medical basin
and yet the words come as they are
unclothed, naked, unsolicited in their guilt
cruel masters of silence
carriages that drive through the sky
survivors of journeys
through the inner space of my mind
their indented regularity
forming conclusive patterns
in a molten white furnace
they recall a purple day

…and upon the turbulent storms of thought
bodies are abandoned
driven with a canabalizing
anticpition of deathlessness
that in effortless frequencies
selects that which can never be reclaimed
whose deliberate movements
recollect those tangents
that preclude inquiry and articulate themselves
in an awareness of vanishing imagination
that by its estrangement
visits the  finding of its self
in unifying bonds
that emphasizes the
immediate shape of shared perception
as of a field turning blue
in moonlight under snow

it migrates into purgatory fashions

and plays like a quiver on the nerves

oh so rich art thou in artifice

that would have me believe

in a cold and unattributed consciousness

like an infestation of infant prodigies  

for it is a vicariousness of viciousness

that leaves the music of C Major

devoid of untold homage

and a singular letter on a scale

is it a transmusicality of mutation

punctuated by red felt tip notes

for all music is life

the life of C Major in the time

of vicious vicariousness

It is a replicable dialectic

that swirls in my mind

like a spiral of cigarette smoke

covering fluctuations

of diffused expanses

of transferable hallucinated images

relying on an artificial artificiality

to generate a reality

one that amplifies a calisthenics

of maximized reduction

in the blank vacuum of space

allows those sophistication’s

where there is a scrutiny

of exclusions

that may perhaps betray

the concepts of others

those correlatives

of our own creative interirority

where a mind may repeal a transgression

for it is breakfast in the time

of the Wizard Pig

there is a numbed feeling
one of exclusivity
that suggests
a solitary reconnaissance
one of orientated purposes
where moods are reflectively animated
in individual focus
in order to infiltrate
a non sharing experience
but the feeling abruptly stops
it is a synchronized wound
it is the assassination
of the distant and complex
terminals of the human mind
i am irretrievably shocked
poeple live
but there are really no survivors

there is a strangeness
it hovers
hovers like an unspoken word
or an unshared sorrow
floating in the air
beckoning with
articulated device
it means to kiss me, I think
what is it, what is this that hovers so
and would take possession of my lips
leave upon them an impression of
indentured love
that would if so allowed linger
with imprinted hope of
future taste and would lay upon my heart
an imploration of immaculate understanding
what is this strangeness

my breath is gone
a misquoted understanding
it is initiated by
lost geometric dimensions
of consciousness
a sensory experience
unlocatable, ecstatic
reveals an unexpected discovery
that binds cannot have
constriction of
leaves independent physical space
it is the color of a realized hallucination
like trying to find ones reflection
in Shiva mirrors

Moscow now lies at an angle
An angle to the other side of silence
It is here where you don’t see me
When asked may we say nothing
Unnatural relations, unnatural relations
Are the unnatural words used
Ha, ha, ha,
But we are articulate flesh
What is  
unnatural, unnatural, unnatural
It is unnatural to deny
A vast majority of the human existence
Moscow now lies at an angle
To the other side of silence

there is paint
it peels from my eyes
in long gaseous ribbons
it is punctuated by
a bright blindness
where methodologies
reach no conclusions
paint peels from my ears
in uncontested echoes
projecting a self
generated audible universe
paint peels from my mouth
in black storms
of expanded consciousness
leaving behind a particulated
paralized partition
that leaves me disconnected
in a correspondence of color
A field of snow
turning blue under moonlight
in accord with the peeling of paint
like a light emitted by relative thought
paint peels, paint peels, paint peels

i have been introduced to a fragmented universe
blue and silver
amid temporal ruins
oxidized epochs extract from me
thought processes and aural distillations
of a catatonic rage, that discards all trivia
in its scrutiny of minds
in a chronological diversity of words and images
it is a kinetic fluency of gestures
in an ****** calligraphy of expansive
transferable threads of thought
it is the real and the imagined
one that precludes inquiry
which leaves me infused
with a compulsion of composed complications
in episodic inspired delirium

butterflies on a beautiful boy
cling with insect intensity
they wear candy pink lipstick
he has his face reddened
with blusher
his hair is depicted in triplicate
on the cubical doors of toilets
black painted cubical doors
that possess an objective scrutiny
of an immediacy that suggests
a knowledge of expendable names
of disinterested inspection
names that are deletable with time
all that is left is a screaming solar plexus
he waits like an animated aura
a haloed head of violet rings him
as he leans against the toilet wall
with beautiful blonde ambition
the butterflies cling with insect intensity

an ****** calligraphy
of hallucinated images
gesture to the posturings
of omitted consciousness
the preoccupations
that puncture the ‘rational’ thought
of a false corporeality
and rely on an artificiality
to produce a reality
writes of the pagan haunts
of silver ****** ghosts
of fantastic rumors
of acquired futuristic loathing
where cognitive disturbances are
the reconnaissance of a fragmented mind
seeking an evacuation to the past
screams at the monuments of
immediate dismissal of everything
not of their transmission

“Wet Paint”, it said
heavy bold, white on red
upper case
no need for waste
except food stuffs
it read

transparent boundaries in a mind
mark out the blank vacuum of space
scrutinize other minds discard all trivia
extract with a kinetic incisiveness
required information
in a chronological diversity of images
speak with the fluency of an abrupt halt
which is maximized to reduce an effect
on the skeletal calisthenics of
introspective histrionics
by acquired extrasensory faculties
by that very mind, by that very mind
a neurobiological transmutation

there is a scramble
between the articulated gaps
where naked stanzas shiver
in  a state of levitation
irregular, without a center
a reserved latitude of sensation
where perspective of space is reversed
a dangerous irregularity, irrepressible
that sees across dimensions  
where boundaries become transparent
which can stimulate the mind
into a white silence
in which one is lost
in a vertiginous hole

…what visions before my eyes do materialize…whereas they are invoked by a small white pill I do believe….they shimmer and dance like candle flames at night…throwing shadows upon the walls…strange shadows…dancing shadows…shadows of the mind…shadows who pose no questions and make only judgments upon themselves…shadows of tomorrow that are shadows of today who were once the shadows of yesterday….a poem is born…..

and into the firmament
fumbling for visions
collapse under
disordered nerves
concentrate
need to modulate
a creative energy rush
that has been afforded  to me
by the pills just taken
a need to feed the void
to appeal to the dead verses
that are waiting
a manifestation of poetic absolutes
a need to startle oneself alive
extract thought processes
a frantic buzz of possibilities
overdosing and watching
multiplying mirrors
amazed at the images
of one starring back
a poetic geometry
detachable used
and abused
in a copulatorey rite
of aural distillation
of the poets rage
frequencies that fall
upon catatonic faces
of artistic alienation
brought about by
a dissonance of attunement
to the vibrations of the verses
these spoken words
these living entities
who are oblique, cut up, desiccated
by a savage failure to understand
the visualized stanzas
a failure to disarrange all the senses