projective geometry used to get me *****
all those positions
,palmately pink and ever green
breathing vasts of void my dark heart laughs in gulping wholes
moaning plenums, hooded over boundless venus-vim
now i'm tired of infinite lines
too many shapes to fit in
too wide, too tight, sharp or empty
,too many ways to come
this was meant to be a disclaimer before a collection of poems
,a way to unclutter
angst of public
years after 'explaining'
Samir's 'polygonal me'
to then indulge this analogic soundlessness...
as i disengage
i can't write without planning on it
i can't write about writing without feeling like a fool
(,Lear is the only one
that saves me now
as now i am the Fool,
dividing hearts along
in storm-***-love-like railway-*****
steaming full of fiberoptic nooks,
chaining spectra-cogs of a good-will-spirit-****:
concatenated hard-ons every word
each thought a pulsate vulval dream awake,
of shining mons my Athene forehead
forging fountain thought,
freely, my chubby comes back to me
prone before the prostate god)
,in other words
i cannot write as other than a fool
why should i repeat the abject horror of the world?
isn't despair a bit.. overdone at this point?!
and why should i write just the happy!? i'm not in denial, am i?
or am i in denial
about insisting on being in denial absolutely?
--like mind-only schools...
(O the uselessness of words, dismissing patriarchal vigor with yet another wave, the 'brine-milk' ends unending,
forever Femen liberating us of words,
replaced with Fragilaria,
wasting diatomic seas and waterways,
depleted algae gone, extinct: metaphysiCalListo-craticality aborted on a broken Amazonic spear,
our bodies, bodied-hearts, finally won as ours, across Alternaqueeria, fully lucid human-species spanned
i blink my tears and blur my gaze at weeping Pleides
the plan was this: painful poem, pleasure poem, painful poem, happy poem... **** poem, sterile poem, carnal poem, priggish poem, punk poem, open poem, confessing poem, eros poem, **** poem, 'obscene-attractive' poem...
to cleanse inverted mainstreams of my steady-rhythmed pratitpaksha-bhavanams; not "poem, poem, poem, poem..."
but a taut poeming in and out of poems of poemed poiesis prosing poets free to **** again in Issa's snow, or *** on Chiera's cumaholic Shards.
pendulum left, pendulum right; then two pendulums, then none; then one that swings right and left at the same time; then one that spins all the way around, but only clockwise; then one counter-clockwise; then one both clockwise and counterclockwise; then one timeless, then one imaginary one... full of infinite little ones... to represent all the pendulata in the universe as experienced through minor parts of self.. itself as universal part-whole-parcel self-hood spanning star-births yet to come...
,but it's time to eat a 'square' meal
take off my job-search tie, my peddled lies
forget the sunrise vestibules we sipped from,
sleeping by commoding cows
and pretend i'm not dicking myself over
into cryptic spectionism-voids again
all seagull-divert-adverts, play
of frozen youth abstrused,
self-referred referring loosed
staggered worse than marginalia
no single species 'seagull' singing here