.all of Dante: no feminism; surely woman was such a half-"breed" that she didn't deserve the partiarchal sustenance anomaly of a Dante... a: mutation... half-wit me: succor? no succor! surely a man these days, would rather read ****-****** poetry from the 20th century, and watch football... than be levelled to a "need" to fathom the courtship of woman... it's enough for me to read the Braille of a key and a keyhole: and... like... some miraculous enterprise of a door... i'm out: dodo project... all the man that i will ever be: is being the man i was not expected to be: one thing being a puppet in the hands of the gods: another to be a puppet being kicked and shoved by a fellow human mob; fin; yep... fancy a gambled spotting of a Dante on a roundabout of: on a whim, within a whim, and... whenever she puts on lipstick in an advert: i am not thinking about her thinking of the metaphor for: *******.
you know...
i once stop myself...
i'm reading some
homosexual poetry
from the 1950s
and then i...
"reflect":
what is woman
writing in
the 21st century...
??????
archeologist...
certainly not
an entymologist...
one word...
pre-
whatever ethnic
grouping i was
part of...
***'gy'el...
one word savior,
much more
than an "our father..."
oh i'm way, way past
brown, coco,
copper tanning,
way past the Bangladeshii:
100 shades of
goo...
gold smitten...
and some of Cairo
hushed extra-
extravagance
of the dimmed
sandy-
-hued locket of
timid amber...
4 artifacts from
the 20th century
imprinted on my collectivised
aspect of a singling out
mind:
the holocaust
of the 1940s...
itallian **** from the 1970s...
music videos
from the 1980s...
t.v. reruns of cartoons
in the 1990s...
4th artifact... ****!
****!
what's the fourth 'un?
westerns:
with their scoop of:
any action, no action,
all action:
panorama to boot...
a decade bias:
'60s...
and with so many
takes on, "the trip",
i sometimes they didn't
drag god, the word, logos,
into their phantoms
upon the wake...
if only... they didn't desecrate
the shrines of
ingesting hallucinogenic
fungus,
by simultaneously
writing about them:
no go: zombie area...
i too wish:
no x-ray was handy
in the variety of poem...
but:
******* desecrated
the sights...
like the machu picchu
of the soul...
what then:
at the end of a bottle?
another bottle!
and prior to?
all of the worthy set
that constitutes
the making of life:
in the collective quest
of the repeated set
of mistakes.
- i tune in into
the speakeasies of
american psychologists
who:
a controversial
opinion is as much
degrading
as a shot of *****...
they could have tripped
all they wanted...
but have recorded:
nothing of their
experiences...
and all would be:
just as well...
stiff & the stale Vatican:
holy men
for a worth of a leather
shoe... or a cotton shroud's
worth of a hood 'n'
fabric...
as i sometimes...
have to stop...
no writing,
and interlude of reading...
and nothing but
a shelter in music...
rarely does the sound
of falling rain
compensate
music...
i remember that the first
time i heard
ola gjeilo i was in
transit, i cried,
because only the kind
of beauty never to be
attached in attaching itself
to the world, the organic,
will ever make me
cower into complete
shadow:
disowning a heart,
both in rhythm as
in subject-matter...
now i know the word
to counter what
is being strained:
4000 b.c.
to boot...
summary:
40s lamb for the slaughter...
70s italian ****,
80s music videos,
90s televised cartoons...
50s new york poetry...
some jazz,
some painting,
and then some of 21st century's
summary "criticism"...
19th century architecture...
but of course...
none of this even
suggests a chance to savour
a contemplation
as recuperation...
to me?
the poets of the 20th century...
should have never have
dragged
the word into the phantasmagorical
world of the fungus "deity":
namely?
whatever word
is to be extracted from the dream
world is nothing but:
****, skyscraper,
*****, oyster, hat...
screwdriver...
we have been abandoned
by dreams...
we have been kicked out
from our "2nd Eden",
the Eden of Dreams...
and, it's as if:
we... "don't know it"...
i can only see my persistent
inability to dream,
the anglo-saxon lie that:
we can elaborate on
sleep with: staggering
dream-architectures...
no! we've been kicked out!
second strike!
i blame the beatnik poets:
because why would you
drag the word into
hallucinogenic experiences...
while desecrating
the altar of the unconscious?
to have been kicked out
of the Eden of Sleep...
is to face the reality
of standing before
the Narcissus of a mirror's
rejection of the 3D man...
an no 2D avatar waiting:
mind you...
the atom, the... "man"...
i sleep, i don't dream,
all i see is the
gnawing worm:
εποχoν -
the bulwark
released from
being tied to an orbit
for our safety: on a leash:
gnarl - up!
and gnashing teeth
like a mythology
of a grinding into
spit
from a crushing wheel;
however much i try...
i can't dissociate
the following:
fjør-
& -skå...
da!
no anglo-saxon can
lie to me,
in saying:
he's the architect of
the dream-world:
while mine:
remains shackled
to ruin...
and sometimes:
baron music
shoves a sock soaked
in **** down my throat:
and i...
mingle fingers away from
flesh,
and entomb them
in the wind:
and lacerate myself
with a vision
of an x-ray's worth
of gaze.
