Monday, May 23, 2011

364. 50 Reasons to Have 50 Reasons to Be 50

Frisian swweetnests the whole way through. His sadness was legible. Worn out and used up. The last of a breed. Aureate, self-destructive, and effete. The esthete in you finds the beauty in puce.

plaything lathing lath
and lashed to the stemmm of the shippe
and I’s sailing with it
off through the sirens of the ambelances

the ambelances, the child said, the ambelances

a boil
a boil
a boil

& pop

frequent burden feltthrough sense
garden herbarium orangery
th’entire gallimaufry of eine kleine petite vie

gilberries and gibberish for the multrance

state

and it was clear not counting the darkness

sensitive to light and slights
skin like cotton but variable
mangrove manroot mandrake
my giving and your gotten

infarction of cadmium hues
what dyes among you dyes brightly
we are too old for purchase
and too young for the comforts of death
fans of rhubarb waving above our heads
their purple veins as the fat veins
through our fingers through our cock
through our legs until they stop
ripped out and tossed

what is left is withered
what is right is bereft

trickle trickle little water from the bodies
what leaks is living lethargic and low

cotton for the ears
cotton to tamp the wound
keep the wound from suppurating
and turning yellow then puce around the edges

ceiling wax shuts out the dripping
even if the rain won’t stop
odd that the rain won’t stop

black and brick and brilliant
my left leg left for the cockroaches
who eat right up the first half
of themselves and sometimes beyond
only the crunching of skin keep me awake

these denizens of night know us
articles of temperance in an intemperate land

carrier disease embolism gash
being better bested beasts
bitter bitter bitter but bitten too

there is no sleep but death
and it comes too late in the evening to right things
fallen over from the failing that comes with sleeping

vicious for blood
and the color of teeth on your skin

the shadows come out at angles at night
and running at us and running at us

bibbed and ready
as if dinner were from the deep
and only accordion music
to quell the stomach
raging from a day of thought

various and varicose
and in that vein for minutes
(only then did he realize the vine
and the vein were twin winding strings
bringing that juicy blood through and forth)

the wind blows whatever way the vane points is

bumbling
and being
bumbling
and being
bled out
from it and

the buzzing is voices
around him at the end
speaking so quietly
he cannot hear yet

but soon he will

and take umbrage in the shade of a baobab
who grows its many legs into the earth
who hopes one day to walk away

I am the ambivore and prowling
looking for she to eat and hungry for sleep
between the warmth of those sheets
and if at night something doth seep
let it be from me for I cannot keep
anything in or all of that yowling

sarcophagus
sarcophallus
sarcophantic

kraken and squid
and the ink I write my notes with
this blood is black
and writes the best of words

It was the best of words. It was the worst of words, and many other sausages too. Something salty in the taste of those and a texture like oysters. There was the sea in them, and it rolls over the foot, and it rows over the ankle, and it roves over the kneed, and it covers it all, and it covers it all, covers it all as if nothing had ever been there but the pliant and rocking ocean.

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