Sunday 30 December 2012



ANTIPOPE

like many times before sound of churchbells is wringed into bomber airplane softest murmur majestically circling mossy snare constituting river Saar early afternoon last century or in Belarus same time but later thirty years in movie Idi i Smotri by Elem Klimov where boy digs for dead rifles by Lake Lukomlskaye hides behind knoll as sound of never heard before break silence of death perpetuation and landscape rape machine eyes peering through sandy lids onto apparition certainly not jewish Messiah look the dress split in half above knees she floats with great abandon

Saturday 29 December 2012


TOWARDS REGRESSION

the head began laughing.
the laughter cornered smile.
face set on revenge.
foretold labia requested pretext.
sweat communicated guided weeping.
hair rejected several ideologies.
scalp began the process.  

Sunday 16 December 2012


SANS SCRIPT

in the future/ the weeping/ will be performed digitally/ 

by contractors of grief/ installed

at our digital tombs/ to the waxing
discomfort/

of our interactive
corpses/ 

Saturday 15 December 2012


[AUTO] AIR

the destruction of memory/ the auto-destruction of memory/ the auto-destruction of auto-memory/ the auto-destruction self of auto-memory/ the auto-destruction self-destruction of auto-memory/ the auto-destruction self-destruction self of auto-memory/ the auto-destruction self-destruction destruction-self of auto-memory/

Friday 14 December 2012



John Ashbery's "Houseboat Days" - first-sentence-only lazy appropriation artist edition.


1. one died, and the soul was wrenched out of the other in life, who, walking the streets wrapped in an identity like a coat, sees on and on the same corners, volumetrics, shadows under trees.

2. they all came, some wore sentiments emblazoned on t-shirts, proclaiming the lateness of the hour, and indeed the sun slanted its rays through branches of norfolk island pine as though politely clearing its throat.

3. sometimes a word would start it, like hands and feet, sun and gloves.

4. you can have whatever you want.

5. the tests are good.

6. out here on cottage grove it matters.

7. the tires slowly came to a rubbery stop

8. there is no reason for the surcharge to bother you.

9. she liked the blue drapes.

10. the luxury of now is that the cancelled gala has been put back in.

11. you thought it was wrong.

12. the disquieting muses again: what are "leftovers"?

13. it's this crazy weather we've been having: falling foward one minute, lying down the next among the loose grasses and soft, white, nameless flowers.

14. at the sign "fred muffin's antiques" they turned off the road into a narrow lane lined with shabby houses.

15. a little girl with scarlet enameles fingernails asks me what time it is - evidently that's a toy wristwatch she's wearing, for fun.

16. for a long time i used to get up early.

17. the conception is interesting: to see, as though reflected in streaming windowpanes, the look of others through their own eyes.

18. some departure from the norm will occur as time grows more open about it.

19. something strange is creeping across me.

20. the code-name losses and contemplations float in and around us through the window.

21. like an object whose loss has begun to be felt though not yet noticed, your pulsar signals to the present death.

22. the lace of spoken breathing fades quite quickly, becomes something it has no part in, the chairs and the mugs used by the new young tenants, whose glance is elsewhere.

23. the skin is broken.

24. all through the fifties and sixties the land tilted toward the bowl of life.

25. for the disciple nothing had changed.

26. a sudden, acrid smell of roses, and the urchin turns away, tears level in the eyes.

27. you can't say it that way anymore.

28. the medieval town, with frieze of boy scouts from nagoya?

29. and others, vaguer presences are built out of the meshing of life and space at the point where we are wholly revealed in the lozenge-shaped openings.

30. i teach in a high school and see the nurses in some of the hospitals, and if all teachers are like that maybe i can give you a buzz some day, maybe we can get together for lunch or coffee or something?

31. the kinds of thing are more important than the individual thing, though the specific is supremely interesting.

32. i saw a cottage in the sky.

33. to you my friend who was in this street once were on it getting in with it getting on with it though only passing by a smell of hamburgers that day an old mattress and a box spring as it darkened filling the empty rumble of a street in decay.

34. although i mean it, and project the meaning as hard as i can into its brushed-metal surface, it cannot, in this deteriorating climate, pick up where i leave off.

35. like a serpent among roses, like an asp among withered thornapples i coil to and at you.

36. long ago was the then beginning to seem like now as now is but the setting out on a new but still undefined way.

37. the buildings, piled so casually behind each other, are "suggestions which, while only suggestions, we hope you will take seriously."

38. orpheus liked the glad personal quality of the things beneath the sky.

39. be it right or wrong, these men among others in the park, all those years in the cold, are a plain kind of thing: bands of acanthus and figpeckers. 

Thursday 13 December 2012


FEEDBACK LOUNGE/GENERATING CONSTRAINT

not unlike a spruce/ standing alone/ unable to collect/ the feedback/ of another spruce/ that stands alone/ unable/ to collect the feedback/ of another spruce/ that stands alone/ not unlike you/ at the end of a long queue of christmas shoppers in Primark/ clutching worthless scarves and cardigans/ gathered in a timely frenzy/ an anomaly/ it was later contested/ that prevented any of them/ from collecting your feedback/ not to say/ at all recognise you/ as another integral system/ 

And running this through the N+7 constraint machine one ends up with this result:

not unlike a spruce/ starch alone/ unable to collect/ the feedback/ of another spruce/ that stands alone/ unable/ to collect the feedback/ of another spruce/ that stands alone/ not unlike you/ at the enema of a long quill of chump shorties in Primark/ clutching worthless scarves and cardigans/ gathered in a timely frenzy/ an anomaly/ it was later contested/ that prevented any of them/ from collecting your feedback/ not to say/ at all recognise you/ as another integral system/

Disappointing. Although 

"at the enema of a long quill of chump shorties in Primark"

pretends to sound pretty good. Thankfully it only gets better further down the line:

n+8:

"at the enemy of a long quilt of chunk shorties in Primark"

n+9:

"at the energy of a long quin of church shots in Primark"

n+10:

"at the enforcement of a long quince of churchgoer shotguns in Primark"

n+11:

"at the engagement of a long quintet of churchman shoulders in Primark"

n+12:

"at the engine of a long quintuplet of churchwarden shovels in Primark"

n+13:

"at the engineer of a long quip of churchyard shovelfuls in Primark"

n+14:

"at the engineering of a long quirk of churn showcases in Primark" 

n+15:

"at the englishman of a long quisling of chute showdowns in Primark"

All in all not all I hoped for when I engaged to waste 20 minutes on this thing. But inserting the entirety of the previous entry on HPS though, generated a few worthwhile results:

n+7:

"now that your patricide was spent/ you asked me to enter another one of your rooms/ where ridiculously small persian carts lay strewn on torch of each other to coward up a partisan of the flotation that was made for a single, bigger carpet/ a telling designed as a white elk rested on an overcharge corona table/ "is this where the otherness begins"/ it read on a white baptism that levitated poorly above a doorway/ the new pressure/ the new sensitivity/ predatory silt hung like a preference in the room/ was it possible that as we now no longer needed timpanist for each other, were in need of more spaniel, for each other/ equal to the amplifier of timpanist surrendered/ 

i had accepted your iron blindly and found myself in your room/ it must have been just nosey-parker of the belly/ and for a money there, i got to dovetail whether all timpanist in rear belonged to you/ as we now no longer would have timpanist for each other/ actually would not have your timpanist, for us/ that my concerto of timpanist would be stored somewhere else/ as the timpanist of the guest/ the ridiculously tardy/ in yet another rosary in you/ in some verge of the brandish that could be reached only by dispatch/ or telephoned, if you lifted off the elk's right twang and sponsorship 
into the cavity/ 
quite similar to how you would call up neighboring taboos in nightlight clutters not long ago/ asking someone there to daredevil with you, driver with you or something else that fitted the moorland and occasion/ maybe it was like this again then/ that i would have to call you/ from a rosary within you/ to fillet out where we were supposed to go next/ fillet out whether or not you were thirsty/ and whether you rumba or rogue'n'roll/"

n+15:

"now that your pattern was spent/ you asked me to enter another one of your rooms/ where ridiculously small persian cartridges lay strewn on tortilla of each other to coyote up a parvenu of the flowerbed that was made for a single, bigger carpet/ a tempo designed as a white embarrassment rested on an overhead corpse table/ "is this where the otherness begins"/ it read on a white bard that levitated poorly above a doorway/ the new pressure/ the new sensitivity/ predatory simulation hung like a premiere in the room/ was it possible that as we now no longer needed tinkle for each other, were in need of more spasm, for each other/ equal to the analgesic of tinkle surrendered/ 

i had accepted your island blindly and found myself in your room/ it must have been just note of the belly/ and for a monocle there, i got to downturn whether all tinkle in rebellion belonged to you/ as we now no longer would have tinkle for each other/ actually would not have your tinkle, for us/ that my concordance of tinkle would be stored somewhere else/ as the tinkle of the guest/ the ridiculously tardy/ in yet another rotor in you/ in some vertebra of the brawl that could be reached only by dispatch/ or telephoned, if you lifted off the embarrassment's right twin-set and sporran 
into the cavity/ 
quite similar to how you would call up neighboring tails in nipper coalitions not long ago/ asking someone there to dartboard with you, drop with you or something else that fitted the morass and occasion/ maybe it was like this again then/ that i would have to call you/ from a rotor within you/ to finalist out where we were supposed to go next/ finalist out whether or not you were thirsty/ and whether you rumba or rondo'n'roll/"

Find the N+7 constraint machine here:

http://www.spoonbill.org/n+7/


Tuesday 4 December 2012


OKLARA REGENBOGAR

now that your patience was spent/ you asked me to enter another one of your rooms/ where ridiculously small persian carpets lay strewn on top of each other to cover up a part of the floor that was made for a single, bigger carpet/ a telephone designed as a white elephant rested on an oval corner table/ "is this where the otherness begins"/ it read on a white banner that levitated poorly above a doorway/ the new pressure/ the new sensitivity/ predatory silence hung like a prediction in the room/ was it possible that as we now no longer needed time for each other, were in need of more space, for each other/ equal to the amount of time surrendered/

i had accepted your invitation blindly and found myself in your room/ it must have been just north of the belly/ and for a moment there, i got to doubt whether all time in reality belonged to you/ as we now no longer would have time for each other/ actually would not have your time, for us/ that my concept of time would be stored somewhere else/ as the time of the guest/ the ridiculously tardy/ in yet another room in you/ in some ventricle of the brain that could be reached only by dispatch/ or telephoned, if you lifted off the elephant's right tusk and spoke 
into the cavity/ 
quite similar to how you would call up neighboring tables in night clubs not long ago/ asking someone there to dance with you, drink with you or something else that fitted the mood and occasion/ maybe it was like this again then/ that i would have to call you/ from a room within you/ to figure out where we were supposed to go next/ figure out whether or not you were thirsty/ and whether you rumba or rock'n'roll/ 

Friday 23 November 2012


BODYCOUNT DRACULA

what comes after the bodies have looked at the bodies/ and decided that the bodies just look like bodies/ one body says to another; hey that's my body/ all the bodies turn to respond; go figure/ where will we pile up/ and why will we pile up/ i spent 84 years building a powerhouse body/ secured against company/ and disintegration/ why must it then be thrown on top of the others/ and what about my shyness/ and what about their fear/ 

Wednesday 14 November 2012


RE-QUIT ALL

why fishermen would even use gondolas/ is not the first thing that makes you apprehensive/ nor that they keep dragging up half-decomposed bodies/ squirting out colors as if trying out/ for a francis bacon painting/ or that the gondolas are adrift on a sea
not noticeable as a sea/ unless you find it appropriate to keep calling a sea/ with no water in it, a sea/ but as it becomes clear that you are watching this/ not from underneath the jagged loggias/ with a sandwich in your hand/ but from the bottom of the sea/ it becomes hard to suppress your incredulity/or the ground then/ if you still contest that a sea with no water in it, can be called a sea/ you see the dry ripples/ where they throw their lines in/ hooks with no bait/ plunging and wavering like feathers towards you/ irresistible metal bits/ waltzing slowly to and fro/ landing with weighted certainty in your mouth/ so you think/ can i think/ and formulate resistance, spit/ but you already answer/ before you ask/ and can hear your question take place/ before the utterance is yours you bite, and you think/ can i still resist/ if i think/ can i remove this reality by thinking/ if i let this sea be my mind / the millions of bodies bleeding colors/ ideas/as in, i drift upwards to wake up/ into the air, if the sea is not a sea and so forth/ and think, i do not find myself puzzled/ as your legs and arms drop off/ and let out streams of paint and oily residues/ where does it go/ and what will the gondoliers do with all the bodies

Thursday 8 November 2012


EVERYTHING COUNTS IN LARGE AMOUNTS

so we remember never having faked it
talking at length about our hearts
lungs, kidneys and pelvic bones
the drawers full of clothes we had yet to smell
monogamy, we said, begins with the obliteration
of the other
you asked, what book are you reading
i asked, what book are you reading
the flight attendants all took turns
tightening the parachutes
the brothers karamasov, i lied
moby dick, you swallowed
where are we supposed to do it then
the blast doors spring open
we can do it in my fantasy
it is like breakfast and lunch in one
you said

Wednesday 7 November 2012


STRIP SLIT CHAFE



the triplets the atonal [bastards]
the gun the
the moral of the story is

boredom kills
when life won't

the proud poet the p
the skilled conjurer of any
the slightest avoidance of deadness

the immortality imbedded in a thousand lovers
the strand the strands
the chaos that got cleaned up

Tuesday 6 November 2012


STALLATS

my hands those limbs all stopped
mid action stretching there
vastness of furrows in window soot
drawn by cold dead sun inside

Monday 5 November 2012


CARAMBOLAGE DES CRITTERS


no one will accuse you
of being one that never
accuses others
of never accusing you
a ladder

runs from your eye
onto a sullen precipice
from which the four-legged creatures
that go there
shout out wonders
that get lost in your fantasies
and end up telling you nothing

Thursday 1 November 2012



(engine revving)

do not ask me to summarise all the signs/ that emanate from the trivial and transitory/ proposing to leap from the trivial and transitory/ into the industrious and frantically mystical/ at two o clock in the morning in Tbilisi International Airport/ let me just quickly mention the perturbing sight of two men/ eyes closed/ spinning heaps of luggage into cling film coccoons/ with a gusto that can only find its roots in teosophic scriptures concerning oriental dance/ coccoons/ that later will fill the gap between check-in desk 21 and 23/ and then disappear on electric carpets into a dusty pit / only to return as disagreeable moths/ that will be forever drawn to the ecstatic light gushing out of your love scar/ towards the hole that is filled with a kiss/
or the other way round/ towards the kiss that is filled with a hole/ 

Wednesday 17 October 2012


CORDONS


for a short amount of time, it might be the succession of just a few seconds, or a few seconds in no succession at all, shards of time spread out over an inarticulate plain, banana peels slipping in and out of slapstick contexts, hot oil leaping out of a frying pan to turn your neck into a writhing miracle, - you know what i mean - what i am talking about; all the tiny jolts that lets you know you are about to be possessed by an other, or letting you know that an other is about to possess you. you find yourself somewhere in the kitchen, working hard to resist the impulse of calling it god. resisting the urge to further abstract the already abstract, and please don't mind me writing that you would say it like this: 

          "he was extrapolating dearly on something quite singular"

the already unfathomable chasm of nothingness smiles back at your pretense to plaster a smile upon its nothingness. now, and here it shows; the puny hand of an entity completely devoid of being bodily succinct, touching you to let you know that it is not fully out of reach, that there is an element of warmth that can yet be perceived. you are touched by embers, and wanting to remember, you name the embers and insert your experience of the glow on a neat scale. you say:

          "this is happening now"

when in fact you know that it is more likely that it never happened/ or will never happen at all. you say:

          "i can feel the body of christ"

when in fact you know that it is more likely that there doesn't exist/ will never be a transcaction of intimacy at all. you are sitting alone in the kitchen. rather; you are standing alone in the kitchen, pondering how a multitude of artefacts could come together to perform a dull symphony. you want me to write:

          "it will be as if nothing ever happened"

but we both wish to avoid lying. soon you will be fed, and the notion of otherness will gradually leave your body and give way to a particular sense of loss. your belly will remind you of your mother, and for a while, not long, you will attribute all unplanned occurences to an overwhelming sensation of nostalgia. the kind of melancholy that makes you pick up a phone, dial a number you know by heart and then hang up just after the first ring. but it is not true. something did not not-happen; you went into a room to pick something up. you forgot what it was you wanted to pick up. you stood in a room trying to trace the inner workings of your desires. you wanted me to write:

          "time went by in an unsolicited manner"

instead i listened, as you grew silent with expectance, and wrote:

          "he went back into the kitchen, thinking that nothing had happened. a cigarette. he looked at the phone. it seemed brand new. the frying pan was left unused"

then the phone rang, and none of us answered. 

Wednesday 10 October 2012






"At times it really does seem to me as if the whole of society were still in the Cairo opera house to celebrate the inexorable advance of Progress. Christmas Eve, 1871. For the first time the strains of the Aida overture are heard. With every bar, the incline of the stalls become a fraction steeper. The first ship glides through the Suez Canal. On the bridge stands a motionless figure in the white uniform of an admiral, observing the desert through a telescope. You will see the forests again, is Amanoroso's promise. Did you also know that in Scipio's day it was still possible to travel from Egypt to Morocco under the shade of trees? The shade of trees! And now, fire breaks out in the opera house. A crackling conflagration. With a crash the seats in the stalls, together with all their occupants, vanish into the orchestra pit. Through the swathes of smoke beneath the ceiling an unfamiliar figure comes floating down. Di morte l'angelo a noi s'appressa."

                                           - W.G.Sebald, from Vertigo (cheers Neil)

Tuesday 9 October 2012



"Mummy, will there be shopping centers in heaven?"

"No love, of course not. Although, heaven being the first rate gated community that heaven is, there will be a wide selection of high end boutiques and parlors." 


pay close attention, this message will only be broadcasted once:

saps of the world, unite. your number is up, and believe me, you will be left at the departure gates, while the chosen ones head off to new worlds of menial splendor. do not, i repeat, do not let this be your chosen moment to rise up, in some moment of gravely mis-forged valor, and do nothing. there is no creed for you to answer to in this way, do not take action yet. have faith.
there is a higher calling you have yet to answer to, and we will be needing every single of you,
every last nitwit of the world, to rise up together and do something, to act and give yourself up for a cause. the time is nigh, just be ready, it is all we ask.

end of broadcast.

a glimmer of hope, but for whom? what colorless and anemic entity could possibly hearken to this unwarranted calling? what gutless gathering of sad sycophants could find hope, and better yet; purpose, in such a decree? what vile and corruptible being or beings would want to unify with such a prosaic personnage of pinheads? to what end? what purpose can it serve to congregate such a jumbled body of blubberheads to beligerently battle the inevitable coming of their butterscotched destinies?

it's normally so tidy in here.

in my mind i spell the word "panasonic" three times over. the tape recorder sits on the table, devoid of audible activity. before i can either force it or stop it, like it was always there to be uttered, i think, i formulate the question:

why did it begin?


Thursday 27 September 2012





the sun is awake before me     the sun is awake before me
the sun is awake before me
                                                      but my sleep is real
my sleep is real



the streets = commuters = still
the houses = advertising = cheap
the heavens = fly paper = busy


d

LEVEL III EXPERIENCE
AT BREAK OF DAWN:

doing something beautiful for someone you hate

Wednesday 22 August 2012


NOT GORDIAN

TO THINK that the mouth opens every time and never stops being a hole constantly filled with paralysed didactics and soft and hard objects going in or out/ but insists/ that the process of opening up in itself is a valuable historicism worthy of mention not as self-regard though as the flow of objects often begins with a limp blow that is almost exclusively external/ and begins and ends/ in itself like before before the conclusion also starts hinting towards stretching and bending into unremarked territories and start again as before as an unimportant action thought insignificant merely due to its natural design/ like all those catastrophes that never took place/ or the swapping of tropes just before midnight in somebody's deserted book/

Tuesday 14 August 2012


YEAR OF THE BMW ISETTA 600 - MAN MüSSTE! - MOTORISIERT SEIN

at night you came and tucked me in/ the linen smelled of four kinds of lavender/ in the morning, on a plate/ you had prepared several [✚]/ and poured a glass of [✠✠✠]/ in school, all through the day/ we studied boredom and escape/ fantasied heightened states of boredom/ drowsy apparitions dressed in pastel aprons throwing many-colored confetti into a pond with great detachment/ we closed our eyes and listened to cars/ we named everything, karla, michael, günther, haus, bahn/ in the afternoons we hurried home to dinners and green jello/ naming every house on the way [♜]/ later in the evening we would sit around the open window/ and wait for the meteor to happen/ wait for mum to open the umbrella indoors so that the singing would begin/ the little hint of a moon being created/ just before the day ended/ in [✈✈✈]/ and the metal twisting the little babies to sleep/



Thursday 9 August 2012



READ THE INSIDE OF MY LIPS


i have been expecting a letter for three years. that a telephone would ring, or that someone would break down the door. explain what has transpired. today, on the hottest day of the year, a card arrives: "seasonal greetings to you and your family, merry christmas and a happy new year!" it is the first of october. my heart tastes of marzipan. the swans let go of their buds, all at once. i watch them trickle uselessly towards a depression in the middle of the floor. towards the stalls. in line, like black or dark berries on a straw. the postman approaches the jukebox a third time. picking songs exclusively at a very high decibel level. whole lotta rosie is played twice. it is impossible to determine whether or not he is improvising or actually knows the lyrics to the different songs. singing swans. bull frogs skipping the counter.  mermaids. eye lids like juicy scrolls. a tattoo reads: "carpe noctem". it's christmas time again. i am close to finding you. 

Wednesday 8 August 2012



HUMMINGBIRDS AND WOLVES

watching "under the volcano" in 2012/ is supposedly different than delving into it in 1984/ or 1947/ or all the same/ depending on what lurks under the volcano/ depending on in what street you encounter the corpse of albert finney/ then malcolm lowry/ grasping at an enclosed letter at the end of a service line/ deliriously going at the last drops of tequila before the mezcal/ wanting a love able to forgive the love that went away/ then a glimpse of Cain in an alleyway commiting suicide before laying hands on his brother/ then the tired explorer intrepidly darting into a newly opened void to catch the last flicker of light before its totality/ like the vulcanologist at Mt. St. Helens would delight in a cup of coffee an early morning of May, 1980/ just before the landscape was changed forever/ a flame that would treat everything like tinders/ ruthlessly go at it until total turmoil/ lay everything out as new/ waiting to be renamed/ forcing the question: if a white horse leaps in the night and no one is around to see it/ how can you learn how to ride/ 

Wednesday 1 August 2012


NDRSTNDNG NTHNGNSS AS BRDM


un-accidental/ bugs are self-injecting poisonous retorts/ leaving their shells to dry in the sun/ self-hypnotised/ then hoovered into space/ by the single breath of a stealth god/ bug god/ trying to exit itself too/ by re-entering a surprising entity/ causing a stir/ by mere apparition/ then blaming other forces, saying:/ i burn without guilt/ oh yes, the first movement was mine/ but when we danced you insisted on taking the lead/


  first through worship/
  then through dependency/

and now you turn away/ and want to condemn me/ for having drawn my breath a single time/

  the paradise boys are peeping through the shutters/
  the paradise girls are glancing into a made up distance/

who shall care as i grow older/ guide me down the stairs in the midst of night/ ease my worries as i draw towards an end/ as the light that is my own/ becomes a dampened glow in a municipal corridor/ in a house undiscovered/ who shall dare to remain/ and recite elegies to celebrate my originality/ and selflessness/ honor my memory with select words to accompany the cries/ as my coffin, if it will exist/ is lowered into the dirt, if it will exist/ to be covered with more dirt - undeniably non-existenst -/ as the sorrow, if it can exist/ springs out like a flower/ near a tombstone that is my own, if it can exist/ still warm inside an icecube of used-to-be/ who shall tell me of gods/ sacrifice and piety/ and forgiveness/

  my body/
  my body/
  the hot sands/

  the paradise boys are doubting their second chance/
  the paradise girls are moving out/

Friday 13 July 2012


DNMRK ENDLOS



in Denmark
tanks are driving
backwards
over the plains of history
21 year old corporals
and field lieutenants
enter unpatented time machines
with wanton hopes
of love and promotion
only to dry up years earlier
in a pool of sperm
somewhere in Schleswig-Holstein
that would never make it

Tuesday 10 July 2012





ONLY CENTURIES AWAY:


shall we not continue then/ is it not up to us/ to stake out a course/ and define the territory/
shall we not navigate and find our way then/ on and through and by way of each other/ by what we know/ and accept/ from that which we blindly trust/ to that which we fully love/
by way of non-descript star systems on white breasts/ watery beads on a spring day/ dripping into oblivion/ or condensating into hot air/ into hot universes/ observed for milliseconds only/ by an astronomer's gaze as he peers out of the bushes/ time enough for a few constellations to be bashfully known/ but not enough for any to be named/
to mark a trajectory on a sleeping belly/ strewn with foxes hair/ masquerading the advance of miraculously light fingers/ tangentially tippity-toeing along the untended barricades/ into the midst of the den/
and on a freckled summer's day/ draw a line from above-closed-eyes forehead/ to the soft valley of a venetian landscape/ where trying fingers thread the waters like inexperienced gondoliers/
shall we not continue to pursue each other then/ under light paper blankets of summer/ under crisp duvets of autumn time/ under furry skins of mammoth and bison in winter/ and rustle with anticipation in a squirrel's nut shell in spring/
shall we not ignite with promises/ on the longest day of the year/ by seas or lakes/ wiping crawfish juice and tears of joy from chins with soggy napkins/ watching seals, seagulls and ducks/ and wide varieties of made-up creatures/ contemplate somersaults/ in the sparkling, watery distance/
shall our unbridled self-involvement not lead us then/ to forget about SCUD rockets and covert operations/ drone attacks/ and UN forces forever standing idly by/
shall we not be so wonderfully selfish then/ as to carve a diamond cave in an unchartered territory/ to settle down there/ and incubate and cultivate tiny wonders privately/
shall we not sit by the hot stone in winter/ and count the numbers of wonders and apparitions since having first met/
shall we not count the hours of peace before nightfall/
shall we not draw a line from the end of one tiny nose/ to the end of another tiny nose/ making it impossible not to fixate/ to have gazes locked on above-nasal area/ the concentrated superhighway of lust and desire/
should our world not stay congested then/ so that it would always have to be blasted wide open/ always had to be sprung out/ like an italian mobster in a much too tiny cell/ if for nothing else/ so that there may be an open space/ where the laundry can be hung out to dry/