#343: ‘EVERY TRUE MAN’S APPAREL FITS YOUR THIEF’

ABHORSON! ABHORSON!

iambic containment
contaminant   

                        with sad eyes
the poor fellow looks on
not understanding while I dig into
his super supper utterly blinded
it is not my first encounter with a phoenix

rising from the acid

riveted by uncouth paradoxes
perhaps the executioner expects us
to understand him, his underground
workplace Abhorson
the quintessence of correction
the rootspace where stands the bladed wheel

glutted with human sausage the inferior critic
thinking for all of us now who stay to watch
the delicate warping of words
Abhorson rules the vats
and rules the wheel upon its axle
my head my tongue  Abhorson
already talking the nonsense talk
of the dead

#342: Ex ungue leonem / Beauty's stresses

Ancient Rome in the Middle Ages: grandeur, antiquity,

     textuality.
After all this time textuality is not yet a word
my computer will acknowledge. Fuck it acknowledges.
What you get if you were born
during papyrus embargo: strange doubts
assail one,
a deep sense of the fleeting nature of things.

So textual criticism: what is it?

Is it all about the future
or is it looking for a place to die?

I ask this, the implications of this,
and of that I in Virgil the Middle Ages used:
Virgil: poetry , texts, history.
Because weird things crop up.
Virgil Vergil really.
Orthographical questions turd up everywhere.

Not to mention error.

Adam Scrivein:
The faulty scribe is thematic
of textual transmission
debate between body and soul
contagion and spirit


But wait O genetrix Aeneadis
wait, nocturnal hippos of the night---
we’re not even to the Visigoths yet
not even to Ausonius
not even to the hour of night
that is the
silent entangler of beauty’s tresses! 

#341: couplet

burlap scrota
sweeping through charnel realms

#340: Cur etiamnuc cano?

cur, canule, cano carmen
cum dissolvet mundus iste
quis audiet aut quis leget
cur etiamnunc cano triste?

vado tibi tacite
etiamnunc amo te
mox dormiens
nox invadens

absolve, parvule,
istud carmen, canule,
insomne
somniente

amabo te!



why little dog to i sing a song
while this so-called world dissolves?
who will listen or who will read?
why even now do i sadly sing?

i come to you quietly
i love you even now
soon sleeping
night in-creeping

forgive, little one,
this so-called song, little dog
sleeplessly
entering sleep

please!

#339: Butter Krust confessio and unction

gorgeousness has always been  my curse
made in usa
roaring products spring
directly into my hand
like a punch in the face
or the head
when i lie dying i am sure i will smell
Butter Krust Bread
such gorgeousness having always been
my downfall and my curse

but at least I can chuck that piece of card stock
that institutional stationery that
cast such a spell
nor recycle its pulp for tenuous inane futurity
but chuck it in the garbage
where patterns also reveal themselves
look into it who will

but I shall have entered Butter Krust Country
à la dernière fois

#338: tired

i am tired of your website
i am tired of the brownshirt aesthetic you have given it
i am ultimately disgusted by your
jutting chin
clearly you have been
checking out footage
of the Duce

still, I do not look forward to the newsreel
in which you effect
your final imitation
of that colossal ape
when he is dragged back into town
from his retreat
and his chin at last is upside down

#337: mutants

eveb mtants hb to sleepe

# 336: Negative Fucks

broken suns
and well smashed urns
fragments and shards

children of tomorrow:

find them in their beds
put a glock to their heads

drown the bunnies
drown the bunnies

for it is the time
of negative fucks

BONUS text

# 3 3 5: Monstra glaebosa

it is the time of lumpy monsters
contriving. in great freedom.
on the banks of a river. in the moonlight.
engorged with blood.
and contriving
colossal
pyramids.

#334: questions

if not now, when?

if not never, why?

#333: hvd: for Molly

for my part
my heart is like
a restless squid, hyperintelligent
escaping from his dark area

to answer the tentacular
chaos
coming from the depth
of your
stormy tank

#332: Sanguinis erit

no kind of sack
or whatsoever container
can contain
such blood
for long

#331: Pulvus erit

terrorist love, caritas
will not at all to quietness be wed
but chaos
the child of all the negligent
bastardy of previous days
will be the unspecific groom


whether by some act of sabotage
or silent attack
her ravishment is almost nigh

# 3 3 O: KASSANDRA

Zeus fathers Helen as a swan
no rebirth: humans leaving
non-human wombs

humans having non-human
divine or bestial wounds
Helen a microcosm of guaranteed ruin

Argive men the vital fluid
of the horse: transmitted
to the womb of Troy

when she leaves the egg:
first of two births
incubates in Troy and is reborn

as a Greek

thus
Trojan culture is aborted

#329: AFTER ALL

Perhaps it is true:

I have been so focused on Pratinas’ 

epichormon against the encroachment of the flute

in choral accompaniment

merely because I am avoiding writing

the necessary poem:

the one that 

summons 

fire

#328: Invocation to DIONYSIACA

from the Greek of Nonnus

SING goddess the bright burning mess-

enger of the CRONIDAI

the breathless labour brought on by thunder

the electrical storm in Semele’s bridal bed—

               report on the birth

of twice-born BACCHUS whom Zeus his father         plucked

half-formed from the fire —goo-covered baby—

SANS DOULA

how painfully he cut a cavity in his thigh

and carried him there, father and noble mother      both

not unmindful of a previous pregnancy—

     when his head gave birth

having an unbearable and unbegotten lump

enlarging his cranium

until it burst

and shot forth burning in her armor bright

     ATHENA!

#327: EXCARNATION

meet me atop vulture mountain

to dance about

on  the bone-bed

and contemplate

the fleshless moon

I’ll be the one

dressed as a vulture

#326: deep totals

computed sans reason
perpetual counting
even while we sleep
simultaneously
in several worlds

and while we are awake
near the ocean floor
it is hemorrhaging mathematics

#325: process

standing on the shoulders
of mutants

following in the footsteps of the dead

under ice-cold thicknesses of stars

i scraped my head

and awakened

like a blind sardine
in the night

with the night itself
flopping on the shore




to be continued

# 324: panic

but you have no right to insist
that poetry make sense
that you be able
to grasp it
to eat it
or suck it out of a box
or bite it off a bone

that panic of yours
is strictly your own

# 323: time

bong bong bong
Bong bong bong
Boong boing bung
Bing
Bang
Bong

 animals are incredible
at all times
wherever
they lurk

#322: ARCHAIC CONVERSATION

eavesdropping on ancient conversations

is not that enlightening

but

neither are a lot of things

              e)nqusia/zeiv: the god is in you.

They, in typical Athenian fashion, started talking
their heads off
in various tenses
and aspects.
Tense is like trajectory;
aspect is like pedal-work. As in:

        "Be careful who is helping
        you throw up."

Or else:

Having persuaded up his friends (a)napei/sav)

from elsewhere (a)/lloqen)

(he had always been trying to convince them (e)pei/qen)),

he outlined his plan:

“You wait around

until I have

returned.”

      He’s an aristocrat
      and he means to seize power.

When the time was lunch
they grew up until
something should eat them.

       The pig is already dead,
       but even if it were a goat
       it would never have counted
       in the sacrifice.
       Get another
       but hurry the place is filling up fast.

Solitary divergence on a point
of physical law
is nothing on which to found
a theory of liberty—
but maybe it is.

        the moon offers a blessing:
       wisdom for the moment of death.
       Still, I dare not accept it.

the old men were like
pickpockets
trapped in a crowded room

    STRANGER, go and be announcing to the Lacedaimonians
    we are a dithery race
    quite passive barbarians.


OKAY
OKAY

OKAY 

OKAY
Don’t say anything else.

I am going.

#321: adversary

sleepy-eyed orange butt-troll
effecting fart-storms in the lower air
toxic entertainer
of degenerates

fast-food fascist
 bag
of adipocere

 sick bird fat
from years
of eating garbage

* i am talking to you *

...i get it i really do
i understand why they love your guts!

they remember as i do too
a broken-down fun-house
at some amusement park or fair
to which a deep and inexplicable
infinitely painful nostalgia
attaches

identify strongly with all that abuse

even in mad old age
and in your rage
you will never try to rob them of that thing
in their fists