Epithalamion in honour of the wood termites
a kind of single-mindedness powerful enough to fry and batter neuron's zap that screams: 'you're fucking dying here!' drives on these lovers' million nuptial pinions t'wards cupid beaks that rend and gulp their hearts to tatters, mashed in orgy gore with one and other. Yet they fly and fly and fly. The branch's tunnel mouths exhale with every moment millions more marchers, feed the air their spinning mist. insensate hordes, seraphic soldiers that know not what they do, but do it fully, that know not death until they feel it fully.
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the leaf-miners
Born away from sight, they nibble through the days of cellgreen bedtight caves of salad life, a maze to grow and lie in shadow till growth of wings and flying and mating, laying, dying. a lone leaf's stain is all their story as soon as bitten, lost, and blown about as litter, grown and rubbed to rotten dust. Unloved, unknown. (14th November 2024)
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vomit inducing rhythm
-uu-u-u-u-uu u-uu-u-u-u- Putrefy, god-or-nature's mouldy myriad intensities, sliding up and down the brick barriers cutting each and every prisoner to pieces of flesh, grey lichens spend their spores, sporophytes curve below the dewdrop's gathering encumbrance and crack-strings crawl across the brick's bitten-of-flies-and-people, clayred cavities and nobody's ever getting out of this, this and no other kind of world is adequate. (Nov 2024)
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PREVIEW: OPENING OF 'A Fractional distillation' (or maybe i'll never finish it, oh well)
when, fetal-bent, my torso's carried off and placed inside--let's not mince words--an oven of black matte-rusted steel, ornate of hinge and foot, when in this devil's molten womb i lie, and count each roared-out second singe my blood to vapour, vapour then to dust, then bones to dowels of chalky ash, their muscle- knit sheaves to matted string and tough-torn sinew; what liquid soul will be distilled from me? what weighable gram-count droplet ooze its heart's refined entireness in plumb-straight streams to limpid, lipid, perfect pools below? the name of this fair quintessence is F A T ; A crude and sumptuous mix of sebums, oils, triglycerides, these glues, these lymphs and plasmas, these vaselines and lubricating slicknesses that melt at touch, congeal in lukewarm icebergs to yellow-white, to poison fulnesses organic, but impossible to eat. Diverse, but marked as kin by each one's tail of laddered carbon-snakes, some long, some short, some many even branched, and countless bent; alike, lithe chains of coal-stuff furred with protons that make like love like, solvent of each and other and only each other; e'en that prodigious solvent, water's oxidane, no fat dissolves. Yes, all of oil-family is this splotch; a clearish, milky puddle that sept sighing from that late I that curled in oven cage. But all is mixed and muddled, all a stew of alloyed oil, waning wax, swirled grease of who knóws what cómposítion cúrdled, stáined; So pour me. Scraping may be needed too; decant this mortal balm to the purposed flask of rounded bottom, choking neck. Gloved hands, clean blueskin fingers, grasp with one this glass- cold urn of me; the other pats, with sting of metal spatula, my form smeared deep within the vessel's bowels. Wherefore is all this done? (Nov 2024)
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love story: itchy eye + disgusting old coin
my eye owes pubic filth touched fingerprint and sawn up micro grassstem fragment dust to these it owes its current itchiness so now i ponder how to soothe it best what cold is here? my hands are hot with blood and dry; all else on me is warm or hot. the metal post below my desk? Perhaps, but my eye can no way touch it comfortably. this coin? A 50 cent, dodecagon of silver -- ancient grease, metallic scented; determined, goosish, too, our young queen turns as not to draw attention, hides her face. It promises sure a strange disease to come some fell infection from a nineteen-eighty- fifth year AD snot-drool from a child Yet, yet: how cold it is, how well it fits the eye. I'll press it fast; and if I die? (2/11/24)
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historia haustorii
i am laurel>. call me Dodder pleased to meet you! its soooo nice to talk to you :) (3 months pass) oh let me be! this is my nature, so let me be or you destroy me im sorry youre uncomfortable with it my curling and twisting that is you dont have to do anything though. just let me twine around your limbs curl my tendrils through your hair, between your fingers pricks? suckers? it's itchy? oh, should i just die then? without this juice ill be a wilting string of nothing. it's just one or two. Well, i cant say i wont poke more. But still it's fine!!!! look, im green, ill even photosynthesise a bit myself. (1/11/24)
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more stuff about the same old 'oh flesh and matter is made of atoms etc' crap. Im osrry
(bonnet)
countless sighing horrors meekly pass
where soil's edge meets thread of grass
where death's ash ever fresher life begets
and phoenix substance, which e'er forgets
its circular provenance, surges gay anew
to bustling mouths and throats; and through
their fractal tubes and tendrils numberless
become small parts of John or Jess
who, living shortly, shortly perish too
and, beneath dim mists of swirling dew,
despite th'embalming hand's most earnest pains,
with juicèd flesh feed tiny life
by threads and grains.
(sonnet)
a glance into your blackdot eggwhite eyes'
linen-smooth albumen, speckled with but one
pink comma, lets me see (I, science wise)
your deepest crystal recess--flows that run
through ball-stick mazes, gaudy proton-thickets
comprising and constructing all your flesh
with tiny bog-swept flowers kissed of crickets
trellissed in hydro-oxy-carbon mesh
I shudder; the flash of life behind your sight
seems gone, or false. A simple sphincter strains
before a black as dread as boundless night.
Now tangible, this ghost proves blank. Heart's pains,
it blinks, it quivers! Anyone here? Pray, speak!
You're here, but I'm lonely. My sense of your presence is weak.
(the onions heart)
An onion's tender heart was I
and slept beneath the moonlit sod
and dew cast green by that star's faint light
I made my drink; soil felt my bite.
Below calm ground long since untrod,
i wrapt with turgid coats, thereby
protecting it, my fragile core.
That's all I'll say; there is no more.
(October 2024)
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complaint to moth
O moth, i can see red stars in your eyes that burn with cold dead flame unblinking, tiny crystals whose glints taste in dilute washes the star-buttoned lake of winter's midnight's settled scenery ---don't stare, i beg. To speak my grief or yours pleading eyes and pinnate ears can not but be mute and all they say are dead placements of dead dust; casements silk-frosted in inscriptions of spider eons' annals --your moment's situ a yourself writ wide. paper toy! But a soul, but then a soul breathing lunglessly one zapped gas's waspish amber air always this air, spring's caught breath stirred only with the fan of the nowandthen passing vesper bat's membrane wing --you breathe it, but of course breathe merely by standing still and letting air's automatism and your static surface suffice. anyway, fly on and make me vanish, little moth. Fly, pepper your soft dust into the wide world's darkling sphere! Seek your moon, or dreamed of moon, as i will mine. 18/10/24
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life history of a eucalypt: imitation (awkward, sorry) of swinburne
[THEN] no musket-wielding shepherds nor Order, nor a Law impinged the gold and chequered weeping-grass patch her seed saw as bud with sugars whirling, and chalk-kissed leaves uncurling her self began unfurling in 1704 Of sight or sound she knows not, she tastes with buried foot and countless fingers sup not a thing but sap of root and on her land a thriving host of gold beetles diving in flocks to leaflets striving not to compost to transmute marble-limbed, creasing and growing her figure, exploding, stands whose buds make showers snowing from flower-fingered hands the leaves wherewith she dresses dull wind-entangled tresses fall, and feed littering messes upon the grassy strands she grows by splitting open-- a constant screaming tear of ribboned fleshstring ropen whence bursts through year on year a wooden body sable-cream, and arms forever able, and stockings in dainty cable-knit -thus does her trunk appear. [NOW] pale-limbed, like my limbs but rotten she'll zigzag across the sky dry core of life forgotten and left high up to die now in purple and yellow offensives at her feet push a thousand adventives which spite the law's tardy preventives and grow evermore here; goodbye.
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apple in a storehouse (soliloquy)
Tight around me sit my thousand twins, their waxy skin reflecting frigid flowers spinning in the vaulted cage above, that, whirring like a silent throb of powers, bloat with sterile air the metal walls whose crystal ne'er by lark or lute was shaken -- here in rows we lie, these spacious halls a spacious tomb; but lo! Dim mind, awaken! Is indeed that far-off door ajar? Are those beams sunbeams that prick our hides unfeeling, warming us as once in orchard youth, and streaming gold across the blue-lit ceiling, pray? Or do I dream? Alas, a slam restores at once the shady light and smell of antiseptic. Dead, I may not rot, so snug I sleep in catacombic hell.
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two songs
Maggots will breathe in me still by and by when i die Black like pitch in a ditch my blood will flow and weeds will grow in grass may flesh with soil enmesh my bones will bake the drain will take my liquid brain i'll feel no pain when i die by and by --- The law would have it that we two die but here we grab it (love) and lie in sunny shadow between the grass as if we had no tests, no class or parents to lie to, or kisses to cloak; we have us to sigh to, embraces to soak but only for some times yes only for minutes the crystals of liquid in arabic digits that lie with us, dew-specked in plastic displays soon jumper and skirt-decked as you catch my dim gaze (2024)
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technical nonsense please ignore
Our heartblood long past steaming, quick from our bosoms blew a plasma ball of screaming and all we said was true a nucleus thus shattered the ties that bound us, scattered for all of me that mattered -- I realised -- hated you. A love embalmbed with hatred or was it love at all? Is love obedience sacred to king by lowly thrall? Your love is economic a structure autonomic thoughtlessly tragicomic a bloodline doomed to fall (2024)
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Why are you attacking my hand
are you going to attack my hand? the hand is the bit of me which i use. why would you attack my hand? my heart, in the middle here, is softer and less capable of doing things to defend itself. and without it, i'll be worse off than i would be without a hand. do you want to destroy me, or just attack my hand? Or could we high-five? (2024)
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The shark's grip
in a lull of the unit-time measurement of intensity bedroom doors close, lights click, the windows dim to abyssal-zone slick, its cold, im too tired to hold my extremeties from convenient distances from the heater, so i just burn myself paroxysm horror i scrunch my whole body, and hear the fleshly mechanisms churning and crunching, harder and harder, i wish i could cry but i have not even a problematic enough to libinizise myself to try. before me the organs that denote our race palms downwards, i let my fingers interlace at the knuckle -- produced is a saw shape, the shark's mouth, a bony pale bear-trap what an odd figure, it's not really a 'thing' with a name, like a gun sign, or a middle finger, or even that intricate frog's face with a poking tongue, that i learned in primary school from someone... it hurts to hold, to squeeze. im scrounched over it now. there's not a good place to rest ones chin in, not rectilinear, not aslant, i can't. maybe pulling out -- some more room? My roomy chin? a bone squeezing sensation, not nice, niceness isnt concerning me now, im in the dark now, head in my legs, a clothly, hairy, chilly orb of wretchedness, with the single, unflinching kernel of pain centred in my inner hands constituting everything. (2022)
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My friend Halbwachs
Earnest Halbwachs, you're cranky now and then, but I know that deep inside your heart a kind of desiring process occurs, like you hold that pen and twiddle it here and there, your big mind clearly moving somewhere far away, maybe you're thinking of me, or your parents, i'm never sure because ive literally never met your parents! in fact you never mention them to me, or your siblings, we just don't talk about ourselves to each other, we act biunivocally or something, i mean, we sort of trust that it doesn't matter, i guess, or we just say random crap and laugh, at the end of the day. It's embarassing in a way, kind Halbwachs, how neither of us has managed ever really to 'get though'-- ive known you for about three years it must be now, but we pretty much never say anything deliberately true,, always some ironic or stupid quip: it *is* hilarious, I love it, I love ... no, there's no * you* to be loved, and I dont even imagine one, I dont even try, do you imagine me? What they fuck are we doing? Who even were you? It's been over a year since you randomly stopped talking to me. now i realise how much i miss even your stupid, unfunny superior voice, but at the same time i hate oyu more than ever! thought its kinda depressing that im slowly forgetting you, who were my best and only friend for a good portion of my life! (2022)