Saturday, November 5, 2011

scraps of paper typed up in no particular order until now

every people (person) is another person (people's) fantasy.
and there are some things you just can't fake
until you try (they'd've been otherwise, real enough, completely normal
without you, but there you are
in the silent stampede of eyes, eye-ocean-liners
stretching out a mile-long ghost or gist
under too many palpabrating horn-rims and arched frappeau
another mongolian throat metal populist front
a city of pretty kitties turning cart-wheels
they seem to say look and don't look.
at the tree of the unbelieving, stop, consider awhile
their positions, bizarrely arching, tangled
bursting forth from the earth and sun
spangle in their leaves a broad while searching, linger
and go on: fable cables from mythology
"make it to my office."
what's this i hear?
'bout you organizing a union?"
don't know what you mean boss.
punks just shootin' the shit
like it ain't no-body's bizness.
jimson, and aleph, telegraph erasmus,
dinner's at eight. good to hear the juice is on the vine.
here's a buck, get your head blocked.
i gotta round hole to screw you into. [Picks up the skull and dagger phone,
hears a dull buzz, downs the reciever, grim, catatonic.]
Troops had entered already this Atlantis, the shock flocks of seahorse
died and dyed the Caspian black evacuating, veins of blended black blood
woven towards Torun. Mushrooms, pinpricks
in voodoo beauty's cushion, where the head of the Hetman
falls back into his bed of flames.
I was never attracted to such sudden hot-button expulsion schemes up until that moment. double-brained boss last week spoiled bread sandwich caper, dynamite, lightening cracks an oak, bat wit twitters
lift the stone off his throat please, that way EVERYBODY
get's to sing [The classroom erupts into cheers, all will be able to scream, at once!]
The Library Heart freshened scalpel
there is no being more enlightened than on the moment of goodly death
the most beautiful woman in the room resembles this situation
fingers fathom down your feathered clouds
and into your bed-ridden details of elder fog
how small the smack strangely small creature is into everything so to say
go down on the infinite (he of the water-logged sails)
he who went home, too...
for the fragile infinite is woven into every thing we do
but I have run out of fragments for your dream

the aerth by a green hay-glow
liest engardened
find her roots
inside you now

december 2009-- december 2010, today, written mostly in
pozńan (mostly, but i'm not entirely sure...

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