What is the boredom trying to hide?
Parataxis? The callousness of purpose?
The room is a hard sponge. It absorbs and exudes everything that lives on it. The air is rich with whatever evaporates
in the sun. It is oily, fecal, sweet.
We snuck in behind the curtain of the typhoon. I thought the pattering sound was the rain on the roof
but it was the whirring of the air conditioner and its subsequent dripping on the vanity.
Outside, there are no climaxes or antebellums, just rhythmic undulations dotted with trees.
The eye snags on the english, the sound of
sea children, school gulls.
Lightning is diligent, but thunder
is lazy, riding on lightning's coattails.
From above, it appears as if
ergonomic electric lace;
a bi-species creature derived from flight regulations
and the altitude of the viewer.
He steps in, takes off his flannel jacket,
lands within a void. The skyline
above, nothing but darkness below.
His fronds wave across the city.
like a rod or a blade or this one potential problem.
How do you phrase how your touch is developing? Eyelashes, long, and trailing
at the waist net the room. Stick to wet skin. Heads are pillars, unmarked under the roof.
It is barely felt, it can't analyze its success your body seems
and is futile. But the breath is
an absurdist critique of proto-analytic poetics, repurposed and divested
of the complexities of their original root, taking solely their popular
(or singularly poetic) connotations and repurposing as:
Neutralization of acids.
3 on Moh's scale.
Light is split into slow and fast beams (like water).
“There is nothing more tentative than an established order.”
We must abandon nothing to the world.
2 tbsp of butter
2 cups chopped onion
1 cup chopped apple
1 tsp thyme
1lb chicken livers
1/4 tsp pepper
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 cup brandy
1 cup heavy cream
In large pan, saute butter onion apple and thyme with lid on until apples soften.
Remove lid. Increase heat, add livers and cook until pink inside.
Remove from heat and allow to cool.
Add pepper, salt, brandy and puree. Cover and chill.
Whip cream into soft peaks and fold into liver mixture.
The room is on your mind. You are on the room's mind.
The room is inherently isotropic. Each piece is contained
in the familiar structure of the frame. In fact, the show is all 3's and 4's. It amounts to 12.
The child is not sure why she is screaming at her mother.
Our toes are in the mud, with the fishes. We have 4 legs full
of strength and dexterity and
balance. As innovative as a biological wheel.
Our breath whistles in each others' mouths just as
the crystalline form
stands off the skin against the curves of muscles
setting the once sibylline and delphic form
against a strict and rigid edge.
The 4 shapes interrupt the images 4 times.
4 different ways each time. Interrupt yourself 4 ways. Enjoy it, subsume yourself.
All that is left of this supposed evil
wakes the image of a tangle
There are 3 positions for your feet. You must rotate between them, roll your hips
for full momentum, twist your waist and let your arms fly loose. You will become a screw, the air in a liquid rollicking in a tube, that space within the centrifugal whirlpool. You float upwards, becoming less pointed as the waters calm.
The movement stays inside the body, flicking quietly to certain areas, showing me around.
The sensation dug and found a key and unlocked a shelf to stand still which we could climb.
The body is a 3 dimensional torus. Everything is outside and there is
no firmament, only strange animals from somewhere else. A litany:
Night F, Night A, Improvised Poem.
From the sound of it, a tray full of icewater,
Tinkling like chandeliers.
You see the baby? A whole lineup of people
staring openly. Half smiles on their faces,
The woman in black – she is tall and above societal reprimand as well – disappears
under the water. It is a dust-up until she emerges.
4 raw whales under her arms, their fillets trying to re-enter
the sea. The scream. It is a comfortable tangle of you and me and him,
sharing certain things with neither of you. Or at least not so you'd believe it.
She speaks as if it has happened to her and me both, closed and cruel and stating the obvious
you would not have thought of.
Your mouth is a nest and does not hear.
Later, the hands turn yellow as they stretch
And there are minute lines in slightly unnatural places, like inaccurate
topography or surgical colour-by-numbers.
My cup calls me Nathaniel for now. It is drawing me a bath
though at the indistinguishable temperature of the weather
and its surrounding histories.