Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Paul Thek, Our Contemporary

The micro-management of meat
Under glass mistakes for orifices
Crises the sun where your eyes

Should have been because the dead
Are genderless because no one
Needed to know what's under the hood

Fingerless they can't i.d. you
Underground man hippie fingers
Are like little dicks you make of

Yourself a mask to hide within
Things to hide within the world
Abandoned to it like a tomb.

Some spaces distribute
The body in time was
Wax the body in space
Was a cast unsalvageable
Because no one wants
A masterpiece to be
A crypt of what we will
Have been a difference
Pink makes on your skin.

We cope this risk is an
Answer to the flesh
Anyone's analytic
Of the sublime

Any body's tomb
With whom do you
Identify who will
Not answer to 'me'?

Where bones are laid
To rest who will manage
The dead and those
Who cannot die

I am trying to tell
You something but am
Afraid the power of
Flesh overpowers me

The powers of reliquary
Do not remember me
Every name in history
How do we distribute

Petal pink makes
Malthus blush others
Do the math what you
Encase like head space

Thek the headless
Always our contemporary
Our savage contemporary
Tongue-ring sticks out

From missing prints
Pharaohs abscond
From historical sense
The sense of headlessness

Makes a tomb in the public
Pinko of the real
When fascism flares up
Your art withdraws.

That we are meat
And worship the fact
That God is also meat
A formal feeling comes

We call it a technology
Of the self remember
What we have become
A prayer to blood

A prayer to fake
Blood the mannerist
Sun still winking like
A hole that doesn't

Stink what totality
Doesn't stink of men
Mimics monuments re-
fuses to delay in glass.

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