Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Anti Gone (II)

Alertings ached such demands fall in
A family war gains like my violin spell
In spring genome die hands or hostage
Such gestalt-hating dubs sighs allies.

That which we most are breathes instead
Of this a wind of sickness or the bug
Monstrous vermin big insect of what
Unworked sickness what voice was not

At home in us staring out separate
Windows in their hugeness bloated brown
And real stilled by our need to make

Anything stick rotten with the products
Of universality tidbits and littler objects
Of thought dirt pervades invades this space
Age this was for the face whistling with
A piece of platinum in the gums where once

Was the tooth a veil the skull vibrating
Moves plates in place of thinking felt
Shakes and also shifts pain is a morsel

Of this whistling in the bones pain was
A monument couldn’t actually be felt
All at once blood was a veil flush with
The head fresh with a sense of being made.

Another night of this no not now forever
You will bury your brother in a fit of logic
The anger of all men will collapse

Grace gives way to wax blood moons no
Sacrifice excepted no one allowed to live
Or die so undevoured to remembering.

That which knows the what but not
The who this arrow in time’s for you

Like a descent that must ascend like
That which is neither animal nor vegetable

Nor mercurial merely whose reward is boundary
Of undertakings committed in a field

Of force unforeclosed and disavowed
Fitted to a narrative of causes the tissue of which

In ritual the animal must give up the world
To gain anything stinking with names

For what they will do against all their purposiveness
Agape with will neither above nor below

Sewers fill with this misrecognition
The eyes of which are reeking wrecks.

The stones you experience
The suffering at your lips
The stain of conscience

Doubles death’s indifference
Contrives wisdom the stars
Before your very eyes those stones
You will never experience

The nothing that wasn’t flashed
In the different incommensurable
With any bled soundtrack.

Defines the whirlwind
Deifies the thunder
Defines the simple
The simple who

Will open a window
Will desire this particle anxiety.

That sex was not your self
Nor subject to death
Listen to this wind as it
Recedes an irruption of all

That is a double-death
With swiftness siting the stones
Ageless they will always be
For you but never for us

Who was of neither death
Nor life nor entirely of law
Life poured down what could
No longer be consumed

By fire for even the gods
Reject us this sense of conscience
This sense of where nothing
Will go wherever it is put

A type of third-sex the corpse…

When nothing takes fire
This is what is left
Of the fire our names were for
The taking unbounded on all

Sides by song structures
A dance is disaster to this
Numbers lay in wait
And wastes whatever we did.

“All pulcritude is relative”
Does is matter what Montaigne tells us is true?
All these texts are examples

So seldom to go
Back thru what we were

Chaos O which arrow
Was the case and how it drew

Flesh out of earth
How it swerving consecrated

No thing.

“Antigone dies because she’s just a girl and too proud…”

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