ANALOG RHIZOMES

LILLIAN GISH IN GRIFFITH’S WAY DOWN EAST (1920) stock footage

Flush, Pulse, Stir

Words images flush –  maybe Bones dustless, rust sick spark screech – fire crinkles embers dissolve out somewhere beats thump – rhythms resound and we .

no. whirling wind spits this down to formal formless inferno then howl breath throws it blows it up to heaven then down again (purged in purgatorio at some time lodged between) then up to paradisio

and so on until it comes to . . to the eye storm blinkless  crimson pray may god be blind or else bind this page or else grind future (t)error that penultimate slow coming to of nauseous fat bolt of light swells up the sky with seeded crackles and a rip is the last sight faceless extras will see born from some twisted storm cloud grave

no. there is beauty in what’s passed in the numinous echo of ghosts scents, trembling drops of sweat on the lip and the bright glow of skin flushed from love a sincere prosody now like stars they are, his or her eyes their pulse at dawn affirms the dawn

or would rather breathe burnt wood and glass then this spewing gore and damp death drift to perish sick the face his or her dance of two bud red spheres like hemorrhaged moons they are, his or her eyes fallen from orbit – plink plunk –   stirred into the low tide at low tide

mere pulp snuff

. . .

flush before I sea  the scabbed over with syphilitic film of tin rusted reels of worn-in apocalyptic dreams . we are crystal cyclone keeps the spin but we are in for every pair of another will rise wind and eye-less storm crimson-eyed

distension. dilation. spin pinned spin – apocalypse is not time to disappear. rising up could be stars. oh be / loved…

flush, pulse, stir.

. . .

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