poetry . art . &c .

enclosed typhoon, yes yr matured-mutiny looking back at you; &that was the 2nd word of upperclouds tied into a mind lost to everything ----

Lygia Pape - Lygia Pape and Tecelar (1955)

my memories are cardboard, floating discs eating false-time put in glass; the shorefront is dead, but it still sees a course of unknown &unknownlight over& over again ----

how am i supposed to understand the doom of the earth; a dozen mirrors to use me in their shuffling evil, the closed off walls just far enough to kill; they dont stop to hear, they only die like you&me ----

some brightyellow silence didn't mean anything, or did it, like a solidifyingbubble passed into yr arms that couldn't move without words; the new ideas, just jousting plastic& a new conclusion - you weren't moved until you were sleeping ----

yr undead fake-out was the body of worlds, red-underhand pink-underhand, yes, a thousand spirals that give&take in yr elevator going nowhere ----

yr touchless memories, scorpionpaper numberedpaper, yeah the crosshatch giving up yr hue of a conversation &the bones of it, it closedup, okay that's yr own shit; one ironboulder lookingdown at it all ----

fearwinds, sure &this is a strawdraw dying in yr palm, a nuclearcloud eating yr lifelicense; paperwind, sure &you'll see it uneaten on the original stone ----

you want the looseboards of a grave, it's not that easy to see; a filament of yr earth- words, soil words that just close me up ----

scrambled space, yr Tucson seance reinvented in an icefield or a carbattery, the curated spelling of a misanthrope, a vague separation of yr witheringstone pasteurized w/ a humanhead lingering in the footlands of yr unknown &all unknowing ----

two pastures not like the blinkinglights you wanted to take in, frenchrhubarbclothesline and the remaining sentence, a front& back of yr last-self ----

yr starter-set of bindingwords was moving-in on the wreckage of hotairballoons already put into typeset; civil-service numbers obscured by a rentedstage &parallelvoices breaking stainedglass------

you want it to be human, simple tar swelling, undone as the afterlife, a secondsun eating dreams; if it was different, you would take the whole field that was already given to you ------

see the hours underlined w/ yr leftover mist, i wanted to turn ivy into stone, to sleep w/ the dead &understand yr 2ndguesses smoldering on a lifetime ----

Ivan Bilibin - Vasilisa the Beautiful (1899)