us with
And most of Nature is green
— — — — — — — — — —
What guaranty
For the proto-form
We fumble
Our souvenir ethics to
— — — — — — —
XXXI
Crucifixion
Of a busy-body
Longing to interfere so
With the intimacies
Of your insolent isolation
Crucifixion
Of an illegal ego’s
Eclosion
On your equilibrium
Caryatid of an idea
Crucifixion
Wracked arms
Index extremities
In vacuum
To the unbroken fall
XXXII
The moon is cold
Joannes
Where the Mediterranean — — — — —
XXXIII
The prig of passion — — — —
To your professorial paucity
Proto-plasm was raving mad
Evolving us — — —
XXXIV
Love — — — the preeminent litterateur
The Dead
We have flowed out of ourselves
Beginning on the outside
That shrivable skin
Where you leave off
Of infinite elastic
Walking the ceiling
Our eyelashes polish stars
Curled close in the youngest corpuscle
Of a descendant
We spit up our passions in our grand-dams
Fixing the extension of your reactions
Our shadow lengthens
In your fear
You are so old
Born in our immortality
Stuck fast as Life
In one impalpable
Omniprevalent Dimension
We are turned inside out
Your cities lie digesting in our stomachs
Street lights footle in our ocular darkness
Having swallowed your irate hungers
Satisfied before bread-breaking
To your dissolution
We splinter into Wholes
Stirring the remorses of your tomorrow
Among the refuse of your unborn centuries
In our busy ashbins
Stink the melodies
Of your
So easily reducible
Adolescences
Our tissue is of that which escapes you
Birth-Breaths and orgasms
The shattering tremor of the static
The far-shore of an instant
The unsurpassable openness of the circle
Legerdemain of God
Only in the segregated angles of Lunatic Asylums
Do those who have strained to exceeding themselves
Break on our edgeless contours
The mouthed echoes of what
Has exuded to our companionship
Is horrible to the ear
Of the half that is left inside them.
O Hell
To clear the drifts of spring
of our forbears’ excrements
and bury the subconscious archives
under unaffected flowers
Indeed—
our person is a covered entrance to infinity
choked with the tatters of tradition
Goddesses and Young Gods
caress the sanctity of Adolescence
in the shaft to the sun.
Mexican Desert
The belching ghost-wail of the locomotive
trailing her rattling wooden tail
into the jazz-band sunset. …
The mountains in a row
set pinnacles of ferocious isolation
under the alien hot heaven
Vegetable cripples of drought
thrust up the parching appeal
cracking open the earth
stump-fingered cacti
and hunch-back palm trees
belabour the cinders of twilight. …
Perlun
the whipper snapper child of the sun
His pert blonde spirit
scoured by the Scandinavian Boreas
His head
an adolescent oval
ostrich egg
The victorious silly beauty of his face
awakens to his instincts
A vivacious knick-knack tipped with gold
he puts the world
to the test of intuition
Smiling from ear to ear
Living from other hands to mouth
Holding in immaculate arms
the syphilitic sailor
on his avoided death bunk
or the movie vamp
among the muffled shadows of the shrubberies⸺
Picking lemons in Los Angeles broke
The education of “Prince Fils à Papa”
How low men die
How women love—
The rituals of Dempsey and Carpentier
Perlun
asks “Do these flappers of the millionaires
think I’m a doll for anyone to pat?”
Poe
a lyric elixir of death
embalms
the spindle spirits of your hour glass loves
on moon spun nights
sets
icicled canopy
for corpses of poesy
with roses and northern lights
Where frozen nightingales in ilix aisles
sing burial rites
Apology of Genius
Ostracized as we are with God—
The watchers of the civilized wastes
reverse their signals on our track
Lepers of the moon
all magically diseased
we come among you
innocent
of our luminous sores
unknowing
how perturbing lights
our spirit
on the passion of Man
until you turn on us your smooth fools’ faces
like buttocks bared in aboriginal mockeries
We are the sacerdotal clowns
who feed upon the wind and stars
and pulverous pastures of poverty
Our wills are formed
by curious disciplines
beyond your laws
You may give birth to us
or marry us
the chances of your flesh
are not our destiny—
The cuirass of the soul
still shines—
And we are unaware
if you confuse
such brief
corrosion with possession
In the raw caverns of the Increate
we forge the dusk of Chaos
to that imperious jewelry of the Universe
—the Beautiful—
While to your eyes
A delicate crop
of criminal mystic immortelles
stands to the censor’s scythe.
Brâncuși’s Golden Bird
The toy
become the aesthetic archetype
As if
some patient peasant God
had rubbed and rubbed
the Alpha and Omega
of Form
into a lump of metal
A naked orientation
unwinged unplumed
— the ultimate rhythm
has lopped the extremities
of crest and claw
from
the nucleus of flight
The absolute act
of art
conformed
to continent sculpture
— bare as the brow of Osiris —
this breast of revelation
an incandescent curve
licked by chromatic flames
in labyrinths of reflections
This gong
of polished hyper aesthesia
shrills with brass
as the aggressive light
strikes
its significance
The immaculate
conception
of the inaudible bird
occurs
in gorgeous reticence — — —
Lunar Baedeker
A silver Lucifer
serves
cocaine in cornucopia
To some somnambulists
of adolescent thighs
draped
in satirical draperies
Peris in livery
prepare
Lethe
for posthumous parvenues
Delirious Avenues
lit
with the chandelier souls
of infusoria
from Pharoah’s tombstones
lead
to mercurial doomsdays
Odious oasis
in furrowed phosphorous — — —
the eye-white sky-light
white-light district
of lunar lusts
— — — Stellectric signs
“Wing shows on Starway”
“Zodiac carrousel”
Cyclones
of ecstatic dust
and ashes whirl
crusaders
from hallucinatory citadels
of shattered glass
into evacuate craters
A flock of dreams
browse on Necropolis
From the shores
of oval oceans
in the oxidized Orient
Onyx-eyed Odalisques
and ornithologists
observe
the flight
of Eros obsolete
And “Immortality”
mildews …
in the museums of the moon
“Nocturnal cyclops”
“Crystal concubine”
— — — — — — —
Pocked with personification
the fossil virgin of the skies
waxes and wanes — — — —
Joyce’s Ulysses
The Normal Monster
sings in the Green Sahara
The voice and offal
of the image of God
make Celtic noises
in these lyrical hells
Hurricanes
of reasoned musics
reap the uncensored earth
The loquent consciousness
of living things
pours in torrential languages
The elderly colloquists
the Spirit and the Flesh
are out of tongue — — —
The Spirit
is impaled upon the phallus
Phoenix
of Irish fires
lighten the Occident
with Ireland’s wings
flap pandemoniums
of Olympian prose
and satirise
the imperial Rose
of Gaelic perfumes
— England
the sadistic mother
embraces Erin —
Master
of meteoric idiom
present
The word made flesh
and feeding upon itself
with erudite fangs
The sanguine
introspection of the womb
Don Juan
of Judea
upon a pilgrimage
to the Libido
The Press — — —
purring
its lullabyes to sanity
Christ capitalised
scourging
incontrite usurers of destiny
— in hole and corner temples
And hang
The soul’s advertisements
outside the ecclesiast’s Zoo
A gravid day
spawns
guttural gargoyles
upon the Tower of Babel
