narrow prison. (parts one and two) https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t1707 Runboard| narrow prison. (parts one and two) en-us Thu, 28 Mar 2024 12:53:17 +0000 Thu, 28 Mar 2024 12:53:17 +0000 https://www.runboard.com/ rssfeeds_managingeditor@runboard.com (Runboard.com RSS feeds managing editor) rssfeeds_webmaster@runboard.com (Runboard.com RSS feeds webmaster) akBBS 60 Re: narrow prison. (parts one and two)https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p11383,from=rss#post11383https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p11383,from=rss#post11383Hey, Doc! I have read part one of this poem. It is a major undertaking and so much is going on in it. I am hugely impressed so far with what you are doing. I have to say I am most smitten with the most concrete sections where your language is so beautifully tethered to imagery, like this: I went on the Mountain awhile: felt, slowly:      The crisp      Wintriness of air And dry leaves above Wet ones not yet exposed to yellow time's dawning,      Taking a set,,,      The trend of leaves Blown, truly --- frank --- w/ words: weltering 'em into Shapes that tell of the brunt of it all....nondisclosed_email@example.com (vkp)Sun, 18 Mar 2012 23:56:48 +0000 narrow prison. (parts one and two)https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p11363,from=rss#post11363https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p11363,from=rss#post11363There is only one day left, always starting over: It is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk. ---J.P. Sartre [part one] So I went on The mountain awhile; grew        Swarthy and rough-hewn-        -In the woodland        Loam’s shade misting wetly At the top. And,--- To think frankly about My sadness: well- -I’d thought thru it all        Before: that’s what I Said to myself: I Laid it down in stone, Then, lay it Now: whether I was dwelling Or dealing---living for Quietus, writing for beauty, living,        In and out        Of time---is irrelevant,        However . . . either Way some shift now Buckles me down        To pen this thing Straight; once,        Too,       Buckled. Buckled, thundering,,, Like a glacier In heat. Hoods on the stoop. Wait, Wtf . . . ? Where is it All and what’s left? Well, first off, this Is still plaguing        Me: yes, this,---some kinda strange Thought’s the feeling        There: yes: In this cave-brain:        Of my ghostlier self: cave-brained, Castle-headed sets, sexless: staunch-rough: Insane, indifferent: intrepid, like diamonds- -In a mouthful, burning w/ neutral:        This furious, friggin        Idea, unnamable, as wind; This deconstructionist Annoyance. This idea Of an ultimate, Fuckinnnnnnnnn Nonsense: lying somewheres at The core of a mind Layered enuff w/        Subtlety: indeed,        And to the point Of a madness: when Subtle things go Hidden: at The core of effry dang mind’s-           -Subtlety, lieth        Visages: vampirism, In extremis: spooky- -Faces: like ghosts, Waltzing up The hill, Kickin dirt, vague- -Ruin, debris: so I found, the use of a core,        A core-particular, was        As sourceless        As the- -Source of all wind: no core, no           Source---no        Me or Other: you know the jive so why Say on, huh?: sadness: uhhhhhhh        Wait a minnit: back        To- -Principles: principles of the justice of Things, Unwavering, Around me: and which in being The stuff of my WORLD are Thru some hellish-           -Capability made        The very        Stuff of- -This unbearable saying, saying the more Of otherness and the husk Of windy meanings’ collection In a source, as whitest Black might- -With whiter whiteness’ believing:        Paul Celan’s almond’s in his king- -Of writhing bones and all of it’s construed, but        The darkling---yes---that that That furious witch-bitch--- Of a subtlety-particular---a core Nonsense---is the one that reigns: waste the Gold; anoint in droplet-sources senseless Reaching---find The specialness of going on or off. Faces: Sickness: visages, erupting Like ruins kicked away: now, back to mentioning, Like a boomerang: WOLRD, Shitty WORLD: Somewhat- -Frightening: ahh: uhh: uhm: Yes: that will do the trick Yes: and leaves, The justice behind ‘em: blink At that: justice, Judgment, different: how To justify judgment: no- -No: ain’t justifiable, Really: look at it, purely: What’s it- -Capable of: what’s what Capable Of: hmm: shitty, shitty: shitty Fuckin WORLD, absurd, Yes: yeah: and The loaded friggin           Gun: so I went on the mountain Awhile: had fits: how easily- -I could fit the void to suit my        Tailored perceptions, woven        Like bundles for years,,,        Running out in days: unfortunate, Shit: . . . life’s all dolled up- -In friggin straps, extra things, ghostly Globs; extra fragments. And when:        When what: when        Will I divide        Myself back Together: back into Some kinda heavenly Completion, summed Up: well, nope, can’t happen: it’s all Fragile w/ garbage’s flawed- -Fasteners-on, Hangers-on, Clogging, yes, w/ bees’ produced Pollen that that that green, Florid space I know I can be: yes: and           Sculptured        Out subtle visages’        Judgment, Hidden yet vast once Made, again: again: made-        -W/ mud and of        Muddy           Thought-pilgrims: yeah:        Take- -This sounding of the Sensate and Brutalize it w/ a language- -Too broad, naked, vulgar        As junk:           Extra-orbitals: plague: thems plague For the sake of seen junk’s- -Sudden hiding: Is this hit or Miss: what’s Missing grows, yes, w/- -The hum of the drumming, Growing fuckin-        -Silence: in the green Space: so I sat in        My truth, a priori, a        Bit, and was- -Not idle: in this Heaven: soulless tho I was: and the pilgrims, depleted as Lifeblood, mine: once a mine- -Of damnably awesome, Blossoming asphodels, now- -By bees deprived: you’ll see, You’ll see: about- -The bees: WILLIAMS, Where are ye at: Chillin w/ all thems from BLAST: Rabbi Ben Ezra or- -The Tsetse: WYNDHAM: and all Thems patrons: damn: LEWIS, Choose blindness, You: with vision, after All, comes bias, Judgment, what- -Not: what a paradise: to be free Of analysis, caught up instead        W/ the gestures of infinity        And, all-glorious, the pain        Of crushed particulars, Like leaves of evil- -Grass: like jazzed-up rhythms bidden by GOD to not grasp but be Grasped: to not live for afterlife but        Live after life forever: and all this, all of           Sourceless, listening life’s midwives’ tumid Expression: but- -Scarily, w/o an opposite Side: . . . I’m the midwife, spawned From some kinda opposite- -Side, now absent: like ASHBERY,,,        Leaving all        Out: nature, he’s the- -Idea-man: putting what’s too Real in the head of some kinda        Mud-pilgrim: or, the porous Poet-quester- -W/ a bad complexion: and, still, all I might think of, despite,        Are ideals: of nothing out Of something: sadness: no no no: Of the beauty of that which I cannot Possess and which lifts Me up: of good Times: of how nice a day it is, blue Sky, neatly wending clouds        Throughout:        Despite, yes, a chill- -Of the wintriest bronze: Bronze leaves, crushed out of cruising Wind, directionless and so then perfect w/o Knowing: and, My leaves: grasping that they cannot Grasp; rather, they- -Wait for rhythms to chokechain        The fuck out of of        Of realized grownness. The leaves, I’m talking about leaves: and cells: Cells, into bones,--- They develop, flourish,--- Fall. Yes, w/ a clatter, to the end of the ground like        Some wack idea, a priori---that        Is, after The fact, the fact, the fact of all damnable Life: and weird sensing: what’s the sense: hm: Thought-pilgrims: HOMER, Blind as a bat! There can be One sordello; it’s mine, Tho,--- That’s the thing of blindness’ evil found In incomprehensible, shapen- -Leaves, falling like lives after SUMMER, Before SPRING’s fit. Depression: no- -No: no rou cou, I Guess: . . . . . .. . .. . . . . . ... . .. . . . . .. .. I guess I’d like- -That, that Is, Blindness: but, not- -If my mind has to stop: CONRAD: he chose Summin’ o’ that: AIKEN chose The ache of being w/o A fatherland: place-names, Remembrances litter the pages Of USHANT’s whirlwind: he- -Chose infinity’s           Disorganization, yes, once Leveled by the- -Mind: out of flux, once Grasped; organization, If left, he Understood, to hover, won’t Be fathomed, No, But sensed and w/ ecstasy           Understood. Somewhat: as        A fine        Source, summoned out-        -The fluids        Of the mind’s rednesses And fabulous Purples,           Circulating like a           Breath released in- -Its place: a breath, one only,        For the sake of Disorder’s failing: a quick shock-        -Of the charge/catalyst, like Some lightbulb gone out in a pop, Fizzle: leaves, yes, Leaves and breathing cells: and all of It more Freeing- -Than finding, grasping, Thinking the invisible out Of ecstasy and, Sensible, disorder: more        Of an order Than expression’s limiting Sameness of leaves alive in angled, Pointed sentiments after the fact-particular, The core source’s dumbass nucleus: and,        Chained (fuck) like a choking, to        Example: the infinite, the wild:        YES: yes, example Upon example: eventually, To capitulate and fade Out of blank Mindfulness, only to---surprise!---reappear        W/ an unspoken           Resentment this time on the part Of expression’s- -Abstract taking and putting of things Together, in a---disorder---of colors’ Exampled primness: But, no shapes but In the shapes of processing- -Gone thru a mind’s Purples, reds,--- Yellows, pinks,---ahh,,, Why try: why: usurper: Futile bum, kickin Dust: what is Left of sensibleness: Questions, Questions, absurdity’s an Extreme, dammit, but what Is on the other side: the other’s A side only: no other: colors: Residuals, blessings Of fuckin freshness: the sculpture Of myself, hurled Beyond expression---thus, Hope: I can’t seem to Find a Place for this           Monstrosity: to        Think about Sadness, Well and good: To find justice in The eyeless Scrutiny- -Of nature: and in the fair-floating hymnals, Soundless also: oh my how Entertaining to feed negations’ Stubbornness: Like a bundle Of fire: absurd, nasty, that’s What it’s like to be back        In the caul: SOUL: it’s        There: first off,        Leaves: leaves,        Grass: go find justice If you must in The scrupulous: judgments of scrupulous Man’s nature, mirrored: yes: regarding How man is- -In what’s around him: that is, the stuff that is        Natural: but this time no        Loaded gun, none, nowheres,---        Cuz no visage: to scare        W/ spookiness in reds,        Purples-        -And stuffy stuff of sense, yes, Collected: collected, as such: justice, sought, After all, by me: . . . or, Is it validation, Rather: well, the core’s a bore--- Well, I guess all- -That’s left to make me want blindness is,        Leaf by leaf, a thought’s        Struggle to strand thru, Bundled, a sort-        -Of grand disorder: wordy,        Twisted, Lithe-like, friggin Spinal: bent dithyrambs, eked out on Peculiar horns, Dammit: wordy, colorless: Hrm: colorless: the idea Of colorlessness: and- -Ideas, Thoughts, in general, Bright with shadowed nuance blurring Across this my nice, Little landscape, aching, Full: fallen, Now irrelevant As chikkinshit meanings, there:        There in all of a        Frankness harping healing Strings: harping, Yes, For the source: shooing Off, though, as I speak; once,        That, is, had, spoken. Ah!        Timelessness! Fugue:        Harmony: death: Either way I am tasked To be what I Already Am: and- -Answering,          The leaves’ dusty, Muffled effort goes off into the bask Of some kinda Firmament: ah,        Well: goodnight, Night: you are done, once The moon’s moodiness and fixed Aura goes Too: fuck, yo: rage: things go raging        Off into day’s burgeoning and        Still I think,        It ain’t There: the source, bone-dry: artless, The eddy’s damnable core Particular or Object-obvious ain’t There: but the object-obvious already always Was, is, And so then, yes, Eureka, Needs no color: anymores, at- -Least: yet, is Shaped in Softening light played finally Out of the set setting, blessed W/ order’s greyness: kept Safely nonsensical, Elliptical: and, floating, Hovering, dashes once The day drowns it, the Object Obvious: the core-sourcelessness,        Yes, seen w/ a        Clarity too much the stuff of a        Force answering To mischance’s Chances: yes: To struggle once- -Again Out of, questionable, The buzz of yellow-blackened Leaves’ blind judgment: justified, Of course, b/c w/o- -Bias: eyeless and and And serene, yes, and cherished:        If even black and white: shades        Or shades’ Absence: time or time’s Absence: be sincere, DAN: yeah: word: the amount Of tears I’ve shed, after The fact: afterlife, or knot: it’s all           Cherished,        In a bundle of bony fire: Somewheres, where the mind’s blank w/ Answering clatter, Buzz: crest the brunt Of the milky matter thru a needle’s eye: wtfffffffff: Go moonward, on, yes, and sup: sup on The milk of time, I mean; of The moon and all Damned beauties blackened with examples- -Of dim, prim analysis. Yeesh. Whitens The knuckles, this Does: sup like Tits on- -The matter/agent of nature’s balled-up Racket: of silence’s damned song: be Whole again beyond confusion Or else address the           Expression and therefore        Rewrite thoughts’ History of set-settings And object-obviouses, housed in nonsensical- -Subtlety: harp on on On the damnable string and call Yourself changed, But changed Like as foliage; that is, Going back to the buzz Of bronze is- -Necessarily cyclical. And wild w/ application: Carousing, like leaves leaving trees:        Nature’s xpression’s a pod        Of fire’s smoke reacting to Stance, so that it’s always In my eyes: reactions, mine, Or rather An open commerce, W/ winter, that is; dried, almost- -To disintegrating. Come out on top Of the hill, you; once, That is, I get there From the bottom. Up sensible meanings Gradient to the Point Of scary aporia: The lightest phrase is Dark W/ the clatter of The bones of Time: . . . . . .. . .. . . . . . ... . .. . . . . .. .. And all heroic subtlety, Revealed: so I went on the Mountain awhile to think- -About Prfection: found Nothing: grandly absolute W/ whiteness’ black peace: YES:       Ah, so: so the ghosts        Lamely respond: They say yes, and Dash open the blue Vase: grail,--- Colorless: with       Blue Corporeal: and- -Dashed in feeling it, Yes, feeling reality; Rather than leaving it unbroken and sterile,---         The vase, that is. A thing needing to break for the sake Of stasis’ destruction: hidden subtlety: as like Something in the after-fact Of logic, holed-up,           Discontented, beautifully sojourn: it is filled W/ the WORLD’s weeping: the grail is: fuckin, You know, like fluid: the shit Running throughout- -Your bloody Cranium: needles, needless, eyelessly Prone to answer too early, Easily: ah, GOD, wish- -I was blind To AIKEN’s nightmare of elements And infinites: fuck you: Who: well, I am done being cute I am done- -Caring: about where it all Was, once: in such A way, I neglect the dust-kickin ghosts: I neglect to place        Myself where I am now, whether        Variable or fixed, like- -Some shitty moonward aura: shitty, Shitty moon: fuck you, you- -Strange brain’s babbling: cranial Fluid in an outburst: I feel Cursed: these Words cut deep: too deep; I start at the hill, as Always. Jacob’s ladder. Medicine wheel. Well,        Nature babbles on more than I,        About cores’ oddity, yes: And the---lifeblood, mine---also. Mmmhmm: cursed like some white kinda           Blackbird: fuck you,        SARTRE: . . . . . .. . .. . . . . . ... . .. . . . . .. .. No, The trend ain’t set, Yet; is but        A dream of seeing        The other side’s Sexiness-        -Beyond sleep’s barriers. Abstract: Luminous: vague w/ wanting . . . washing       Over all: o’er all: o’er The very messy, crisp collection Of breezy babbling’s leaves- -Found, yes, in moving aways: leave, you: So, I went on the mountain awhile: so, I went on the Mountain awhile: felt, slowly: The crisp Wintriness of air And dry leaves above Wet ones not yet Exposed to yellow time’s dawning,        Taking the set,,,        The trend of leaves Blown, truly---frank---w/ Words: weltering ‘em into Shapes that tell of the brunt of it all,        Floating,---        Hovering: in some setting’s Poor reverb and, huge, pretty Harmony’s distant        Fugue: distant: all- -This absurd stringing does is thorough The shape: thorough, in shady blacks And whites: the shape Of nature’s built           Prospects: the eyeless,        Illogical muse’s eye,---        Moreover I will or the muse will show        All goldeny parts- -Of it: of course: yes, yah, The junk, nakedly seen, clean, Set goldenly in trends, sets, source-valuables, As if it all- -Fed wrongly into the want of cresting: Christ, life’s Wild: ideas:        The utter brunt of the damnable        Things: treasure ‘em,        You,        Before leaving:        I am, If you haven’t noticed, talking           About---and,        Strange, funnily---the source, yes;        The frightening, Colorless- -Shape of a muse, Somewheres. Queasy,        Easy in flowing on up to justice’s        Fluid blindness: smears,           Splotches: and        The wish for WYNDHAM’s choice to have life, W/o appearance, judgment; That is, the smears of seeming saying on- -To make the brunt of this this This absurdist collection hover like a thrown thing.           Fragment-extras: orbitals:        Begging to get a role for the babble        To murder in           Expressing: life’s Absurd, really: so, Then, my description Should follow suit: mess, trashy garbage, waste and, Beastly, beauty’s wrought Length, nicely: colors, again, Colorful set-speech, and- -Well, bothersome, The colorless’ buzzing: at the rim-            -And indeed,       Beautiful as all hovering: Floating!: yeesh!!!!!!!!!: just- -Fuggin, friggin, fucking map The struggle in a nightmare’s- -Terms: Some Crummy embolism or clot of pollen destroyed        By the president        Of bees: breaking the- -Source w/ oddity, framed In dreams’ blind timelessness Of wrought thought: from Dry bone, now,---now Dry: this Is what happened on top Of The Hill: [part two] I saw no judgments, however carefully        I looked: for that damnable uselessness:        I found myself out there: was directed by        The speed of the wind: like a compass with Out needles: it directed me forth from feelings        On into the life of thought: life before        Thoughts about life: and life yes yes        Yes yelling in drops from that there Microcosm of a hemlock branch: the branch as        I recall was forlorn and drooping with        Precipitation’s heft, turning my whole        Shambles of a site into a muddy wallow Fit for the marshes’ pride: so I went out on        Top of a hill four days and four nights:        And lived it, made it mine: but it’s not        Mine, wasn’t: cannot claim ownership, will Not claim the place: can claim no place: so, I        Saw yellow time at first barely through        The bloodlines: of the hemlock branches:        Something is happening: branches like Many angled wires: I saw yellow time lift more        Into sight and cross a semicircle in the        Blue yonder back downwards to sprawl the        Restive night with blackness: finally: no Use denying it now, blackness, hell, nightmares:        The motif’s these: and again, with two        Feet of vision, only, in front of me, I        Gathered, could not gather more than that: More from darkness: well, that; regarding other        Senses, like sound---perhaps---a figure’s        Grunt like a threat of animal id to blast        All well and good things into one greeny Space of peace beyond dumb sense and dumb sensing.        For so long, traced by others: upon velum,        Or wild indian leaf: ah, well: fanatics        Have their dreams, after all: so I went On the mountain awhile to find justice in the        Leaves and the woad and wrought bundles        From raw poplar hanging in sheaves on a        Branch like a sure gift from the creator, And appearing as stockstill there, on the trail---        No no---off to the side of the trail,        Abrupt and striking to the eye, amongst        The miles around of loamy woodlands, grey. Nearly garbage: looking over this, I feel over        With it already: this is not ready: some        Thing is happening: make it, damn it:        Anyways: garbage, yeah, the anonymity Of waste: memories hanging like hoods on the        Stoop: all of that which built me, though        They be things not necessarily to love:        Perhaps, even, things to hate: each past Error out of the bounty seems of a garbage:        What sense I make out of sense is for me        Alone. How the words might influence others’        Senses, as they read, is more for whatever Other to use to purge themselves of, determined,        Detachments, or irreconcilables; ultimately,        Is less rightly for me to suffer through.        Give, take: either polarities’ll end up Fucked: such things as what reality consumes,        Regurgitates back up from languishing, for        Folks---things, perceived awhile in a mess,        Eddying like a sickness, to the brunt-point Of all readers’ senses’ confusion, indeed---but,        Confusion, somewhat spawned from their        Own difficulty in facing certain faces, yeah,        Visages, of truth---a horde of the damned--- Things, seen intermittently through the eyes of the        Damned, eyes of that given reader’s baffling        Other, in them---there---in them, yes, who,        Observing, too, with awe---the core---and knowing That reality as as much a vacuum---damned to the void,        Like as all folks’ others . . . erhm . . . well such        Things they are sensed apart---at first---and so        Then, feed the impatience of all seeming difficulty Thereof, because, not at times---but in most cases---this,        This unholy, dehumanizing accepting of folks        Of themselves in things messily damnable lends        To the idea that whatever senses of a given reader Rely a little on a skepticism of their as-it-is reality---        And their state of emotions, in that reality,        There---which in turn would mean to folks at        Large that, really, the core/source of any haunting Individual’s true self, as-it-is, must needs be seen---        Subjective---and so then becomes lain in a just as        Uncertain, loaded judgment, gunning for whatever        Theoretical manifestation of said other---ironically, Probably less tangible and less to blame, than the vessel:        Or source-individual: this’s a problem: sets all thems        Regurgitated pieces received apart, permanently---        Though they be from them, are seen as though not--- Apart, divorced from the seeming-true minds of all thems,        Thems suffering folks---who, just to clarify, are        Specially alienated apart by such eerie hesitance as        Comes from impatience, as this: on par, yes, with Witnessing another in the mirror---a face---that, though        Not belonging to whoever poor witness, the fool---        White with tons of ghostliness, a sudden---nonetheless,        Is perceived---that there ghost gaping judgments back--- With as equal familiarity; scary, that. And the other, there:        But: things, which, by all folks---huddled in their own        Situations and particulars and ruts across the planet---        Together---are sensed difficultly---what about thems? In being apart such things are sensed but not seen. And,        Ah, such is the flesh of the matter, that they who see        Beyond what there is to touch, see it, as said, apart,        Apart, though what it is they perceive is only their Own selves’ detachments; conflicts, in turn, only there        Because sensed. I know of myself, at least, that I am        A labyrinth---filled with doors to be cleansed--- and,        Yet, choose only to eat my own damned reflection; And like thems with much sadness I lament this twice-blessed        Condition. But: all thems answering humors---pieces        Of the form we all feel in vague thought, or mirage---        Somewheres---dancing round reality’s odd bonfire, And, yes, clicking exactly in tempo to all the dumb others’        Collective rhythm---expressed all weird in the one,        Fought-to-repress question lack the final cure for        Reality’s nausea: sadness: and yet, relieves nauseas of A differenter subtlety: of tragic, tragically-damned aliveness:        You all: through the other in me I place the blame        On you all: suffer, chaos-bitch, to the point of clattering,        As bones, yes: the bones of laughing trees’ fire: wind, Like zithers and tambourines, through, yes, themselves,        The very, very unfocused, dry direction of a particular        Branch: leaves of some kinda degrading music for the        Vacuum in you and I to so then resist, being afraid Of accepting that crucial resemblance, between your other        And the other in those leaves, dying leaves, and the        Bones of waste and dust as fearfully empty. Leave that        There blackness, whiteness of sense without a scapegoat; Judge it not in your own mind although you might in others.        That is, or judge without a truth of a set-suffering,        Redeemed by motion’s music---and, musical, dancing        Shades in winds responding, with enlightenment. Well: To put it simply in a strapped WORLD of mortal grey---no        End is up---redemption doesn’t come, mustn’t, so that        Nausea might always take enlightenment to task, via        Multiplying the vessels so receiving whatever humors One might speak of. Maybe, none of them, none of the humors,        The attitudes, colors and shards of shade are for the        Reader to---sigh---needfully feel reality for. What        Ends up happening’s the other is redeemed by a sensing, Which, in turn, goes unrecognized by a given reader’s plain        Brain-self, which in turn commences to respond to, ad        Infinitum, their other’s light-final, seen to spoiling once        The blunt impact of a point-blank sense that now can’t Be linked in a loop to the very vessel propitiating it is lost;        Rather, the sense goes beyond confusion and thus        A given reader’s true self’s coming figment up the hill        Gives up, opts out of suffering more and just for the Sake of wheedling a response out of all the examples, yes,        Regurgitatings of life. Scraping up thems dirty fucking        Fragments of grey into a neat and, wended to a half-        mending, flickering truth’s flickering honesty: am I Honest with myself; really, that is what I wonder. Well,        The other hates the languishing, much as I; the reader        Senses this but cannot change it; so, then, cannot        Change itself. Inhabiting, as well, that vessel---damned Carnivore. Criminal of nausea, wasted for nothing. So that,        The sickness of reality remains as but a visage. A loaded        Gun judging folks’ vague source, humanly impossible        For us, thems to see unless the damned ascetic, PASCAL, Utters it us, yes, them: for the sake of a break: as to the        Condition of this nausea of noble garbage---in an out        Pour---baffling, in a threat---or threatening, in how baffling        The fragments go straight to the sordello-image--- Vase of a blue, blue reality’s suffered muteness---given me,        Yes, to speak to death and so then, in my sense of sense,        Find myself assumed, halfway, ruined by too-vigorous        Complexes---centered, of course, in a skeptical judgment Of this very babbling: these funny codes, for to unlock the        Bastard within: set-symbols---organic, internal---or outsider        Visages suffered by me to blindness---mine. Well, I’m a        Reaper rightly apart, finding deaths for the eyeless other, Reader or no, me or other, to battle---via confusion and confusion’s        Suffering, suffering’s confusion---well I do say---here’s an        Idea: a kinda seen aliveness might on the other hand rid        Folks of their brain-self’s inaccurate humors, sensings Of damnable scrutiny, and for the saints to tsk: you will        See, about the saints: solipsism, tragic, drunk with quaking:        Feeling the truth of scrutiny---yes---my rotten-rooted        Logic of collections, any, is too painful for me to leave The cave for, go up redundant hills for: I’ll leave it to others        To feel this odd baggage, mine, for me, so that in        Themselves they might isolate their own dang times        Of isolation, apartness: pretty selfless/selfish: ah, ugh: Quit yer scrutinizing, DAN: and, all this placeless, terribly,        Yet felt in you, reader---judge or other---for my        Blindness-wishing to justify: cuz it’s there, that core,        Core sourcelessness---it’s there, from whence the Shaking atom’s temper split open myself: with the grace of        These sensitive, fragile buzzings: even though I am no        King for CELAN nor a president for silly STEVENS:        Anyways: my words for so long traveled both artfully twain, And, at precious times of timeless pondering, yes, a queasy        Muse’s patchwork working, kinda---garsh---wove---        Nested naturally---nice mumbles of tinking        Music, blithe and bundled: well, no, no, more, Uhm, more as like a thing within the rigor of        Some odd vine or double-helix: strong as the dickens        Or the devil: anyways: I wrought from raw poplar        What respect I could and into burning stuff Sculpted it with gloves to stop the pain of        The friction against the bare skin of my grasping        Hands, wheeling the damp bark woven, strand        By strand, together to come dry through the Brute shaping of the stuff into burnables and        Heated---after the fire’s built---to char: crucial,        Yes: will start the next fire, most likely:        Striking and drilling, what have you: the Fire: yes yes yes: what starts it’s the same        As what it is once started: and after starting, is        As important, indeed: I think---but am        Not sure---but am pretty damned sure, it’s Cuz the substances are selfsame, quotha:        Brush and sticks scattered and idle as things        Removed from purpose once without man to        Make a fire and a warmth from them these Twiggy, soulful things: so I went on the        Mountain awhile and gathered mud from uprooted        Trees and made a pile of sticks and put        Large rocks around. The rocks were covered At the sides by the dirt for the base of        The firemound. I made a plateau for the sticks to        Catch in blazes and patted mud up against        The sides to rise them up, with the flat Of my palm. After that I set up tent but        Mind was buzzing out the soporific from shady        Sources’ whispers, wailing: after thought        Ruined the kicker of the dust with a dumb, Chafing anticipation: and sadly, all thems running        Conduits dry out and brain loses collection’s        Connections, vast and varied---as that late        Espoused saint---and---now, so barely seen, That nonsense seems the clearer, if only        Because it is of the moment; is of moments’        Collected runs up the hill to the verdant        Greens of a colorless, though lighted space: What’s happening: mind was buzzing, with        Saints: filled with bitter litter: garbage: yes,        A pageant of dross: of all unloved things,        Yes, awash and plentily in hordes: usurper: oh Ye futile, beautiful things: oh ye things, ye        Grey fucking things: now, all that’s left is        Significance: now, all this bullshit, it’s        Pure bullshit, at least it is pure: the Often watch of big, old diurnals made my        Day, there, on the mountain, quite literally,        White or dark: I mean, light or black: wait:        What: shit: a WORLD of shit: the second Day it rained and I found sleet gathered        At the dip of the tarp which I had attached to        One flimsy branch of something like poplar        Or oak still young and green with nourishing: But the branches were weak: broke two of        Them: the windy blusters broke the damn things:        Well, life’s absurd, and so is the other,        And so am I, and that’s that: no, no: well, Life’s absurdly unfinished, forever grasping        Burnables or shaping shades: the only way to go is        Back moonward through time’s liquid aura:        Rewind to the spot at the bottom, when it’s Just me and the big rock of myself to push:        I look at the rock: the other sides of the tarp held        With sticks stuck hard in dirt: one large        Stick and one small stick held the tarp over Tent with power cord: all of it together like        A figure or shadow held akimbo by a large, fallen        Pine: and so the shadow falls to brightness;        Perhaps, finds the source of all wind. And, The source goes off into the night, and the        Night forever remaineth my ezra; that is, as a        Stubbled-rough father of a dumbly and for        So long muted, modern grief. Sadness: what Is happening: I went on the mountain awhile:        Yeah, so what: and the grief, absurd and other        As bundles of fire to dry the core’s sopping        Up of all grand, milky matters: grief for What is there and from the darkest knowledge        Of dim self not ever exited, no, nor come from        Some pale source within: the shadow falls        And the kernel of the matter lieth willingly With what thou tend to lovest: absurdity,---        No, no: absurdity’s death: death, yelling for mine        Own judgment, rapt for the tone of my words’        Worsening and leveling out of flux or the Disorder of notions AIKEN made me blind with:        I wail like a child: into the last of crummy night:        With that, the last of a source: for now: the        Source of justice leaves: leaves: needles: Needless bundles of stuff swelling the house        With a set-plenty: I’m settling down . . . that is        What is happening. Taking time to sense a        Minute or two with diamondy metaphors, weird With absent fire’s answering judgment evoked        In each, every flicker, pop: judgment, go ahead        And yell, you fucking child: just leaf, leave,        Before embarking towards the moonward other, Dying slowly on the painted firmament: as if        To further the sky with sound, rapturous sound: as        If with sound inching finally from the brain        Cave: and the other, he’s drunk, the fool: Drunk with silence: with a slow, excruciating        Airlessness from lungs asleep: he’s drunk with glee,        Light as fucking helium: yes, yeah, uhm, shit:        Look!, the shadow crawls o’er disturbances And others whilst the self chafes a throat for        All people all the time: and, for all time, expendable        As years on a WORLD of inches unnoticed: and,        Most of all, indifference, yes, grand beyond Compliment: the shadow rises, the shadow falls:        And what thou tend to is what thou lovest, needest:        No no: not the bundles, fires, or the nonsense        Raging each minute, in each minute, somewheres In each minute: once the fire, struck or drilled,        Though: now despite that passion’s uttering length        Goes on, this dialogue with fire’s clicking        Mouth---to give example of all of nature’s Purples, pinks---must end as night will end:        It leaves me tending nothing but a life of judgments,        A priori, justified not, ever: no loaded gun,        No visage looking, anymores; or at least for That time on the mountain, that I spent on the mountain.        My time to push things up a hill: things,        Things that say more with saying, less with not:        And most of all, uhm, wombed well and good from Sexless, tended nothing. And the rest is dross nondisclosed_email@example.com (satanicdoctor)Sat, 17 Mar 2012 19:13:45 +0000