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poem in three parts.

I found the shadows of a love shading restless

Bodies bound. The-
-Restless restless nights
Of ghosts-in bed, chilling up chilling
           Up. That duo: yur hand,
Crawling, towards-
-The groin of my junk: we were
Were sheets. We together sweated up
The mattress-saturated with what had stunk
           Our bodies: this obsession
Of skin, for skin: this
Shadow—her countenance

Count sentiments with step,
An ankle shuffles in terrific bone to-
         -Crop the toes around her pointed
           Target that rings becalmed-
      -Phonetics round the rage of a vicious dot,
      Emaciating that far gut of some particular-
     -Risen thought-through feet-traversing
SOULs of reckoning between our soles
Of rough entanglement, all blessed,
All said through simple fluency of
Turning pads, upon her turning feet

That still yet speak remarks that she may stead-
-In pinions rolled extremities of feet.

And-anger with an eyelid overdrawn,
And-her wagging needs and made of want,
Both-express-in brows: brows: lopsided
Brows, jaunted as
Dynamos, the mind,,,
Flagging Generating Want—

The sediment that trams her eyes
Expands from her expanding white—
In anger, sometimes, peaks and swirls the
Stubbornness, the !@#$ flatlands
Of stubbornness. It is to hide
Emotion from value: !@#$ anyway,
Either way, just !@#$: afterwards: quarreling,
           Released—released a Bullet—from an
Unloaded gun. It pierced sharp-
-As Needles, needless, !@#$. Hurt looks

Expressed always by a silent SOUL
           Who always speaks—because she
Always thinks, goddamit: not a single syllable
May dent air, but still
To those who know—

—The point is always there:

An offhand look from driver’s seat or
Hesitance in how she washes dishes or
Dejection in how her head may jerk, when-
-She closed the sliding doors, that time.

She drags the sport of mute enchanting
Cross her hips yet not her lips: speaking
Visions, without words, to consecrate
The verb she’s wanting: she speaks: ohh-

-She speaks: I hear her opus like a breath,
           I stifle it and I do suffocate.
Her voice is cured in nature, without sense,
        Her quiet sentences are new waves,
   Breathing: new echoes go out into-
-Jaded, pepless words. She-she
           R uns foxlike
From meaning---as from praise.
By that I mean she is ineffable.
Her memory and eye are equal voids to
Stuff with speech that might as well be beautiful

It does not bend the artwork of her look.
The encapsulated moments of touches
In writing—sum up to toys,
The doddering of my pen, impassioned somewhat-
-Throws names, and names, and many other names.
They sing. They quickly
Spend the fluff, and leave-
-The necessary beauty: singing
           Prim, rosy songs:
           Before yes before
The gate of all her depth unlocks . . .

I write, I scratch cold stanzas on cold rocks.

I recollect the times—cast now to flatness,
The bold intuits of our past once present—

The jokes the gruff
Sarcasm the madness the face
The hand do by the clock relent
Because—smile—is not, no,

Not—no—not nearly as bold
When I can only pretend that
Happy thoughts, happy
-Of her, can be
So furnished, so dimensional,
Those happy thoughts are paper things
The truth of you has hard time ending:

I know truth: I see it in her
Solitary glow—constant glow—constant,
          Shifting, unplaced aura: as though
The sun—abashed—did hide
Behind her quality,
And, mingled with her: her guarded spirit:
It sheds out a warm and constant light that

As it shines benumbs the bush
And escalates the oaks—

And when she throws rays—on me,
I feel shrunken—bashful—tactless, as
A babbling child in arm. It is,
It is this light that trips/tags
About her complacent heels/eyes—
It is the Light in that blue Look of her,
           By which I see the reason
For songs/spirits-utmosts
Living in me now
Rather than outside
Of me—

The cynic comically entrenched
Beneath my skin the doubter pushing out
My weathered hope the quitter who is telling me
     To quit does die quite off at something, something
Throwaway as laughs:
           Her laugh is an ideal that bobs
         As free and scattered and pretty as the indulgence
Of the sea, the land, the rock.
She measures out her prettiness
In secondglances. Her pale and also delicate wrist.
Her smooth dark unblemished perfect skin. Her
Touch, the touch of her-and-
-Most importantly her
Counted face, her look-each part of her is
A whole, in itself: the look of her—
One part—merely, amusing: a
Public, charming sonata-
-Witty, and light—and yet,
There is that-haunted-
-Melody, to her: that
  Wafting bloom of mourning beauty, youth:
I hear the extra brass, the gusty viola,
          The palpitations of-
-Drums, cymbals
Grumbling as her sound gains—

And all of it—picks out a harmony. The harmony
Is air that moves, leaking small from the
EARTHLY corners of aesthetic: crevices, for us
To place within their rut the soft eccentricities-
-Of pretty language: to shapen symphony
From the weightless tunes of looks.
They beat
A chord for her. It falls—before it is heard,
But hums always beneath her skin

And, gives a rising and a
Rising proof of goodness

That, still, perhaps-
-Squats somewhere on

EARTH. The great-and
Little-things of her
Are so braced in her, yet—subtle—loosed
In beauty-the closer one gets,

The more beautiful the-
-Beauty becomes.

She senses the warmth and comfort of your presence,
She senses your humor in all things
She looks at you with quiet, remarkable eyes.

Looks, she pierces you with secondglances—
And looks from under the gentle gaggle
Of her bold, her bold-

-Her aubernescent hair,
Which grows of course in restless waves
That spread in strings across the eternity
Of her kind features

And when she looks— her splendor is a flood,
           That roils out my heart, until my heart
           Can take no more: it rolls, dives back-
        -Into my body, without my body choosing.
           Once it went from me, I had felt as though
 My heart, and all that made me natural, was staged-
           -Instead, within the chasm of some
           Malevolent stillness, left to thrust for nothing.
           Too long enduring that subtle place, it
       Then rolled and dove back into me. This place was
A place, a desert of rejected hearts. Left alone, they
Beat loudly for themselves, themselves aborted
From the people whom once thrust for them;
Abrasive, they beat to mute a louder stillness.
           They beat, and beat, without a vessel,
       Before being consumed by this strange WORLD.
      My heart was beating there. Beating, beating, beating,
Hoping not to be consumed . . . without a heart, I relished
   The freedom of an empty chest, a passionate emptiness
           That needed no ambition, couched in purgatory,
And yet stirred still by the things of life, because there-
       -Was no longer any chugging on, life was there, and
 I was content to watch her with no heart. And I knew that
         Each one of these that everybody has, once gone from
           Heartless selves—selves such as myself, perhaps,
  Transfixed, yes, by that dark aura of some sentiment, or
Girl, or her mere look, speaking vastness with her eyes—
Well, I knew each thud of hearts as more and more
    Irrelevant, benign: I saw my own now as-
-A translation of the reflex I might drown,
         Given time to live as heartless. I viewed
           My own lost heart as alien and feeble,
        A translating of the peace I would have screamed-
         -To have, to have as what it was, were not this heart
           Too weak to entertain a sense more than itself;
           A deciduous thing no longer to be used, once it-
         -Wavered more than I myself would waver. I would
Rather arrest the contraption and know myself more
         Fully in the stillness my own heart hates, for
     That stillness would be peace to me. This heart that
           I am given is no purity, unchanging; rather, each
           Beat is a denial of the stillness I crave, the peace I-
           -Crave, and this craving makes it beat the faster,
           Faster and away, going rapidly from this funny
           Sort of peace—though death will
           Knock the muscle out for good. Before I could
           Understand this truly—and see her looking self
          As a place to be taken to from my natural state,
Away from this wretched muscle and its uses—
        It wretchedly commenced again,
    As though the stopping of my heart
  Had stopped time, all this time, and now
       It had resumed, and so time did resume-
      -To beat me on towards death: that human
           Scheme of human beating
           Made itself clear once more, and
Made clear my humanness, as she turned away,
And, my heart was held again within my chest,
           And beat again to prove my chest-
-As needing such a thing to move, not her. And so,

She became the translation, and the peace
I would have known became abstraction. Though—
           I know without this girl I would be dead,
Dead of life though living, while the beats
Keep beating proof of some more lucid, fiber-like
           Infatuation. If I am not my heart, which
I am not, I would know no proof myself,
But feel it, instead, without a place of stillness,
Of stillness, to make sense out of the chase:

And there are
Acres of meaning in her
Forestry of brush against my skin,
And the timber rooting want and need in
Ochre anchored anger/passion down, to sleep-
    -Its roots in memory: still, I have that parted
           Phase of beautiful
Life—yes—once a moment lived, now gone
To retrospective torpor: now
Held in memory as such a time that-
-Could have been a wholeness: although, my memory of it
           Was and is and has been nonetheless a—
Mere and lonely part of our connectedness:

All located, once,
In the same brown
Stance of oak, and
Gilded brown and lucrative bark.

Limber lessons found in vines betwixt
The tender vowels locked in drones betwixt
The Greeny twining of lips, like leaves together
           Cloaked in vines, cleansed by
-An educated kiss.

And a pair of us, manipulating:
Linked in something stale . . .
We wile in heat, we-
-Smartly play the kiss in chords that hum
Chords, behind peonies—and
Leave. And so, the sneak of
Laden hums: it is no longer
There, as like a perfume: an oddly
Fleeting olfactory past
Empty faces in the empty trees.

These limber lessons they
Are learned just once, and then
By the fury of a—
Mind of twiggy things, attached
To thicker branches of—
In haughty thickets.

She is my teacher of no subjects,
But those of splendidly wasted moments—
Moments between two wasted minds and
Tricking down two wasted spines to
Teach us more in wasted time

Than could be learned from largest libraries . . .
And, purpose—more—than what could be seen
Acutest in words, sight as a speech for the eye(?)
Apr/4/2012, 3:53 pm Link to this post Send Email to satanicdoctor   Send PM to satanicdoctor Blog

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