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autoflowerreorganize the body
my artillery is a hall full of dancers
because to avoid death the ocean divides itself
and divides itself
until she's a shadow full of rooms
or eventually even the acid and the earthquake
But we've imagined this backwards.
the elephant's battered radiation talks all prophets from the building
Upon the stockpile mouths flood dry
and so many cardinals
of that hollow universe
And so what, auction the wind
After, no one will be left to speak
and I laugh because the same parts divide us
For the machine:
I hang these plane crashes from your clotheslines
petrodollarthe hill has been butterflied
and everything that causes noise speaks
in a foreign language
a radio chokes itself
saying the sound of empty country is snow
the distance between freeways is arrested
as reports about frost come second-hand
(things the soldiers fell like:
trees, leaves, airplanes)
an owl blasts through the mountain,
angels, expatriated from our father’s paradise
do taxes in a public park
Overpasses arc like the rings of a dying planet
Nobody can find work
now kids have taken to demanding
explanations from god
while last night the anarchists
doing their best to imitate the pacific
found only the silence of constant traffic
florenciashe believes again that possession is a kind of miracle
stuttering in metro the history of continents
a bird > a woman > a room
of old linen
in abstracts of florence parallel florencia
her bones and pangea could be drawn there maybe
think: if this train derails
because time because the failure rate
is absolution divided constantly
it's like freedom and indica
all contraindicated folk religion
the hybrid on her tongue like a brief encounter
with old lovers in a rose garden at fairmount part
i thought of you today
thought of los angeles
that pathology east and of high-rise
designed to dance in the event of an earthquake
all the things that brought you back there
it's not the act of breaking down
on highways on trains in parks
it's an inert brand of want
that feels something like evolution
and oh everything is full of condition
i drink and speak your name often
but what an accident this all is
belizeduring abduction always listen-
they pull a mountain to the gurney
and cut the planets free
and the garden, in its horizon, lifts like a horse
until the shouting is a baffled continent.
No, we don't make it but take your pick:
the blue voice trapped in the array
the grey train ruins strangling her hills
the woman remembering a streetlight.
these miracles belong to us.
we will take them into whatever dark space we are marched.
After? a glass migration flowers these machines
and survivors emerge bright from the metal
elisewhen i told you that everything is the movement, the leaving
i mean it's a conflict to not imagine the dead
to not feel the violent street beneath their back
to not fill rooms in your head with voices
and parade your traffic away from your own body
for example i write a letter with no return address
and the world is pregnant with division
and i hear nothing but the noise in the signal
tearing down the artifacts in days of cheap vodka
and you keep coming and going
and sometimes it's real and sometimes it's recall
but we talked about god and decided it was loneliness
which manifests the engulfed endgame, the paradise
and this, like that, is about the constant state of momentum
which defines existence or defies it
and the absurdly beautiful freedom of abandonment.
there is something terrible in the silence. something human.
ContingencyThe survival plan was contingent on blues,
after the subway is bombed and the pigeons settle like grief
Sometimes we communicate in diseases sometimes
the angels that haunt the space between factories
exchanging all the promised inertia for flowers
that bloom and die instantaneously
And after the country would appear as people
stumbled upon the shore in language and crowds of telephone wires
And then the protocol says
everything is bad weather in this fall-
the endoskeletons of factories are crawling through the fog,
as our horses
quietly return to the ocean.
in the republics they speak of1.
not a single war made the headlines today
instead, missing people assemble near a bank
and a woman asks from whom
did we invent these hauntings?
billboards on the interstate
mean these universes are inert
you are born with them.
some say mountains possess them.
they say the sorrow of their saints is perpetual.
(some don't believe it ever snowed
in those failed states)
a city in the American midwest incorporates
after a tornado
the nature of our fatalism
is all of the photographs we couldn't reconstruct
to those whose creation myths
whose transmissions of light
the risen ask often for you
a. god created bodies that fail
b. bodies that fail created god
according to anonymous government sources
much more radiation seeped into the atmosphere than was reported
"suddenly, everybody was just waiting for the clouds to come" a witness said
in a young countryOur people surrender to depression with elephants in their poetry,
the suicide machines built like the helmets of astronauts
more or less proving god's absence in their wake.
We've perfected the technology to photograph an airplane
bending at the moment of impact. This is the world we were given.
In our books the bodies fall upward and nobody prays. We're left
watching spines stand and drift into an exodus of hands in a video
of unsinkable buildings. Our state is overpopulated with expositions
of the ache that some get while staring at the sky. The folk music
of our planet's oceans can no longer lessen this place's collisions,
all of the metal in our bodies is homesick,
all of these geese stayed behind and froze to death in the park.
ConfluenceAccording to the old religion, a scribe
must bathe in natural running water
before she draws what is dictated to her,
because writing's just like cleaning a mirror,
she says, it's like rearranging stains
left on wholesome rivers. For three nights,
I drew geometric shapes in the margins;
I had been instructed to take notes on
the underside of snow, and how it colonized
the lithosphere, musically and without hurt.
It felt like a call, but it wasn't a calling.
The paper was made in Himalayan foothills
by a woman who had cleansed knots from fibrous bark
and dipped her bleached hands into boiling water.
I mangled the page into a cottage, then a castle;
for I imagine that the grime of Dublin
could fold me up into my questions. But to give
creative attention is always an act of love,
and the most sincere. You have always known that
only at the fringes of the intellect
can love become voice. So may
it all be fringes and love
its nonexistence, but not yet, not yet.
the future starts slow.he calls himself a veteran of my love, and i say
does the frequency of which these northern lights blink
follow less than the static of asylum you release
radioed fully, accidentally, before the product of this love?
do you traffic the airdrome of caustic breath
just to signify the distress
of wayward eyes, strained skyward prayers
excommunicated fall to grace?
have you resounded the avenues of beautified language
to form quiet absolution or cauterized artistry
by the design of foreign suspension, piloted death?
and let me tell you, i say: i bore witness to the purge
of argent skyline, rendered raging dawn obsolete-
stole a man of his libertine and hung time as a testament
of this struggling entropy.
we once proved that god left impressions and imprints of insurgency
on the backs of our eyes; broke the compulsion of inertia
bursting from the miasma of occupied blood, and freed the departure
of agrestic living from the dystopia of our hearts.
listen, veteran: we once marked ours
white speechi. street turns young with stilted rain; thought
fresh-cut flesh seeking tastes of dawn’s breath-
god reverse-engineers the derisive of life.
ii. transplendent, wreckless
pith of light undone- re-masked & matched
to fit the carriage of indolent strivers.
iii. query the grey: starve the harbingers,
foreshadow the curl thirstily. uncover inane sentiments of
dying girl. restate. restate syncopation of the divine average
of morning wandering.
iv. account for syrinx, beautiful suppression. taut,
the accurate portals of hurt boy eyes and traveling youth proclaims
v. riant re-birth.
intuitive flight aches prismatic.
What angels inventedi.
The ocean of air above
you swells with voices
deathless skippers leaving
dust of meteorites
in gusty mind-
but you, an airborne antigen
You trammel inspiration
off the tallest waters. The poems
you could have written
I go on and they go too,
skating away on pitchey ink
The ocean of water beneath
my trembling fingers your hand
closes over them so clasping
so out of breath and quiet
skin which I am carrying
on top of my skin paints
the blush of every flower
in your state opening up
to spring at once
you can put your twangy spin on stars
(but you can't keep me off alone)
The firmament of earth between
us — automatic: I write us
like the cosmos happens
dually — miniscule,
the firmament last
time you held that stare I could
have built castles on
(the way you looked
at me, astronomically)
into a briefpoverty is the servitude of love, he says.
atlantic whispers to a time where this citied-desert
settled to dismantle the sun in a pair of eyes, fashioned oratory
and absolute- unhinged the moon to conquer its inheritance on a world
aching prismatic, dark and precise. these twinned sky-eyes breathed
the softly hushed airborne lament of a divine girl; sold the orphans of gale in his chest
to uplift the quietude of earth’s linear back, and weaved silver lining dreaming
to coiled smoke-breath, renting vacancies to stars unfurling
by her timely pacific death.
unsexed eleven consenting months, gentled the rough lining
of your spinal-coast chord and set sail on solarly winds birthed pragmatic.
our seaworthiness empties truth in fistfuls. the autistic dark of your eyelids
curtain the blink of settling dusk. thunder cries to stricken gravity, shocked stark:
i wonder when the youth of you proclaimed itself meek with unwary.
resistanceThe key to happiness is to always be fucking something
I am incapable
because I let it
go only to a certain point
arrhythmia is a tremor,
a Malthusian catastrophe
less solvent than snow.
The renegade who serves
my synapse sequences knows
this, and she develops fevers
to quell my dependence on
our forest of censored souls.
Mine is a passive immunity.
She makes tsetse flies,
fills them with blinks,
and releases them as impulses
that vaccinate my love against
the hurting. I'm not so deep
and I know nothing of suffering.
In my bathroom againGod's in my bathroom again,
he's shaving the patches of his
beard and pulling clown-faces
at the soap. Last night
he held me as I lay in a fever,
made little screams, kept
the hot tongues from my face,
the mushrooms from my
He says his old girlfriend
tried to drink his blood, that
it messed him up
for a while. He says
it's been a long time.
God looks sad, jingling his
teeth at me like loose
change. The clicks of my
heart make me sick;
folding his pyjamas
the kind thing
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crash
that almost killed her.
through whitewhite walls,
where her lover dies.
nobody thought she'd make it,
but she woke up a few months later
with flowers in her hair
and ash in her airway;
trying to remember how to start all over,
but forgetting to remember how to live.
fall slipped from her open eyes
and winter crawled in for a long hibernation
to her the clouds looked sick
and pale like they might
let everything inside them out,
but she opened up wide instead,
spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.
her heart slipped down the street
and with unsteady hands
she stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
serpent, serpentSerpent, serpent, I found you in
the sand and the heat of your
eyes has been my summer, dragging
on and on and coiling for the lunge;
I noticed you let me inch nearer with
the blood rushing to my lips in hopes that
my words would be fruitful enough to
tempt an answer from you and I said,
Serpent, serpent, my sleep is uneasy
and my throat is clogged with apologies
and my cheeks burn with temper and
tell me how
you bear the weight of accusation and
manage to move with the effort of a blink
a blow to the head
Serpent, serpent, it said, hold me close
and I will show you.
inlandbecause upon arrest the ocean sits with
but never occupies
because when I woke the anarchists
were demanding suffrage from heaven
because the news announced whale bones
pulled from a mountain in turkey
because i went to the liquor store
and the missing posters were gone
because every noise the city makes
is a foreign language falling extinct
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More