PAGODA

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PAGODA

dog barking
wire
rusting

at the rail yard stuff
that seems like debris
piled
so high
but not
quite sky high

but Moon presiding
not full but skinny crescent

waxing or waning
some portable almanac
were it
here could
definitively tell

and in the park now locked secure
until the Sun
makes
its return (ever so
slight shifting
in that early Winter
time slot)
and the great gatekeeper
opens up at eight sharp
to regular
townsfolk

and the pagoda
tells its tale of
supreme
sun gods and
their imminent arrival

the stars
falling to ground
and a tower of fire
ascending to Heaven

all that was pagoda
translated into light

putting paid
to all idylls of return and
dreams of
full summer

this machine
all just a system to insure
with
every Devil detail
it all
will find its next
state
of balance
at the end of this day
of days it will all balance out

its
(slightly shifted) regular
dawn time slot

MACHINE

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MACHINE

was writing
but before
I could finish

got
swept away

woke up
in the night the world
feeling too
bookish
for words

my glasses
here
somewhere
my body
here somewhere

needed someone to
find me
so I used GPS
to
phone me
some satellite

find
me
a machine

everything needing
to work like clockwork

like the perfectly lubricated
creatures
in my utopian dream

BALL

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BALL

the light is soft
but the Sun

is a tempestuous ball
tempestuous
and transformative

loves
playing with its palette
putting me through
the necessary
mutations

leaving me
warm and brown
with you
so much
warm
and browner

even though
cold climate aesthetic would
decry
this plunge from
apex of
hierarchy, this
fall from grace

and yet
scratch a little that surface
and the
gold
forged in finer stars
will
instantly gleam

find
that seam so much grace
there
forevering

WOBBLESY

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WOBBLESY

My wobblesy body feels like it was made of TS jelly wobbles and was

dragged Through the Looking Glass in search of a body of knowledge

manga fans oh how all the animations allow you to stylize my body horror

They do not give out Nobel prizes for nothing come

Follow Me
I shall take you out deep into no man’s land to where the Nobel Prizes grow graphic, thick and furious like a jungle or an industrial complex

oh this thing entropy nothing on earth and under the spell of gravity can resist your will
under your Sith serpent
power
avoid
becoming aged and bent,
crippled by time or
flattened entirely; rolled tighly into a Prufrock ball
silver-papered
collapsing under mass of own gravity or hideous weight

such as the case
with its monstrous prosody
that
cuts through carves through
sinew and line
thar mighf be way better expressed
But I am consciousness, damn it,
and will
not be so undermensch, slave
mentality addressed

and so will resist
have it in me: in my D and also my A
to pull a radical chemistry, total
kitchen-sink alchemy
become blob of early science-fiction
horror
terror of the cosmos eveb
with ridiculous prop and

sans world-altering green screen
philosophy-rewriting graphic
(that
book hollowed out
where Neo
hides his truth
truth you
have to see
and feel)
and as blob

name up in lights and
star of the John Carpenter show
lovecraft loving myself
(yet nothing masturbatory)

demigod of
sexual psychosexual
sixties psychedelic acid
dissolving everything in my slow inexorable path
and
then some
putting paid (style of
late capital
economic erotic orgasmic ectoplasm)
of all that
Borg resists, fails your

cosmic Turing test of simple logic
suppliy and demanfd
not to speak of Malthusian
stupidities of my sweet but stupid
biodegradable humanity
float tp the surface stuff in
the primal soup and
expendable offal connecting tissue
body fluods
in event of war and advent of
armanents’ industry

could cry for
this humanity
if I had eyes
and I had tears
lurking in the undergrowth in
alien camouflage
so far beneath ice and
fire
and blasted rock planet
of your proverbial, perpetual underworld
below, beneath and

so incomprehensible
to ali
that is Aesthetics of Guides and Gods and
old outworn mythology of
Anglo American poetry
modernist to
a cataclysmic
fascist failing fault.

SATURDAY

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SATURDAY

On Saturday
(day of Saturn, satyr, satire)

the Scriptwriter couldn’t decide
whether to give her wings
or to
give her strings

so kicked back and
watched the movement
of the stars —
though they
do not move
or do indeed but
not in a way
that
looks obvious

watched them rotate
through the Heavens

receding
from us as they are
at imperceptible red-shift

speed
of thought
velocity of
furry things, thinking
machines
exponential in
altogether evolution
soon

to reach our womb limit
darkness by

Sunday; at least.

RADIO MARSEILLES

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RADIO MARSEILLES

heard you on
Radio Marseilles

but getting so old, forgetful,
did not realize it was
you

though you so the best and
this my favourite song

something about you
so Aphrodite

seems so apt hearing you from
South of France, from
the Mediterranean

yes, that is
indeed the way of love

way
love goes

songbirding your way into
my hear again

POISSON

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POISSON

heard your guttural taal-tongue
did not
care for it much

and when your
shield wall broke

all
bets were off

lording it
over you all
sherriffing the life
out of you
(riffing
that bad dude
from Nottingham and all my
evil
Plantaganets)

but such a mission
to recover what was lost

all those kisses from across the channel
Rimbaud, Mallamere, your words need to
reach me
unsullied by
translation

and so let me
salute you Arthur, Stephane
as you sail the Seine
in yoiur drunken boat

can hear your voices floating through my poem
my no
longer gutteral, softened speech
of my birth
carrying that old heritage

day of victory
day we shaped in
our image

nothing ever the same for
the massive better

infinitely worse.

QUEEN OF THE KHMER ROUGE

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QUEEN OF
THE KHMER
ROUGE

here is
sealed system

rivers
of blood
but otherwise
no flow

we thought
there must
be flow
it all
would be flow

heartbroken my poem
bombed into oblivion
must
ape your contours

chocks away
I say
clocks
back
to thunder

linebacker blitz
thunders
be rolling

agent orange has ordered
her last
Singapore Sling

checks her watch looks
in her black book
scans the list of
unmissable rendezvous
top
secret assignations

the red on
her face marks her
with a look too
geisha
for my liking

if you are not
salt of the earth the Earth
will have
to claim you

that truth is dialectical
just do
the accounting

so many stars up there unsullied
outnumbered by bones

PIE

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PIE

pie opens up
to the Universe

my robot
hammering away
in her workshop

gives me a
slice of
that pie

with all its seamless workwomanship
is pure
Aphrodite

is
becoming your desire seeing
the undergrowth through
yellow fire eyes
properly belonging
to a tiger

but
let us not
speak
of proper here

EVERY KEY I PRESS

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EVERY KEY I PRESS

need to
select better

depress
better

need to grow a pair of
cat bat ears to take in
all your audio
every
sweet
nuance

or if not grow, have the
vanity surgery, get
a full transplant

and canine snout thrown in
to pick up your scent

track you down following
a few stray top perfume molecules

find you and take you
with newly installed
chameleon fingers hold on
lizard-fast

or
use every bit of surface-tension
to skim your surfaces
until all that is surface
does the derrière Derrida
doubling
back on itself

offering me
the key
to total exploration

an expedition to discover
the source of such
an orchestra capable
of
quite heavenly music

for which
better Mozart my voice box
golden harp your cords too

that song
soaring angelic with
every key
I, me,

sorry we
accidentally, haphazardly,
calculatingly press