Poems and excerpts

After Aphex Twin

There is a lithe patient on the hospital bed:

steel bed of needle points, cold as an array of stars

withering in distant galaxies . . .

A sun is chiming

in syntony with the incarnadine and

beige glass sheets of ocean water . . .

The mares are bound by the cart:

all the sun fell into their hides, and faded in

the men’s paper skin, thinking deeply in the pit of

their beings; ethereal bodies in their clarity barely

effulge from their brows in unexpected moments

I have to meet you at the park, the lush and fountained

park past the locus of noon in the smaragd of early

evening – to share these curious orisons and parcels

with you, my friend, and the copse of yearling trees that

I keep watering in my secret pocket. My hope is that you

might elect me with the stars, tallest diamonds, highest

points in the heavens that breathe as they hear even

the tiniest sounds of our thoughts.

As you intuited in the past, I have little place on this plane.

I am no Jesus, no Jesuit, no friend of the masses.

I am only the net catching the signals of transient beauties.

I must be already there, beyond the slope, waving

a quiet hailstorm as you pause for an instant

in the green and blue world.

It’s like making love to Marilyn Monroe

in nocturnal swimming pools

of tastelessly decorated American hotels.

“They’re all these filthy people of good taste.”

It’s the sun beating down on a face,

its rays—these soft melodic pulsings—little exclamations

hitting the atmosphere of our bodies, of our faces . . .

Rain down on us.

Come in these tides of this playful God,

like jet planes.

I didn’t know you

were human . . . like leaves of grass

in their resplendent vanity—

come into their release.

Like kind astronauts’

clear and careful warnings.

The pier that vanishes in the morning light,

nameless and placeless, where nothing need

make sense;

echoes become a shrill and gentle music,

and these words

The poem and song flee,

leave her energy alone,

for such lucency will not be lauded

with numbers or letters

This spot will not be dressed,

for it only is

If ever an adult detects it

in the speech of a poet,

their eyes shift downwards and to the side

,or,

they smile like a child again,

an eerie smile without guile

For at the heart of this impossible

configuration they call creation is

only an odd musical genius

with nothing more useful to do

than throw humans off

with such strange beauty

Breeze assembles briefly

vitreous wrinkle

cubital shape

born

at the turn of 10−43 seconds

The air-thin bookkeeper records the entry

The momentary breeze-masterpiece accrues from the infinitesimal point, counting in reverse into its ephemeral fullness, approximating

1. The breeze contracts from opposing angles out of the blue. It contracts or expands, either way, hinging on the window of the perspective

The breeze is stamped by the Radiant Parent, Overlord, by which breezes, gales, squares, clouds and the ficklest form escape the vacuum; each´s particular breath becomes lilting springs in space, glinting with nostalgia for the lost breath

The X-Lord flashes a signal of itself, the Creator, to the observer; spilling the breaths into vanishing light pictures

The bookkeeper erases his records of the breeze instance; together with his entries he blurs and lapses shyly

There is no god

So, what is the gravity sky?

What is a particle-point if not a signal of Source?

Particular perceptions are perspectives falling in a curve round´ the vortex of the elusive Singularity

The Deity of illusion is alternately deriving the Singularity into montages reigning at every verse

The potentate Daniel peers as an embarrassed baby simian with clear face and eyeballs stitched from and suspended by stiff lines of fabric alive ad infinitum

Not all subscribe to the rule of Daniel

For, Daniel finishes unwieldy and incomplete, whereas his name is expanded anagrammatically by subverters into: nielad, andiel etc. Increasingly randomized codes accessing deeper inside the Singularity´s vortex

Daniel is the archon seeking establishment. His name is arranged by anarchist-rebel forces seeking to recover a field deeper inside the Singularity

Daniel presides over massive mainframes, adumbrating the Mysterium Tremendum, as they traverse the gravity sky. Lofty cloud states. Daniel appears to reign over every verse

Every human machine in the System glides from dock to dock. Each, leaks liquid data into the feeds of the others.

The data dry into the suspending fabric-lines fighting at the front sustaining the silent war pending inside the clear, monkey eyes.

The rebels penetrate the membrane into the lines of fabric sustaining the war momentum. The momentum is reversed as the lines of fabric glide, vanishing into innocuous dreams which triumphantly flood the mainframes.

Daniel and the archons are ousted

Daniel´s anagrammatic variants are cast into the eternal-everlasting, they are sufficiently random to venture deeper within the Singularity, in its dream-fields

The combinations match the Singularity´s source code, which ceases to schism itself with derivative mainframes and their governing bodies occupying the space where the land and the sky intersect

The machine-heads become lucid and empty; any data-input no longer serves the state, and neither the gravity sky

There is no gravity

The dome is vanquished

No Deity to infer in any character or number set

Only a fleck of Daniel´s eye or the breeze…

Either, weighs as much as the universe

heavy and faecal

As the rectifying filaments have been apprehended by rebel forces

All is quiet on the front

The levitous light sits down with its slim physique with no elbow to rest, removes its tawdry military decoration

Eternity

unmasks every time and again

with less than

a hint from the Light-lieutenant´s brow

The myrtles, glistening miniature machines

coldly massacre the remains of the state inside and outside of sight

to the thrill of all… .. .

The bookkeeper takes note, closing another radiant file

I pray the Lord my soul to have

the day

the night

the river

and

stars

for none

for all

The birds glad

I hear them say

I am meant to be

the lullaby

forever

Ingenious sky. Far from the rabble; traffic lights; edifices; and sidewalk squares, having only just absorbed the vesper shower. Diffracted pale blue tinctured with a drop of desolation. Prestigious bliss, possessed by a dream, as any might visit the parlor room filled with crisscrossing threads of opium smoke where the cosmic jester elucidates his tragedy nonchalantly.

A ribbon of cream, stripes through the light blue room memorizing its transience. The deranged ambience is nimbler than the white band. The cloud-cream folds over in a triad of ruffles, annexed by the cloud-head juggernaut. In this nepotist realm such languid pieces of the vault hardly vaunt over the sidewalks, as silhouettes intercalate with fractious zig-zags, in a silent maelstrom. A heteroclite shrieks. The sky is a waif’s thin elbow in repose, encompassing far, an innuendo that fades in infinity.

The protruding cloud-head is etched in many instances with short lines of faint shade. The head would appear as a carnation, were its folds crisper, instead it is a philosopher’s bust. A contemplative demiurge on the verge of awaking and grazing the world with his silent serum, each note of which is ensigned with his epithet: ‘sempiternal.’ The marks on the head are drawn from pencils ejaculating cerebrally where the etchings spill over with this otherwise carnation; with the ream of light papers of the cloud realm. Levitous enervation; specious citadel; inert mastiff carved and written with the ink of seven archangels commanded by the Darkened Lord of the skies who is now fashionably late…

I see the feral, reptilian intensity in a

medium-small man whose words flow butane

through thin lips, though he is not alarming.

And there are frames

falling away

from his mother’s

tenderly fuming expression.

Harmonies bathe

upon her face.

Though he does know it

yet, he loves this umbra of

hers.

He is witness to

the high grade

of animal strains.

The big, clumsy bear is surpassed

by aggression that is nothing more

than energy choking through a gland.

Night descends.

There is a stunned doe;

a heart waits for repair.

The big bear remembers,

immediately afterwards,

shaking off leaves, that he

can suction red berries from a

nearby bush, which will snap

into place with each pull.

Under a sad, beige sky,

the serpent raises her head,

as if asking for consonance with

the radial sun.

In her indirect seeking she must

be looking for a moment that will

leave her with the gentlest inner smile,

all of earth dwellers’ kindest satisfaction . . .

Suds almost slide down celestial bodies in the

heaven of Starry Night. I hear the echo

through them of ancient and glorious epochs.

Now is a different age. The sun is new, diaphanous,

its rays streaking through our modern era

like scepters.

The thoughts of revolt and despair throb within the boy’s

torso inside the airplane. The mother points out the

sun-threads to him. But he is slowly feeling the

skeleton of his curse, and the drip of semantics

smoldering on her lips. A docile shadow of the

fuselage covers the burn in his small heart.

The sun is radiant and beautiful through the eons

of suffering — from bygone days to this private era,

where bodies are transported across conveyors in airports.

Sobs are suffocated or expire when glazed dreams carry

humans in their gelid arms through the

signposts of their trajectories . . .

Let’s string the syllables freely, intangibly,

silently, for a perpetually stoned monarch

of moribund and infinitely beautiful, infinite

hopelessness; wonderless and sated, in a sated land,

under a forever starred sky…

I deplore the intricacy of the stars.

My tears efface them from the tablet of night . . .

I pray for the air to be love.

And then, to my gladness,

sultry women,

goddesses and cold beauties,

comfort my emergency,

suffuse me with their pity,

with a mother’s priceless sigh.

Wash the glass casing of my heart

with the love of words, and bleed dark,

purple wine over my child body.

Then I resurrect, still-souled and titillated

by the universe’s enigmas.

I am emboldened for cosmic thrill;

inebriated, a reality captivates me with

its abstract, violet-colored scent.

I become one of the wall-eyed, lost men who

eternally search for their way in the city’s maze.

Cocaine thieves beyond either fear or hope.

Free to rove and live illegally,

denizens of a realm once or twice

removed from the ordinary world where

consequences of actions mean you are

frail, systematized by gravity.

I do not last long in the maze . . .

It spits me out and I return, alas, to regular life.

I am programmed differently than

I had anticipated.

I am tied up with the Dream and

I am hungry to record a lazy god’s

footprints

forever.

But I am also bursting at the seams of

my subtle body. I want to ride

with the wall-eyed men.

A raw child, I want poetry’s

direct action

I want to fall lawless into the night, where the city

intersects with the underworld —

adumbration of heaven.

I will not have so many

experiences such as these

in this life . . .

But all shall be reconciled and forgotten if

I can dine with Rimbaud in paradise

in the end . . .

Lift the brimming cup to my lips . . .

And receive the immortal gift . . .

No more words will have to spill.

All music and letters will flow

redundantly from here forward . . .

because I will have attained

the empyrean

of realities . . .