Poem about reading Schreber and Marguerite Porete as somatic engagements. I opened my window, threw a javelin out into the streets, and just transcribed directly the first poem it hit. Poem wrung from the body of an impaled pigeon. Also an attempt to figure out how I felt about Nick Demske, whose book I read last week.
I’d date a cool betrayer with a skinny cut cardigan. That is,
in cool water hoisting javelins I with severe bangs and high
cheekbones. Write the male body as a weird-ass bug you found
at birth and people threw cans at you from the audience. Narrate it
as the body concussed tripping into the proscenium and bouncing around
The political project of the writer is to rip its shirt off in public
so everyone can laugh at its hilariously tiny nipples.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
In chill water being chill, o u know, just hoisting javelins, nm, u?
I’d like to start by thanking our host-body and saying it’s an honor
to consume these innards here tonight with such a great group of poets and artists.
The symptomal torsion within the body is a flock of bugs
running velvety antennae across the stomach’s mercury lining.
I’m an operator in this truth-event when I meet ur any kiss w/ bees,
bees, bees reared in my mouth and drilled into absolute fidelity to the event—
I’m also re-presented as a cricket on sick tumblrs. I’m sick in water.
Sick javelin, bro. Mind if I hoist it around a sec, experimentally?
Book banished to bath by Brother of the Beast. Bad-ass brute brought low
by bougie boutiquery (boot-cuts? Bah!). Big ups to bright blouses,
berry guts smeared on bodies. Bachelors bereft. Bathos bathos bathos bathos.
Oh, and Badiou.
As an insect, I’m a little hurt by the insensitivity of rays rippling from God’s bod
to your mouth. You think you’re such hot stuff just for shitting standing up
into a basin while you play a tuff riff from Satie’s Gnossiennes? You make me sick, bro,
from my manifold eyeballs to my sweet swollen egg-sac. I’d trade my cool javelin
for invisible knives. I’d read you this book about the delta blues.
I heard some scholars call for a moratorium on all this claptrap about the devil.
I saw the head of ur department pull on stockings in mood-lit waters.
I’m a three-part insect rhapsody on the concept of lagoon. I’m flocking,
I’m bleeding water, there’s oil flooding from the nine mann mass of the sturgeon.
Another name for Chrysostom is “holy surgeon.” Augustine busted big cuts on my fat lip.
John of the Cross sinking Catherine of Siena, sweetly.
The captain must go down on the ship.