Go back

from (Conference)

     Flight and love are pure before, with no possible after. Without any after, there is no during either. Because I can't last, because my nature is damage, I'm not so easily hurt. Because air is for a long time, it's the opposite. Unless the great part of me is air. Unless even water is, perhaps.
     Soul'soul.

                                   Place the Sun Drenched (Blind Folds) Destruction Notes
     Waiting nurses trellised in roses stand
               near a front-stitched man.
               Children dribble shovel-fulls
               of dirt over him. Another man,
               nearby, pees. On the proscenium
               a lady descends, purse in hand.
               A man holds an old woman. A girl
               sits, strapped to the electric chair.
               Her surface glistens its buttery
               skins. An atmospheric bear
               bludgeons Sleeping Beauty
               where patty-cakes were.
               On the same oak tree, leaves
               emit sphinxes. Carving knife.
     "You are the patient. I am the real person," says Queen Elisabeth to her subject. Surgeon has a charley horse. Meanwhile, she pukes; cinematic embrace frames. Below a tree, pear now, pears turning cameo, a lashed lady thinks (or contemplates):
"I'm a turkey dreamscape." Domestic:
     Ripe eggplant spills where a woman models for unseen knife-throwers. A man unbuttons her shirt later; another man combs another woman's hair, slowly, from the crown. Another man's suit is too big; boat-like. The Wedding March drones then. Tickle the poodle. Gratify the lion. Gag guests.
     The blue child's portrait is nearly transparent now. Pinstriped, the human-chomping gangster nestles in her. A woman in a fur coat and hat looks on. Remember to spray daddy. Geld pancakes. Jaguar girl crocused under a fellatio bubble. Angels point rifles. Steady with that drill now.
     This is war and unstopping: collection of days, all in a row. Mercenaries. The sweet smell of sage. Can't someone untie us?
     We were trying to kiss when our faces turned to beaks. A firing squad was or wore your dress. The cardinal raised his hat and his ears disappeared. Up and down, up and down. Taken with precision, a profound man hammered the nail on his own nose. Straight on the head. Look aside.
     Filling her nozzle with a hose, alphabetically, Betty becomes a tractor. Her unused arm trusses in butterflies. Stick figures line up her hems. A father waltzes his son, up and down. Bombs shelter.
     Weddings and milk cartons, pouring all full. A girl ties her boy's tie, again. Off to church. Diapered in a poison patch. The bee-keeper shoe-laces. Look away. Hole troop. Hefty ladies in tin buckets jig, their heads wrapped. Later, they'll copulate.
     This was our land-mass, an ether full of arms. Distant gray explosions where wings hide their eggs. The ground is what races and is more obscure than air. Call earth frost. Because of the way earth keeps blooming, there's no respite. Land's cruciform.

In Greek this would translate:

A GOD (DAD?) Penis-Cradling:                When a town becomes a desert, we Gods
                                                                                     get nauseous.
CROW:           Pity. Ashes. Burn them.
PROSTRATE WOMAN (AND BIRD) (On the ground, smashed up):
                                                                                                                  O broke neck--
                                                                                                                  an we are
                                                                                                                  not--
                                                                                                                  Break back--
                                                                                                                  this--
                                                                                                                  Let the
                                                                                                                  boat go--

                                                                                                                  I'll rock
                                                                                                                  me--this
                                                                                                        --that broke.

                                                                                                                  What am I
                                                                                                                  that I wait--
                                                                                                                  rock my what.
Whooping Woman (and bird) 1 (out from the tent, streaming blood):
                                                                             They hacked off my
                                                                                                                   arms.
Whooping Woman (and bird) 2 (out from the tent, streaming blood):
                                                                             We're their hand-
                                                          less slaves.
Whooping Woman (and bird) 3 (out from the tent, streaming blood):
                                                                             We're their legless
                                                                             whores.
Whooping Woman (and bird) 1 (out from the tent, streaming blood):
                                                                             They say we don't
                                                                                                                  deserve to die.
BROKEN WOMAN (AND BIRD) (On the ground, smashed up):
                                                                                                                  We who are live are
                                                                                                                  those who are dead.
Whooping Woman (and bird) 2 (out from the tent, streaming blood):
                                                                              All the gone
                                                                                                                  light.
                                                                                                                  Me--a cut in the cliff
                                                                                                                  lashed rain
                                                                                                                  a live tomb,
                                                                                                                  beast-food
                                                                                                                  I that I
                                                                                                                  what.
Whooping Woman (and bird) 1 (out from the tent, streaming blood):
                                                                              Flower--
                                                                                                                  I tear what
                                                                                                                  flesh still.
                                                                                                                  A little time.

PROSTRATE WOMAN (AND BIRD) (On the ground, smashed up):
                                                                                                                  Days gone--days
                                                                                                                  to make songs of,
                                                                                                                  when I
                                                                                                                  were kings.
Whooping Woman (and bird) 3 (out from the tent, streaming blood):
                                                                               Sing--music
                                                                                                                  for graves,
                                                                                                                  lips O.
Girl (or Birds) (out from the tent, streaming blood):
                                                                                                                  I was with the
                                                                                                                  dancers.
                                                                                                                  Then . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
                                    . . . . . . . . . . . . .                                                     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
      . . in their beds
                                                                                                    young men headless.
BROKEN WOMAN (AND BIRD) (On the ground, smashed up):
                                                                                                                  What happen to I
                                                                                                                  is mine.

Girl (or Birds) (out from the tent, streaming blood):
                                                                                                                  They tell her to wait
                                                                                                                  near his tomb.
                                                                                                                  Murder her there--
                                                                                                                  a gift to a corpse.
PROSTRATE WOMAN (AND BIRD) (On the ground, smashed up):
                                                                                                                  To die is to only not be.
Girl (or Birds) (out from the tent, streaming blood):
                                                                                                                  They make my brother
                                                                                                                  climb the burning tower
                                                                                                                  and throw him from the top.
CROW:      You have no strength--don't look
                       for help.
Whooping Woman (and bird) 3:      Fragrant bird-child--
                                                                            kiss O.
                                                                            Whose fathers are Madness, Poison, Red
                                                                                              Death--
                                                                            feast on what.
Whooping Woman (and bird) 3(streaming): Where kissed
                                                                                                              where now what
                                                                                                              torn bones grin.
Girl (or Birds):      Crack your head
                                                         I'll heal your wounds.
                                                         What dancers, dance.
Whooping Woman (and bird) 2:         Fall and be
                                                                                  forgot.
PROSTRATE WOMAN:                                  Wings of smoke spread.
BROKEN WOMAN:                                        Name gone from what.

On Rescue

     What is out of this world is firstly what you need and what you cannot know unless I tell you. In part light so strong it turns walls to transparency. Because of light faults appear and multiply until dazzling. Are beauty. Dew jewels. Everything does. A passing in fuchsia. So that anything darkish is your eye alone, magnified, projected onto air which is visibility. The wall becomes corridor.
     Spying on purity for sport or from spite, next circles have sides. Purity would be inhale and exhale at the same time. Thinking the sky was to appease and cover you, you were its sacrifice and blanket, and thus, we dissolve. Are precipitation. Just as seeing means averting your gaze, knowing's intermittent or intermittence. Bulbs are replaced. Everything somewhere goes. Back to
normal: having without being. Having a reality without being one.
     To translate, from Ibn 'Arabi:

     Under languor's influence
     I found myself in you
     like the illusory point
     existing only in estimation.