There is a band called Man O War.
If you don’t know what I’m talking about
go ahead, look it up, under images.

Now, let’s talk. These sensuous beings
that I mean to evoke with apprehension
to extend to evoke with spines of organdy
in a two-fold shape, one in wings and one
in Jurassic preservation, now, slide of now

with orogeny’s tetramorph, the crust
of an era unrelenting and fully horse. 
O Man O War, with pick axe and tentacles
I invoke thee and drag the two pronged
talon of the transcendent, Fichte

and the frozen, the either or of self or
nationalism, lonely sacks of time
hung between lordship and bondage. 
Everything that flutters away from Now
as we talk about the preternatural is reduced

to its fluttering back in. With footprints
larger than abomination, the heavens
would flow with a universal hair
to be a muscle on the last wrinkle of 
not now, to find the leather strip

circulating on mechanistic prudence for overtly boring praxis fish-fry bravado and flimsy contextualization sophistry and call it the marrow of impotence I mean importance and dictation ceremonies for how your penis is going to make me cry but from boredom and just cuz you say it don’t mean it’s true but individuality permeates the shape which is hot qua self-consciousness and final purposes for the absolute notion parading thought implications as nations while people write poems for many reasons sometimes maybe just because they have bad hair or turgid funneling qua essential head determination pulsed in a wave over the brow thus harmonic in properties of the kill rally-shaped BANG! qua bang I’m gonna kill you and find out what that

being truly is: of loin. To cover the loin
with flapping uncertainty is angelic. Lizards
once thought to have sturdy skins have now
been deemed useless. Best album covers
ever are filled with fog and light. Clever angels! 
We’ll call them all kinds of things, Bit Mongers,
Radical Epistemology, The Saddest Ratio,
Lost Allegorical Shapes, Cave Tethers, 
Some Say They May Have Had Feathers, Beak
Droids, Thrasymachus Analog, Depression,
Man O War, but never by their more perfect name
The Sensuous Truth. Taxidermy Issues in Young Women


Hello Hawai’i! You are glottal!

Glottal are you Hawai’i; hello.

And chariots! I know! I know! CHARIOTS!

CHARIOTS! [know] I know, I, chariots and

consequence, to give you up, play charades

charades play up, you give to consequence

hard liquor with little umbrellas! Hooray!

Hooray! Little umbrellas! Hard Liquor! Hooray! Hooray!

But it is getting late, the money is getting French as is no surprise.

Surprise. No is as French getting as money the getting, is it? But

there is nothing I can do; no one is listening anyway

anyway, listening is one, no do can I. NOTHING is there with its

Cup of fire, slow motion eroticism, Rube Goldberg, gnnn-chchchchchchch

gnnn-chchchchchchch, glottal rude eroticism, neurotic walls of fire, great cup

cake martinis for you! They’re playing our song on the broken calliaphone

Phones alla California, the broken no song of our playing, There you are in it, ram cakes

into the faces of drunk brides, hot damn, this is really going to happen

Happening to gong? Really is this mad to disturb drunks? Fuck after in

the century with coconut scented Crisco rubbed all over our redrum

RED RUM!!! Au revoir bed rub. Crisco scented coconuts with century 

umbrellas like little empires riding the air, beautiful to watch as they slowly twirl down

down slow watch air empire to you! I will sing Hukilau.


RELAX! I throw dynamite into the feathers with farmers. Me and the farmers lie on our backs and watch the
 feathers fall back down to earth. Me and the farmers who know galdr.

YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN! DAMMIT! Dammit. And there on a bed of white icicles and rice. Floating
bright cakes on the river at night, the cow’s eternal mask nestled in ljóöaháttr.

SALLLLAP! Flaked right from the surface of the sky, back down to the earth.

CONTROL YOUR GODDAMN MINIATURE SCHNAUZER! All the teeth of the citizens are under the
pillows of diatonic falsetto.  

CONTROL YOUR EMBLEMATIC SURFACE! Cru Cru Cru say the wishing coins. Slithering with infinite
corrugation is pasture, feather, water. Everything a sweet distance of itself. Cru Cru Cru says a swan.

I’M GOING TO SHOOT YOU IN THE FUCKING FACE! In rows we are on our backs. Icelandic staves
fall like tiny incisors into our eyes. Blinking sharpens our universal axe. Makes a song of subsistence. 

TAKE NOTE OF YOUR SURROUNDINGS! Sound is like small nurse hats in a cave with contorted
vowels. Sound folds paper like napkins and floats them downriver. This turns north into west.

our backs. Through the snowy woods on our backs with magic lanterns. Goat-horn shapes.

DO NOT THROW THE IMAGE! But it is mine to throw, sir. The timeless seed grows ferns from our ears
and we roll backwards over cobblestones with candles in our mouths. You will be the death of me.

PUT YOUR BOYS OUT IN THE HEDGE! Ghosts fill the whole field with lucite. Chills wave across a
screen and flicker like heavens. In some ways, sings the codex, this is still magic.

THIS IS NOT ROCKET SCIENCE MA’AM; SHUT THE HELL UP! Cru Cru Cru say the fruit trees.

EVERYTHING YOU SAY WILL BE RECOGNIZED! We hadn’t thought about the land this way. When
what we saw was translucent. Even with a bag of teeth and kernels, none of this was ancient.

YOU WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME! It will feel like different death and fall back down in a slow
explosion and elongated grains from ice.