the bathos of so few eyes that are upon me

Taxing the perfectly good poetic result with just
a few more clinical trials, and just that, And those

ones, The Poet reassures his poetic result, Not in so
shrilly dedicated duty to questioning you as that in

me which got myself up-to, enough to put
down here my odd little nebulous things.

The Poet takes his hat off afterwards: it is
out of humility: he sees the innocence lost
somewhere, now, in the heat of all this

speaking of the beasts: and he is like a scientist, shuffling, who
marks in some few places on a slab of clipboard
where the negative notes land,

that hog the female rarity of a soul for themselves and their ruin,
hoping to make all keys on the unmentionable piano, black and white,
do the same without the white, yapping all that blackness can, and does,

do, as if nought did remain of a rebuttal: remember that The Poet,
this clinician, has their own agenda to be serious, with serious, big,

moral efforts of poetry that feed the hoggish beasts: they want it to be
relevant, but all the same relevance, without a single plot-hole in their

narrative of success, but this attempt decrees only as much as it can
without the maiden of a cause of writing, and this is an unavoidable,
interesting otherwise to things, goes on to but and but and but until,

unaided by The Poet’s mortal decibel, lowers her own to a shakier pitch
to make up for the lack of a humanity aware and blinking in the sleepy
consciousness confining the pome itself, as if it had a choice about its

strength or not! the maiden, foiled, receded her pitch into the murderous
background of the places it’d need to reach on stilts, already reached by

the very blowing, miserable squall of weather of the phrase called beasts,
these beasts of phrase and over-phrase that confront The Poet’s mangling

like itdescribe them, instead,  The Poet, say in an effort to manipulate
that they appear choking at the bit of some harness, and are ye

sacrificing your own freedom for
an inch of freedom for the maiden?

where in the text chthonic beasts of phrase emerge
and like strange spices, overpower the subtleties of source in
the crucial maiden like a skein over the words, soft drapery
shook off by beasts, the wanton pillagers raising their swords

with vowel-cries that persist especially long across
anything with the hint of bearing a designed World,

leaving sacked the throat of the maiden of symbols, who is not heard
but shrinks, scared to offend them, now, past any even most delicate
wording of these snared things that arranges to settle things it does
not understand, because she deals with beasts of no apology and

with only one Witch Hunt to call their own, that is, the reason they
shall die the more she dies, at the behest always of what she trusts

them to express when she at last makes somewhat an exit from
that hellish muffling of her, maiden of the endowed essentia by

a maiden the child of our cause prima. Stating is her responsibility,
to keep stating; but with cries of vowels, malignant vowels, she does
so less and less her point, emulsifying her shamefaced sense of the

realer difference that she makes, the more than do, than could
these shrieking beasts, overpowering, overwhelming She even
starts to follow that example of brute erasure, inflicting with
worse poisonous additions to a text loudened by beasts, by

hateful animals hateful of the content given here, awaiting end to
the sterile life The Poet forces to life, life, which then is for its tests

and trials, just as swiftly as the opportunity for amphetamines
turns anyone dingy, mangy, naked, and then writes itself, herself,

out of the very definition of herself
as it was. All this is listed on the
list, and all this just to find

where the spot it does -is, if
indeed it can, and does,

‘nuke’ -to very death- the surviving rest of any spontaneity
here through an ascetic style: the words are reeds
yielding weakly to justify the wind,

with these made airs of writing, and are rigid-meted hairs
of serotonin pricked, then made too careful, smashed dully

gelid, like as the miles of chilly landscape, a flat, white surface
for feet to walk on, like as a lake some time in dire, absent Winter,

dulling the unlucky reader, vibrating with starvation, as quickly
as an incinerating nuke of ‘no’ by the frugal father, responding
to his daughter’s passionate claim for ponies to be at Christmas.

. . . . . . . . . . .

We find, however, with adding the additions,
that new meanings for the maidens, heard

but in echo before, do with an extra uttering
here and there, enlighten to a harsher, but, still
loving, sound, and better-learnéd sound for its

detour through the delirium of the moment
to where the beasts of phrase have made

a truce with maidens, or, you know, ‘Brokered
Peace’ as they say on CNN about The Foreign

Policy Things, -they are diligently packing away
their spoils of the subjects made of maidens’ echoes
that briefly reveal the burden, where it is lifted, of

these so many presiding loose ends, for so long
approached as if a part of the organism the poem
was: where end these follicles of detail: are

they the result of fending for some uncharted context, like
hunter-gatherers- and thus for a new mode of excitement for
the reader to feel disturbed by in their elect understanding
of that hunger for the meat of theory better, learning better
the vast unsaid, through these said things that shift their

weight, as if standing up from their seat on an airplane
after landing, the landing there and square upon the strip:

transcribing the rest of what I feel is not there for it
never will be there, if even replicated word-for-word,
or blown in a boom to essentials in the crater, by an
editing bomb, to shave what’s imitable to one single,
purer shard, the gift of queenly maidens and their

truce with the loquacious beasts, that wish a content
more, yet less a healing to the pome in being a too-long
nightmare of one who squeezed himself already to powder
in a creative, though emotionally hazard, drylands, through
an ironic revelry or throwaway we see again among these
burdens called a subject and a sense, all of them clues

moreover, to the very evasions they are, and that deplete
the poem of its actuality! It is the tragic current of The Same

that ruins The Poet’s blood, who thinks in the language
of passion as firm and fine as dirt as enough destined

in the pathos we can feel, at the waste of all this seeming
in an imagery informed by some declension, proceeding
beneath the mask of the words’ behavior, in other words,
or, in other words, each word a symbol and attack upon
what can be visioned by a mind as this, The Poet’s mind,

outside of edgy creeds or needing multiply the source
that has its chatty wandering, across the sturdy paths
of frozen lakes mentioned once again, both ends of the

mentioning obedient to the movement of each other as
to be none less than something like the child of the very
behavior of quantum entanglement of particles as stay

at their same vigil equally long, and mirror the directions
of their brother, on the opposite sides of universe, but

instead, made into the mortal cardboard of time-traveling verbiage
across, as it now goes, all this scour of the tundra of context and
as sleets in sharp flakes the questions all the same as to what is

the true subject, for its use is known already, though not said,
that is: to rise the human from their little niche, into and past
the human, remaining human, and creating, sometimes with
its virulent-running explosions of mistake, a new and better

argument for life, for somewhere it is hardwired, stays in place
and yet, moves with its twin, who moves, but by staying in place:
it will haunt our creations, and us with its perfect arch and paradox
too much -without a tangle, too neat for anybody not to reckon that

some intelligent design had filled this with its own art, compacted
passions with utility, ruddering frustration’s rawness behind the last
mortal straw of one’s effort away from destruction, towards an ease
of rationale so free of needing faith as to be forged from a scientific

delight of some reserve, into a metal worth enough as reason on its
own, untampered; would we not feel obliged to have left alone the
one upwind of their frustrations, and to collapse into a squawking,

futile tantrum, if at the first they were not corrupted so easily by life’s
carnage, happening to them in real-time, and so then all the more

intense: I think of this, and it cements, least, some overused idea
for something more serene and deft than humans could have made
with definitions: an idea, to both explain and feel this collage of stuff
and mirrors, stuff and atoms, the atoms that exist behind us or back-

stage if you like, and we, impoverished thespians reciting from the
script of our personal circumstance: we, who exist in front of atoms,
almost to be them, as if to say, I hold court in this land of flesh and

physics: you are too contrarian to fancy yourself of my material and
sacrosanct: yet altogether everything is made up of its beauty, that
is how we can and will graft experimental persons like as particles
to the majestic sides of this box of universe, scrambling to be

justified for all its slow but mighty large accrual of mountains to our
eternities, changes, seemings, and ultimatums, while an audience
of atoms gasps and looks agape at gelid poverties of bastard

philosophical frost over their secret of meaning something without
the meaning, the way we can’t, no matter how we try, or at least
without losing the will to live: we atoms who live and march

up and down the planet, relaxing and then worried, raising our
blood pressure with stress, lowering cholesterol and having kids.

We must learn that any emblem comes from a bag of emblems as would say
withal its hesitating that it dwells in truth and in rhetoric as correct as truly,
as accurately as any liminal hand might trace its meanings over cornfed,

human principles: and yet that is the system whereby we receive the fire
enough under our ass to not continue not, but work through sleep and so

revive yourself, regroup and brace for challenge after challenge without
knowing what exactly you are after- in committing to the lovely bitch of life.

I who am without self, or a name, could be the higher narrator of this
well-enough design of Pome, or be just the shaping hands of they who

speak expressions through my sieve into convictions for the human race
to misinterpret and misread. A text that is I am, a being of word.

I am against what cause these
new sources of influence

over The poet, that drylands, that led The Poet
through them, but implying this an inevitable rite,

as if in any case, they had to to get his creation of one
or two shades thrown to the beastly spirit, after the test
that might just naysay its certainty of being needed

in the first place, and so then only leading
to environ with sullying the very focal-force
The Poet uses, to compare the moment with
realities askance and lean, and of strained

strings of conflict through each part
of them, all of them, straining

from somewhere that are
crowned the more, much
more, than hearsay,

means restless making, hating
the elongated course of action throwing shade

takes as a part of its embarking
upon that razzle-dazzle

poetic hypnosis: really an anointment of
routine, as if it were a sacred jelly, when,

all fictive, simpler achievements, fictive, for
their generality -a noose around the neck

of things that got to get said well- when all
the gnarly wrack, depends on too-long stale hibiscus tea,

curlicues erupting from its warmth.
Too-long hibernated inspiration,

for to defend its ultimate narrow-down to dainty
biases it has, here and there, in favor of some

special points of shade and sufferance go with glee
to hide behind its coalition of badder
energies the sake some

energy/vigor more comes along, strutting
and swinging its newfangled autonomy around,

like a braggart for small victories, to slow
big victories from their materializing of should,
to concepts being acted upon, a shirk known

specifically by the lazy as one strategy for getting
your Good Mother off your back. Its detachment,
still, -and it was, indeed, an accomplishment, nay
even a severely-needed one, almost forced by the

Gods- its detachment, great and grand accomplishment,
from an unfortunate-long connection at the hip
with reassurances of all kinds he’ll

be taken car of by less-harried harpies, in their
recalcitrant imagery, like flies pipping their far-flung

buzz of anhedonia anywhere,
their aim to quaff a draught

of joviality from any organic time his body had,
just to keep aviated and aloft the heavy norm
from off of ground, usually sounded buzzingly

as a sort of vaguest yearning for some asinine
form of the past that did not exist, but was romanced

to life and brought into the room of people anywhere
in the form of a tampered-with, radioactive stench
of immediate disqualification, o tragic clown held
hostage by the least cruds of the day, while

the plenty of the Good piles up, a spectacular
and usually inevitable, crass naufrage of all his
hopeful mediations of and on specific

fractions of two strangers’ conversation, whatever
tacitly welcoming input, to him, a nod to silence
himself. Oh these my petty, pretty darlings of pain.

A lozenge of a ship still quartering sailors still alive,
pendentives lit, I see, is scribbled on horizon: try,

oh clown, muted at the hands of his misery, to go
there and cradle yourself among the diffident waves
of mysterious nods at silence you see only; see them

but another fledge of that horizon, imagery most
boon and friend to agile thoughts that are to things
among people that are said, thoughts too agile, even,

for the tongue to say them, nor for the eyes to even
read scrawled across the skull as more than dreamlike

interpretations of some old worry, hated anachronism
of the moment yet feeding all of them in there your

thought-drenchingness, yet shame depriving them
of tears at your own hypocritical silent assertion

they should understand, oh clown of shame, as your
desire not to be so lonely, anymore, anymore.

And now: the ship of fate, his fate, is disinterring focus
from the woozy clouds, abrogated by the darkening

gloaming, like something decided swiftly cast in shades
as something undecided, a certainty somewhere yet

to be found by men of taste, popular men, sufficient
in their will and quiet in their pomp. Now look, The

Fictive Poet says: it seems, The Poet says at once,
That these our fraught, entangled intimations

at some wasteful, seamless rhubarb in us
hath shown us its ultimatum, of grand regard,
And not, no not, as too ruffled by difference,

and too long ruffled, to be a difference so different than
the routine change, from difference to difference. But

The Poet defers blame for his own bland. For, he
says, intoning like a clock of many years, so-to-speak,
in the grandfather’s house, old house: It is rather

At the hands, most likely, of an obscure enemy
whose ways fawn on republican politics and

tax-cuts for the rich, and that monitor the head
ape for so long as to exterminate them, achieving

only a feeling of sightless excitement at burning the
spoon like a euphemism, for example, or seeing

a ghost outside for once, upon this
incoherent lawn of scattered word.

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