STAINED GLASS FROST ON PIERS OF MOORED LIPS,
their secrets in suspense.
The sun is scuttled into pocket crevices,
locus of the moltings of the void
Strata-encrusted eyes—
solstices weaned of memories
drilled by
fanatics searching for transitory prophecies
A sole cat at
the edge of time
crouches in wait for ruins.
MIRAMAR
At the edge of its rock
a ghost snaps up foam
immediately dissolved in its shroud.
Below the squalls,
all disappears, only raw heart drifts
the sand of lost tears
BEZELIK
Ruins raging, jolted by dunes,
drift toward burning blizzards,
dismantlers of the void
perforated by memories.
Sun crumblings
plastered on the raised rejects of the sad
earth—
even loyal shadows abandon them.
Where to scoop up some ghastly deceitful
ghost sand in order to recover
our karmic ferrymen
dissolved in an unspeakable alchemy?
PAIN RIPS WATER OUT OF A TORRENT
emerged from a glacial ransom.
Scattered blooming moons thicken
the forever radiated corpse of a shadow.
Smelling of magnets a greenhouse skin
expands the void over the decoys.
Cries crisp the rock-work as soon split by
the hatchet breath of diving bats.
A tin sun laminates tears run wild
that gnomes waylay and nibble.
WINDOWS LOCKED INTO
bony horizons:
the finitude of the soul.
Only the leap
before its time
flings forth the serene sigh of the fall.
Thick word walls clawed
out of praying bowels could not check
the executioner of doubt.
Below, on the concrete,
tepid brown rejected years spread out around
a bland mosaic of looks.
EARTH HOLLOWS OUT IN MY HANDS.
The buzzing of terminal moraines
by a sheer drop of anguish
soldered with sigh-weaned sap.
At the dawn of blood,
already plundered by the outbursts of fate,
between the projections of labial faults,
Artaud’s memoir of disjointed planets
blocked
by the insolent cats of the solar barge cats,
sweats.
Squatting
between the folding-doors of dusk
a shriek
taunts the fevered horizon of
our pupils slogging on.
AZURE FRACTURES THE ASHEN BLOOD HONEY
suppurating
in voracious bulbs.
The fruitless blooming of a rictus
draped in mist
clawed by hooded crows.
Rocks lie in wait
in mud silence
which vortices squeeze around.
Spiraling eyes struggle in
the breathless drought of flashes.
O demented amnesia of adoption’s chaos!
THE SUN STUMBLES AGAINST THE ANCHORED INK.
The page bursts into a fertile mire of continuing
eclipses.
Blackness springs back, detoured by tortured
shadows.
Eyelids barricade themselves.
Red fury of the unseen
grave-dredger of memories
For Tristan Tzara
Translated by Clayton Eshleman
Tzara
is not dead—only pretends to be, and on This
I will
once more erect my eclipse.
Tombs
remain the best mail slots for our fugues on
that menstrual
flood where Moses drifted
between
two buoyed nipples
among
the reeds of the Pharaoh,
that embalmer
of honeymoons and pickled egos.
The moon
repeats its palatial belch
transmitting
the old hieroscratched code of heliotropic
priests,
sullen lickers of baby scarabs.
Quite
a few Dada wars ago
a whole
new gang of rich Romans attempting
to surpass
the frog, trying to grow larger
than the
bull’s-eye bull, suckled
she-wolf
udder and deified the milk.
Dali was
wrong to identify the Bible as runny
cholesterol
cheese, it was in fact
the dairy
Latin Empire, the cultured
rennet
of the Pax Romana!
Morning
returns to the stoned ignovimous doors
with a
handleful of Europas out of their potless minds.
They cannot
be ransomed by scalping ice caps
camouflaged
as Artaud’s
sawtooth
buttocks, especially since
his theatrical
double was caught red-handed in
Marat’s
bath disguised as Charlotte.
putting
the last touch to her purist royal pear coulis.
In the
two-faced mud of shut eyes
the gold
fish of the Rising Sun makes lies glitter
but these
lies quickly turn green as withered
angels’
wings. A great wall of unicorns
--Confucian
messengers?—
rolls
and closes in on the belly
invented
with each penetration,
and high
noon? Encumbered with flies
and weighed
down by mythology’s malefices,
it thrusts
forth its polar bear star, snorkeling under
the very
black ice that our orbits furrow.
Albino
spiders have confessed their fetid sins to
the shrimp
and raucous seabass
dangling
from Don Juan’s certified neck.
In the
Dunhuang caves the homeless broccoli
and the
abandoned baby zucchini
have been
raked into a Ryoan-ji
strip
of tyrannous
genitals,
sighing fire, poached in Tzarist vapor.
Tristan
is gone, without even leaving an abbess.
A frieze
of checkered camels
gnawn
by pycnogonidic cenobites,
has been
beribboned with blighted tapir prayers.
Dragging
along the stucco banks of our resentment,
a horde
of bearded captains with spongy
eyes are sodomizing buttered flies.
