orpheus has a bake sale
If the mountain mist has ever caught you, and you saw the world as a purblind mole, remember how the vapors began to thin and the sun's sphere came through feebly at last, and you will imagine quite easily how it seemed when I saw the sun again, catching it the moment before it set. With my steps matching my guide's trusty steps, I came out of that cloud into the light that on the shore below was spent by now. O fantasy that would sweep our minds from outward things so we cease to be aware, though a thousand trumpets blast around us. What moves you if the senses do not spur? Light moves you. Formed in heaven of itself, or shaped by his will who sends it downward.
Boy some light sure shone
& hit somewhere & it
like triggered an emotion in me
or my senses probably
in some vague way
you see because of the
angle the
light hit
the object you know
diffraction & shit
patterns on exotic
vases crystalline
clouds parting
the red ether
& because it could not have been
any different due to this
abstracted fateful world & stuff
maybe the light
even glistened
yeah probably who cares maybe
some ambiguous whale out at sea
cares
yeah the fuckin' whale livin' it up
in the sea the post-Maldoror sea
of loneliness & it
like saw a light
& uhh that
fuckin' light I
was talkin' about just uhh you know glimmered ambivalently
& uhh there was some homeless nomenclature to describe pace
circumlocution of place that zig-zagged in doubt & vamped itself
out as ideological psychodrama contained within those hallowed halls
those halls that cause all the poets
in those deciduous areas of the
park juxtaposing themselves
in front of brown rhizomatics &
reference caryatics & marble pillars &
shit something about
nostalgia o the hue
of nostalgia peppered upon polaroid
slices that never occurred
you liked to type out the word
&
you
have
some
pseudonostalgia for the analog era because the digital makes
textureless mute rigid & anti-fluid or probably fluid &
then we were probably like 'golden' (showers lmao) somehow or at
least something was golden & we were shooting for
the stars or
the heavens panning
across the heavens from
left to right & casually
referencing constellations
in one ear out
the other with
that shit some kind
of star belt right
yeah those stars had some names just drifting
ThrOugH tHe HaZe oF Lif(e)~~~~~~~~~~~~ & the
garbage & papers & tumbleweeds
caught in a wind gust blowing down
the desolate
poignant & featureless description that sets
the mood & blurs the boundaries & the blah
blah fuckin' post-genre post-gender
post-ownership post-causality where
free will &
determinism
coexist
& are
not contradictory
at one point in
time &
tenuously & ineffably attached to the best cause possible in a way that is no longer believable or worth coherence
which means I love you or I
miss you and/or I want you to
suck my genitalia or something
about hope or the absence of hope
or trials & tribulations or o
to be down on luck from the depths of
class privilege o the frisson
experienced while updating the catalog
& pressing
enter o the
frisson & something about carousels as clothing where
all words were sent through the calculated result of lit
conference mills transmuted the
poetry o the lamentations about
some Machiavellian
middle management
feint pretending
to talk about
primal ritual & the charm bracelet considered
as gambit trying 'ironically' to make fun of
the excessive usage of jargon from
academic fox holes whilst simultaneously
talking shit against some phantom
fascist presence of order (preferring disorder or perversity of some sort o
how we must break with pattern) when the fascist presence is the soaring
resource formats
formulas & distribution
methods where all irony is immediately & utterly
charmed at the point of writing & then neutered
at the point of reading because poetry is relegated to
the written word to language so write me another one
& use
some of
dat good ole parataxis
shit son
you self imposed poet-rolled on
just one moment in order to 'talk about
later inside of a building'
dreaming the parataxis
before typing
the happy ability to
communicate hypnogogically across class lines
as the night dissolves into the finest platter of melodramatic anti-poetry sponge cakes possible
it is possible
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