morning move hours move night that no construct is reason to die from her words away part when her portrait of you takes the credit for guilt • tell me your body could send my weak centre double the wings against this fair play without chance • an arrival from no sanatorium only the home to love's praying mask • a stiff toy for networks of symbolic beasts when I cry: "A God knows I leave what love aches are prose to single letters, scribbled, dubbed, in teaching word figures of eight fragmentary scales that end"
some labour gives very temporal allusion to worlds broken under a devil's night ball, after conceding to perfect acts of natural generation • so the avant-garde songs about hijacking poets from alien closets are written on passing time by girls seeking inebriate homes
means life is to men
séances
until they subscribe to the air of a different old house light filtered years run their junk through a family thing until they subscribe to belief in life on the road so they take up something with an effect like anything until they are blind to english fathers roasted to high street satanist ritual revolt our billowing airs will act in voluntary games of illusion until they subscribe to our english fashion spit markets where eyes hear and feet weep advantage class machine is repeat signal from our common fall to there it was before the mask is word and man is measure time until they take work as gastronome angels in the dishes of vulgar young minds in many changes
one
places
not
menus
but
knives
and picture skins drunkit might have been the polished seats, but in the must of life, dreams stayed the worldly focus of a rapture; sometimes open senses begged us hold our swollen dice, all change, beneath the fat, until belief, we walk a market, eyes one wish, or die, a lizard maw our key; until they finally survive the pump of us, the smells stay conscious action in a wanted joy; bare chance only keeps us well, not white, dice lead men beat carcass down until they take work as municipal gods, you only look upon the lone track delay, a sand save, alone weight retained a fruit of fearful want, kissing nipple physics, two bound hands in one burning cube of sight; lay the rich until they finally survive: certain words their farmers milk from crowded floors need agonies for pulsing feet outside the bottom of the time until they believe that to pass between markets a smell must be hurried along, from our face—that Kurt Martin allows folklorists to malign—when natural arts are an easy dream—to the organ of our other end; before modesty turns the hated thought to bemused fire
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