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i had ears for the undersea
i had ears for the words
"you are the most beautiful thing
in this world."

(who knows how it happens)
but the amorist is greaseless,
dead
unguessed and gone
a hoary, haunted
howlet spitting antistrophes
and drifting
above the spatterdock.

go ahead and live me down.
we all pretend
to drown in sera - this
whole entire dimension
made of
windlestraw
and totem hollows
and other things

and other things . . .

this new little truth
this robin egg
blue
brooding in skies'
dull decidua
is begging
black space
for a mercy
murdering

damn this featherbrain
confuter
with its wilding
   silver blood
        tongue
     licking
  for obsequious
     anticipants
'till they burn
to a soft nilpotency -
i'll make a bed
         in
armageddon
  gray
     paper crane
ashes

here's my nirvana: the ache of the ramrod's
slow dre

forget about me

don't listen for it, anymore:
the ugly balladist, the poète maudit
unbosoming his delustrants,
strangulations and subglossal annulments.

i want you to find my secret life, the arrhythmia
of spoondrift oblivions.
open out your palms to me; i'm over-swelling with octonaries, octonaries!
that is where i've been these years,
shimmering flush
in the night between kneeholes.

See for yourself.

Strip the pinbones to their teeth.
Use a microtome to thin each veil; engram to sacromere to the chest-pulp of chromatin,
You will find the same sweet euphonies:
Filatures spinning bliss from irrationals,
Rose-cloud billows from bluebird mandibles,
Shinplaster brewed to a platinum tea.

All that I'm made of,
Whatever you need.

shallowit's not your beautiful face
that i love

it's how you ruin it

Moon Craters

Soldered down
in the smoke hut
that is melting
by the bulb,
I am this
monomaniacal
unraveler
of fragile-ware and crocheted filaments
that vein out in disparate quests
from the patterns of your
pinafore.

God, I have some
Spaniard lust for those pearly little drop-
lets,
bloodlett(er)ing
chronicals
and alleluias,
chorales of your twin diviners
clotted up like amber marbles
and left to summer
in the charity heap.

Damn their colours, they're all mania degrees
awash in recollected prayers,
illuminati treasures
that bare your dark coal
intertia
and purpled burn stone
radiation:
superimpositions
of the Goddess

souls high kites with holessouls are high kites with holes, the sky is like a crystal ball

Blue sky harrow:
How lost for adjectives
Are we
To break our fast up there
Sugar, tea, and birdsong?

Of course, kites, souls
Curiosities, wind being free
While we, ground strung Gullivers
Flat beneath the
Colossal eye

We're watchers
Of the wolcen burnspot
Pupil paling
West, always

What do I call myself?
My sex deliquesced
An epicene, I'm a lover of honey bees
And toadstools

With plume
For tongue,
Duck-green;
A curling fern:
We slip around like
Chartreuse chimera
In Lilliput ponds.

We dive in as
The tadpoles stop
Tail-motor
To blend
Eyeless
At the em

the end and also everything

listen with the skin

I've lost the album of my life
vistas and their episodes
ones that you were in

the wind is warm
impossibly
more alive
than nights or vessels

the wind is
all there ever is

~*~

today
it comes: the universe
is not adding
light to darkness

we are the shadows
shielding sockets
from
obliterative
birth-song

sometime
we'll leave the outside
white
and reoccur
from one to One.

newshours no longer whittle into days
strangled and uncalendared;
forbidden rituals of a new dark Eros
clothesline sheets and bed throes → blunders in a blue face
collapse
and sensing your reversals, i’ve grown and grown impossibly old;
god’s bad math:
infinities as remainders.
however they lapse
i spend the better part of them
burning through the flyleaves
for mandalas sealed in hell bank
notes
for ashes of your epilogue
for the end of throats
in songs and news.
no one can regret their past
but of futures . . .
like when planets will re-purpose you
into interstellar fruit bats or thyme pulled from the brink of comets
and you’re wondering why i'll never find you
when datebooks write us in the living.

the shut-in

where are these keyholes to the Equinox? the stars huddle
like alien nettle,
a gray chime of wrens scaling tree limbs and middays,
jittery
fruit;

Darwin has no lines for me
to speak
of.

i've sheetrocked the blistering ivies and blossoms.
i've glassed out daubers and frightening mollusks
pillowing through mud honey and minute old ruins.

intimate with my quiet desk, my paper hoard
i'm still a coward; the envelopes, Obama glass, the dozen unused spiral
diaries are menacing concoctions, minotaurs of lost dimensions.

i used to sleep in creek-beds.

i'm too soft and rotten
now
to enter
into anything:
closets, contracts,
secret orders'
sacred blood oaths,

or thresholds; a frozen inch of face
the same as light years, oceans,
never meeting

i'd rather brush my mind with pills
and stick these artifacts of wealth
hard inside your origins

and keep the grass
from living
long

it goes without saying:

everything

the air that settles
on your chest
awaiting sound

the language of your local fruit
the swirl of rind
their glyphs and runes
like sun-bent cheeks

those
bulbous blots
in utero

and creatured time
that sleeps between us.

i needn't tell you anything
or speak my way inside of you
you've doctored in all my aspirations

your furious dreams' wild successions
no longer carry
my peculiar
cursive

because
i am written
on

Anterograde

1

There's an inevitable
preamble to every morning: the shriek
from a soundless planet
reaching
back around;
ancient echoes.

I'm tired
of chasing
my own song.

Through Socratic discourse,
crossing off every
possibility . . .
I realize I'm not a fissure
spilling light into the sum, I am not
anyone
but a blur
that splits into an ant fire,
crawling and
needling
your perfection.

All I'll ever be:
a pulse
of movement,
ganglia
dangling
outside a clothesline dimension;
just a numskull
with cartoon
extremities.

It is the inkwell
of infinitude
I fall into. Look,
we have a barbiedoll
for a deity
and similes
for souls

everyone should write this poem:
i've left the universe
well enough
alone.

whatever is speaking,
whatever it knows,
untouchable
now;
the dark matter math of uncolonised dreams,
inactualities
like the moon
in the millpond.

i was bent out of worlds
in a thing.
i was counting;
a chronologist
dating hayricks of grotesqueries.

"oh,
how many times
will i
vermillionize
your touchhole?"

"how many muthering epiphonies
will wash up
like
bluebottles
on a beach?"

i will never have to know.

i am never
anymore.

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dear Angry Young Poet,

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anaplasia

by `thetaoofchaos, Oct 4, 2010, 10:14:51 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

deranged organs
conspiring their exodus
clamoring for the cool negligence
of concrete;

lost tongues in long weeping throats
valveless
glut of heartmatter
alabaster, pollen, necrotic silk

i'll empty their blasphemies
from broken tusks

spilling the elocution of bliss
so it does not reach the dead.

882

24 45 11

anaplasiaby `thetaoofchaos

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sad organs.

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Submitted on: October 4, 2010
File Size: 467 bytes

Views: 882
Favourites: 24 (who?)
Comments: 45
Downloads: 11

*Immy-is-Thinking May 6, 2011

Hi - i featured this here, i hope thats ok - [link]

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`thetaoofchaos May 6, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

wow, thanks! I'm honored.

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*AlecBell Dec 12, 2010

Such dark and musical eloquence, Shane!

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`thetaoofchaos Dec 14, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

thanks Alec! some songs seem to sing themselves.

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*AlecBell Dec 15, 2010

We always hope so!

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*TheMadMulatto Nov 23, 2010

You've got a powerful play with words and I love it.

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`thetaoofchaos Nov 24, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

thanks so much! i try to let emotions get the best of me whenever possible.

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*TheMadMulatto Nov 28, 2010

Well said! Agreed!

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*RepairsInProgress Nov 15, 2010

Your style is simply gorgeous.

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`thetaoofchaos Nov 16, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

thanks so much! that's a tremendous compliment.

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