BENEATH THE KNEES OF MEMORY

“This Year: a Disaster.  The Foothold(s) Creepin of a Disaster, and the Ways, in which, we enter this Entrance with no protection; Thus: to take up a Home, as I would take you in my Arms: self-sprung and setting our Bodies ablaze on the Move again; for example: by Chance, I was seen Kissing you, in the Storm, which we had Achieved, through total, and utter Abandonment.”

-Boris Izsus from a Letter to N.M.M. 2013

I AM MUCH TOO APOLOGETIC

                                                      There is this Swallow of it.

                                                                                               And two days ago I was

                                                      Eating

                                                      of it—a book, and a long End to Thinking:

                                                                                              Either(and)/(in)Or

                                                      And why the fuck not. One, in this Life, is much too

                                                      Apologetic. The Shits in this Life, are

                                                      to be Given, Shared, Squeezed.

                                                      Why live in the City. Or, a She said, this Life,

                                                      is too far away

                                                      from actual Living.

                                                      Why (is) to go, or Consume, I Swallow.

                                                      If I don’t get up there to my Disaster,—Well, I did

                                                      Dance, with this

                                                      either once, or:

                                                      Oh, If I don’t get to Moving this Life—

                                                      Anyhow, I Remember some of the Faces, I know

                                                      what my Life might have been like, say,

                                                      a Parade, or,

                                                      You Say:-------------------------------à“Mammothing,

                                                      a Cocksucker” in

                                                      the City here, Growing just dark enough;—Today

                                                      the Sun is

                                                      is not is to any other

                                                      is my Insistence to Consume,

                                                                           is Force in

                                                      itself, and you—

TAKEN THE FORCE TO PUMP

It was this Perfect Comprehension: that this City, for Him, no longer Existed; and in Lieu of a City, He thought: ‘and I Enter into each one, Mapped with a Singular Facility, Namely: my Felicity which is thy Force’…”

-Boris Izsus from a Letter to N.M.M. 2013

EVEN IN THE FACE OF AN INVITATION

THE DAY I WASN'T THERE

“…‘Smiling, on the Sloppy Side of Indifference’….

in other words: Dearest Dog, Cherished by the very Fact, that it Cannot find any Sustainable Argument in this World that Might Pardon its Blind Insularly Drive to Consume the very Heart of this City.”

-Boris Izsus from a Letter to N.M.M. 2013

QUESTIONNIBABLY

TO KEEP MINE DRY

Slow Show

Your Momma's Titties

The Rape of Cassandra

Unsafe, in safety’s net:  the wrath of spit stuck

Deep in the throat by a broken promise spent

Elegant red curls, pooled by blue and white

Prophecy strode along the side like a terror.

Snakes hither and twist the lobes of frank longing

To be believed but believed be not – festering from

The nostalgic bend of splintered arrows and rust?

Nestled on the floor of burnt offerings and peace keys.

A shudder in the temple torments her like tears,

Awash in the lesser wills of man, concubine of kings

Now dead as further.

                                      Further dreams come and go,

So much worry in the ways of the night in flames,

Two boys dead in the memory of her lank futility

Scrubbed by indifference until even glowing white.