PSEUDOSCORPION
Secondly, when one eyelash of yours falls past
midnight my shadows rush to take it,
dissociating your so-minded ensibility.
Over the grey peneplain nothing moves
apart from god’s hand and then some stillness
hurtles from me—I, beetle-driver, custodian
of dust, beleague the loopholes
and illiterate the labourynth asunder
as starletters disarmember the motherkin.
In order to polish language’s mirror
and climb the last sentence I forklift
pedipalp, foremitten and eyesuckle
all alliable with smallarmed suckstance
in a junkbonded countermemory
unevening the crepuscule, my clauses depend from
wreck of a fly, hingeable jawpiece.
From the acorn’s amberchamber faraft
we are in line for an understanding,
but the stones are thinking too hard. Trees flood name.
Hold till you see the whites of their eggs,
deletailed until selfever’s leasticity.
The dark is under attack from more dark:
the father and the man in robes let me do this
in my meetings with the hard stone floor.
My hardgot rockdrill fragmented.
Spit light, maps come out in the head
to express how our forested arms are
as we had laid our heads, the bowls
combine elegy with the toes in the sand
the sun, old fried, its trail turn black
to the golden empires of the child.
In death’s innumerable rubble it sees
the snake lay in the sun then it crepes up
at the tail & so to the head but then
he claws him softly & he fastens so
hard that the snake cannot shake him of &
this worm sleeth him & then eats his full.
SCORPION
Once under a time and beneath the moon
the eye on grey terrain tracks other eyes
the meatwands and feelery digits
by which search-data palp dimly in chests
and peripediments of affix weave
sight, questions flame as flesh in
the pan. Think like stone; sink like sand,
wound the heel, issue a product recoil
on a tree the leaf of which curdles things
through head-openings on the trailed moon
that crawled into senses long behind us.
We mirrordrown our vectims with machine-breath,
headstrike the stonehinged powersurge
predestroy the complicate nosecond
for love is our endonym with which
we instring the illominate unstrument
by rule of claw and satyriasis of backclaw
stone will answer stone, spilling units of
harm. Revenge is a chilldish: we do not make
false stars nor tristinguish the minortaur.
Understone the hole, the strings inside the brain
run cool. The act of reading brings
alive the yeses that make spines
in their back the indoll with prick and tong
the oracle for sand where our shapes innounce
us as derived from tact and the stars are
caught out too long by our answers.
We forest the shadows, are nothing but that
which our name is full of: answer
the dust, take head. War is a toss-up between
calamities. When life is destroyed, exit
from rock, seize power while
the night raises cactus-flowers
our children might sing in the world which
money abstracted. Tails, we win.
Secondly, when one eyelash of yours falls past
midnight my shadows rush to take it,
dissociating your so-minded ensibility.
Over the grey peneplain nothing moves
apart from god’s hand and then some stillness
hurtles from me—I, beetle-driver, custodian
of dust, beleague the loopholes
and illiterate the labourynth asunder
as starletters disarmember the motherkin.
In order to polish language’s mirror
and climb the last sentence I forklift
pedipalp, foremitten and eyesuckle
all alliable with smallarmed suckstance
in a junkbonded countermemory
unevening the crepuscule, my clauses depend from
wreck of a fly, hingeable jawpiece.
From the acorn’s amberchamber faraft
we are in line for an understanding,
but the stones are thinking too hard. Trees flood name.
Hold till you see the whites of their eggs,
deletailed until selfever’s leasticity.
The dark is under attack from more dark:
the father and the man in robes let me do this
in my meetings with the hard stone floor.
My hardgot rockdrill fragmented.
Spit light, maps come out in the head
to express how our forested arms are
as we had laid our heads, the bowls
combine elegy with the toes in the sand
the sun, old fried, its trail turn black
to the golden empires of the child.
In death’s innumerable rubble it sees
the snake lay in the sun then it crepes up
at the tail & so to the head but then
he claws him softly & he fastens so
hard that the snake cannot shake him of &
this worm sleeth him & then eats his full.
SCORPION
Once under a time and beneath the moon
the eye on grey terrain tracks other eyes
the meatwands and feelery digits
by which search-data palp dimly in chests
and peripediments of affix weave
sight, questions flame as flesh in
the pan. Think like stone; sink like sand,
wound the heel, issue a product recoil
on a tree the leaf of which curdles things
through head-openings on the trailed moon
that crawled into senses long behind us.
We mirrordrown our vectims with machine-breath,
headstrike the stonehinged powersurge
predestroy the complicate nosecond
for love is our endonym with which
we instring the illominate unstrument
by rule of claw and satyriasis of backclaw
stone will answer stone, spilling units of
harm. Revenge is a chilldish: we do not make
false stars nor tristinguish the minortaur.
Understone the hole, the strings inside the brain
run cool. The act of reading brings
alive the yeses that make spines
in their back the indoll with prick and tong
the oracle for sand where our shapes innounce
us as derived from tact and the stars are
caught out too long by our answers.
We forest the shadows, are nothing but that
which our name is full of: answer
the dust, take head. War is a toss-up between
calamities. When life is destroyed, exit
from rock, seize power while
the night raises cactus-flowers
our children might sing in the world which
money abstracted. Tails, we win.
