Croupmeister Harmonies

I thought we were going backwards, but
all I saw were the niggers being black.

And then the bridge vanished.

I was looking right at it; I could see
the clear gap
between the war and the waste

and I held my ground, groveling.

Ringo and me drowned out the horses,
pulled the wagon ashore the left bank
by the fires hel dim - but bright - by the
yelling faces blackened with ash and fury.

I saw the wagon wet and above my bed.

Granny stood up, but by now I can call her
Mavis. She was ready to roll and had one
too many southerns and sevens. My shoulders
still smelt of burnt wood. And Atlanta. I sent Ringo
the receipt, and he apparently paid it, with a note:

"I don't hate her, but I bet you've heard that one before"

22 KINDS OF A KIND OF CLIMAX OF DISTINCTION

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⁽¹⁾ “Fracture, Polatta, écossaise”---------------à ⁽²⁾ Here, once again, at Month’s End, you Rendezvous in your own Dissolution, in which, Insidiously, I Arisen. ⁽³⁾ And then that Matter of Intimacy, Meaning: I’m Usurped by the Removal, its Lack and its Layered, yet Limpid Context.  ⁽⁴⁾ And the Sun-Setting, as if, Waving Good-Bye, for itself: a Precious Jewel. ⁽⁵⁾ The Way the Temperature unexpectedly Rises, bringing the sweatslum of Summer, the Sun, the Achilles Rupture, and the Ensuing Jiggled Blood-Pressure. ⁽⁶⁾ A Sentence I Wrote Yesterday: is akin to howreling in a High-Cranial doze. ⁽⁷⁾ A kind of Derelict City and Repeat after Me: “I Ain’t even 25 Pages in this Shit…” ⁽⁸⁾ And this is why I no longer Write anything which Extends beyond Footnotes, Trappings, Nips and Flicks of the Wrist is this. ⁽⁹⁾  I was Overcome with a Momentary Eagerness to Consider what you have done with your Life.  ⁽¹⁰⁾ Tucked, Squeezed and Dragged my Dick Home, between Cheeks and Bad Knees on these Streets.  ⁽¹¹⁾ Nothing like a Pigeon’s Ass Solidly Behind you to get you Wanking, ---------------àEh, Hein Armsy~?  ⁽¹²⁾ Pleasure is a Purely Temporary Artifice and rather Mundane, Ordinary even; Thus: why should I Get-Up to its Throes of Illusion, when I know that Pleasure comes in Disguises and is Rarely recognized at the Time or Appreciated~? ⁽¹³⁾ I am in the Doghouse of my Competitor, Attempting to Pass a Kernel for the Past 3 Days.  ⁽¹⁴⁾ Stopped just off Lawrence to Photograph a new Construction.  ⁽¹⁵⁾ How to make a Picture in Writing of a Thing (your Ass) that isn’t a Pussified Discursive Avoidance (that Milkly Mane) of the Ass itself, when one could just Kneel, bury the Nose and Eat~? ⁽¹⁶⁾ A Tendency to Bloviate my Looks into Clarity (and then Slowly back out of the Stare of the mirror).  ⁽¹⁷⁾ The only Bullshit I ever Loved was Mine which was Divine. ⁽¹⁸⁾ What we used to call a “thumper”. ⁽¹⁹⁾ Oh, Don’t Mind Me: I’m just Brimming (Over) with a Simple Satisfaction. ⁽²⁰⁾ The Guttural Laugh that Begins in the Gut and Extends the Width of a Spine. ⁽²¹⁾ I Stomach what I can Stomach and then Whisk-Off to the South. ⁽²²⁾ And Let’s Not Forget Now: the Lurch of Sadness that Precedes my Vehicle’s Wild and Abandoned Acceleration.

This is Not Even Close, to Being a Portrait of Me

“To Me, there is Unfettered Joy in the Revelation of How We will Leave Here.”

-Boris Izsus 2013

Introducing Mr. Sunshine

The Body and its Vicissitudes: And what is Borne outside of (my) Praise, always Objects here: And I am Reeling down the Face’s Canvas and running Head-Long towards the Beating of your Heart.  The Raider as Oath, as Engine: its Myth made Common by Repetition.  And maybe its my own Sheer Fatigue.  “I Cannot Be // Myself Now // the Propensity // but to See.”  A Structure: Frail, Dusting and Handsome.  Or: Appalled, like a Pigeon, by the State, of this Bathroom.  And just as it Haunts: the Narrative of Sublime Indifference, Constantly Vying for your Flippant Disregard.--------------àDoodling, the Body Searches for its own somewhat Foreign and Reversed Image, Jams its Finger, Against the Wall, Reverts into Itself and into the Dark:  the Terror of a Solitary Life as Assailant.  The City is that Phone Call that never Comes, the Light of Morning, its Mistress.  My Reflection in the Window of the EL teaches an everyday Magic, Collapse:----------------àI Too can be somewhat Hidden.  Subjects Tackle Meaning so we can Fake Intellectual Winning. The Portrait of a Body Reiterating its Capture of the Portrait.  If Daily in the Morning, only Love can Grow from the Repetition of Rehearsing this Song: You are the only Apple that Tittles what my Teeths do Need.  The Memory of Snow packed into the half-opened Doors of Cars, Lake Shore Drive, 2011.  And Something then, about that Ghost, in the Farmhouse, New Hampshire, 2006.  The Delicate Act of Wrapping the Fist’s Fingers before we drop to box. First Objecting, then Observing, an Embrace, Violent yet Fatherly, as if, Wrapping an Entire History of Blood and Struggle, where a Fold Orders The Fall to Fold.  The Aversion to another Person’s Dream.  The howrel in the Pigeon’s Pinched Eyes.   It takes a Murder to end the everyday Rue. There is Nothing Feeble about this: all Movements, in Objects or Ideas, can be made Visible, irredeemably Visceral. Hence: the Rejection of the Cautionary Navigation, i.e. Hell-Bent on getting from Point A to Point B, as Quickly as Dashed and stat.  There is a Romance that will End, through a Casual Act, boxed into, is the Case and That.  But Baby-Girl: all things in the End, Destroy us Passively; and I fucking Believe this, which is so Silly, as it Carries me far-far Away

The Sincere Hope to Welcome and then Annihilate

“Surely there is something Essential and Fierce to the Arsenal of our Love; And you will Find that this is True, the Further I Flap this Big Squall Sinto You.”

-Boris Izsus 007

STUCK IN THE CITY AND CONDEMNED BY THE HISTORY OF FULGINITI’S COMMITTEE

That Dear Pig
Allegorical

gap

“in your Measure”—
You called it:

Recycling

the Phrase:

“Passing Out Here”

and Propulsive (-ily)

I Figure: this belongs

to me

and rightfully Rifling

into a Terror

called that Weird

Wide Wandering

into the tightest

Slit—

As I Hail the Ghost
and Execute

the Arrival of

my Piggish

Nature—