a sample from “of desire & the desert”

here are five poems from of desire & the desert. they happen to be mostly prose poems; the book is a mix of poems with & without more or less arbitrary line breaks. the book is reviewed in the post below by Dom Gabrielli & is on sale here at Black Editions Press.

the adequate silence of all the melancholy angels

night becomes timeless & the adequate silence of all the melancholy angels – here the children have died their paltry eternities & become obsolescent gods dancing & lighting the nothing with their hairy stars becoming mourning as it gets over melancholia & acknowledges the empty where no gods have ever been nor been needed except in the bizarre fantasies of shepherds & demons/

here we have lived forever, since Radio Caroline was a ghost in a threadbare cupboard on the worst transistors like a word stolen from nowhere or a broken guitar not playing in a graveyard/

we have lived forever already & eternity is here if we wake tomorrow, we have all this incessant madness to share, a radically empty world

lie & the face

a lie deploys the overall motoricity of the face,
a bizarre & subtle weapon;
with sexual potential like leaves falling from trees
as dreams//

it falls through history its inexorable apposition;
all the supple lumber
we have left scattered under the holy wind
everywhere, drops of water

& some antiquated resurrection/
the impotence of expressive potential
is a broken tower, a hanged man,
swords & the impossibility of murder//

we have every memory to reiterate patient
before the heart goes, also broken,
no longer working, a worthless motor,
subtle dead engine//

lies like becoming/
here we are nothing

temple destroyed

the temple is destroyed today, left us is the nasty ark of pornography not carrying many words worth mentioning but the sublime semiotics of flesh & the empty// words are no longer over any still waters, they drown in the mouths of morons & the world is always already forgotten

we have become the creature that both eats & is eaten, a night forever completely devoid of dreams worth having or any conceivable meaning// gormless Godot is drunk again & snoozing somewhere in the worthless heart of being

the nihilistic machine

& what we uncreate is a nothing machine ticking over nicely its voiding values its stretching out new lacks, vaster absences. there is time & space & all this empty content saying so little, nothing moral anywhere better than the neck of a priest or a policeman opening itself as the most perfect & decorous target ever. (he had a hard time at school, poor dear) & here is his worst enemy, words, & an unforgiving world//

there are many flags here waiting to burn

language messing around

language is not messing around being implausible freedom the play of the text intent upon enchaining everything else. the telephone is not talking itself, it is the ghost in it, uncanny & homely psychosis/

there is obviously nothing outside the text in a very specific sense, apart from that there are plenty of things, in the sense most idiots are thinking the dead man meant, there is everything else. the gods of the hearth are dismal dancers they are not Drogba running his perfection they are symptoms that are decaying of an empty that is ending & has always tended to want to end whenever a child played with a kitten or got down to some serious living/