the mad idea of making her swallow the dix haines

I

We might for instance squeeze her beauty in a silver bowl
It's number ten representing the whole wide wurld as a howl
Around her waving tail the prison built of her golden spiraling
The water in the bowl with each turn becoming more a trace of her
So that we could wet us seeing her merge water with the idea of her
or set the time of seeing her off against the time of her birth
for each one of her turns that might equal then her number ten
as its now is the same as she equals what will become equal to
the how of when she surges, anyway: sucking the moment
into her bowl like the i-sockets are sucking us into place for her

fotosjop recolored thinga based on a photograph by

natashe gudermane

II

Her own abstinence of number forces us into adherence
Of her absent mind: she's glowing in the traces of her moving
By unnoticed since every notice from us would indeed become
The word denoting noticing itself which would then start the counting
That she won't permit within the speakable. Are we then to stay
Ignorant of all she is to us or is she the it of ignorance escaping us?
Does it even matter when she hits the squeeze below our belts,
Releases the pressure increasing pressure in our loins
The longing that she so aptly named the naming apparatus
Caught in the act of whatever the naming wants us to name?

III

Oh yes sure milady we talk of her as if she was the she that is
But none of her is here, is she or there where you are now is he i mean I
Fabricate the very eye that hovers over every single bodie
Floating by the remnants of (y)our standing opera. Dead limbs dried
Off of what once grew wild in the swamps of your predicament,
The microscopic mould standing upright in the honourable tide,
The one drawing Water with a line into a receding line, away
From wry supplies of laughter in the stores, the spindle
Full of these odd silvery plates they use to write their data on.
A packaged labyrinth of dead song decaying in the darkest night.

IV

we drift & dream our drifting is of value to the landscape, rock
will bow to us, seashells whisper our names as the wind blows
wind of us in its devoidness of us all. Waking up to being Clive is no
different, the difference is in perceiving Clive while waking up.
Will the shoreline ever greet us with hello? & how are you? She
has more reality to her than whatever we cut and paste into us,
a wave of itness being in the being brought about by me drifting from
the shores of where it myself gets lost in her, the difference she
wants to be it because i told her so. Oh begone with it. The head
of Jove exploded and out popped the power of the scribe, all fleshy.

V

The j-head fed upon itself will turn in2 explosive A,
The habit of the scribe: a nasty swing of difference
So big (ita magna) that it contained all within itself.
Our foreplay thus enforced became by force of law
A singularity, a rarity or is it rather a disparity put
On display. The silent clamoring of i - the être on its own-
Forced to declamate nrs 1-10 of its dix haines: tribulation,
Anguish and distress fighting over pole position, rank
& overall priority in the order of the conceivable, while
Down below another nine are condeëssecending

VI

4490 escape her cuticle, rhexolyticly dehiscenced
from the main strain, a dated urge mostly, be it either
pre- or full grown puberescent, the blinking of an eye
in the other a reflection taking its time and tide to turn
upon itself and turn the very light on: look heriam
a miss myriam among the hieratic of significance' delight
don't you see how easy it is: just be me & put yr hypha
next to mine we will conidiophore into more spore so
while i bore the tedious lords into a snoring choir
we can & will outdo in candour every inch of the old noir.

VII

Tormentation tormenting through incessent naming of the torment
the word apparently is enjoying its stumbling into her Garden, her silence
Lacerated with vowels in a mouth that wants to utter life but only
gushes blood and bile foaming down into the abyss, the vertigo of continuation
the furthering further of the fiction fixating the en soi in itself no way
out eyes wide shut in the face full frontal in the eye, catching the i,
its own reflection in the other's eye caught in a similar dissimulation
of seeing itself while the tides are sweaping us & the burning angel choirs
sing out our voiceless syllables whispering tender flesh onto our bare codings
a sheer lack of violence that blows as we shiver a breaking breath in both of us


(the garden of torment appearing here courtoisy d' auguste imself, a very kind ol' man in fact)


VIII

Lips part. As leeches fat each word sucks & drips how wet we are. A dance
as yet unheard, we soon blow the whistle on ourselves : a simultaneous
coil ascends in air. The recoils in the brain already touch each knowing each
& every speech of love's a repeat in vain. Yes the distance will be met, regret's
shortening the time already we never had, what on earth do you
mean 'in bed'? The further i enter you, the stronger the pulse,
the more of me i see & less of you as you are in me wanting what?
me? as i am? besides myself with me, losing you again? We sob
as sobbing goes, belonging to the aftermath, finally returning
to dissolving us in moments 1: i saw you first & 2 : you then saw me