DOT
I.
[ The madness I make does it like ]
[ THIS ]
is where enters
the night’s worst phase walking on one’s mother
Remembering the encounter of the book the gestation of it as a blind object the potencies hidden
within herein lies mysteries the impatience in that desire to know that deep loving want of to be
able to be known by it and even in the un-understanding in the understanding of knowing it as
it was written thru pores → an unstoppable train this language as seepage a seepage of
language as the age sees its page in the page of disks sick reference bro you are my brother as
this word the same the same this homonym this home breathing in in unity and then again
again to be untied and once then more united on and on and [ a mother does her twin sons in
the steamroom and they are not shy of each other ] read into a tape already looped it builds a
nest ( wow mom wow mom wow ) and into another such womb are we all the more
enveloped a deferment of form cabin’d in ain soph thirsty for the outside the madness
of the day the nonsense of the moment [ a diagram of the essential mystification ] reveals
nothing in the manner that one cannot measure momentum-slash-position a concentric
cube, this calendar
II.
"Nothing quenches my step."
André du Bouchet
Designer time signatures
for rent
for bread light or bust
worry required to keep
hungry
and qualified
thoughtforms all lined up
and nailed to a board
to admire or play
another game of darts at
carve
tonight’s password
into the wood
of our booth because we’re sitting in it and sitting down
can be
a way of loving
something, us
let this be enough
desire
blown out
as an eyelash
into flame
so forceful
so majestic
certain
declarative & willing
to be wrong
"And nothing will be yours except a movement
toward a where that is whereless."
Alejandra Pizarnik
LINE
Ticket
processional
shame parsed
you
whittled person
reenacts
a holocaustian
or bad face
afternoon deprived
of pivot’s distance
yogic piss
on charred glass
piloting
scorched orchards
Savaging thru a
bag
it’s showtime
overtaken
with the
emoticon
of infinite intimacy
with abjection
& you other
havable joy
King size
unbarterable
delusion
a kindness
not yet
knock’d
up faerie folk
on cellar shelves
in middle basements
striking
off planet poses
drinking
all the best
potions we’d
forget yet
Isle
engine
how you heard
longing
close or on top
fathoms
from
yr hood
secret ed
inside
tee shirt thin
lyrics
and the hum
of apt pipes
in the wall
we met
this for
Leashed
crickets
piston out blues
antenna turnt
to oblivion sis
caught lulling
forcing
to expression
a street
sign
full
of holes in a rut
we
made
out
in
all summers
from now
on
This slow out of tune
accumulation
of haircuts of hedonism
and the shape a mouth makes
in sabotage
to our regularly
scheduled desk&vessel
does a madness
so nice so good
in the project our light cleans
of weekends
There is no approach
in presence
I am at the extreme
of this thing here I am
& your dream makes
the pocket round
for echoing day
GARETT STRICKLAND is the editor of .PLINTH., ICHNOS, and other publications of the Unwin-Dunraven Literary Ecclesia. He is the author of a long-poem, WHOA DONT CARE (Jerkpoet, 2015), and UNGULA (forthcoming from Solar▲Luxuriance). He’s an ordealist.