MAAT SUITE BY GARETT STRICKLAND

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.