the devil’s lament

I

what gives a magnet

its magnetism? some-

thing

intrinsic in its matter

that polyglot of latent

meanings

something lucid in the dark mirror

and twisty, angled like mal magic.

II

i wake interior to the devil coil into his slough body arms inquest up length of supple shirtsleeve flex the lissome forensic flesh acme power wear his ossified bones make him specious female fall as tangential comet trail for

an amalgam of angel, 

a luminary cabal of

singular person

i ford inches of soul

to build (he)r lapidary

stone altar

offer hibiscus viscous blood honeycomb and hecatomb

to slake her dial murder to see if god is home place a collect call on my red telephone. i heard the angels snicker say god doesn’t answer devils worshipful you are of the angel sinner bloody hands never took a daughter in wedding they tell me hallowed things that could dissolve gold but i only want to know how to say i love you in hendecasyllabics 

III

and now:

everything you do is

an act of godhead

is liturgy-cum-legislation

has the impetus to

cle/slash/ave the in(visible)divisible

you can tear atoms

from

eaves of worlds,

severed so be it

so it is written so it is done

pharaoh et al amen

to Amun-Ra

IV

irregularities of light

prorogue

death a little

 

dying fool, the

half life

of a decision is

life changing

 

the full span of one–

world building

 

so imagine yourself

and the choice 

 

co-conspirators in            love

judicious as you live because

hereafter is not    conscripted

looking at       me       ready to

alter every                        thing

 

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not for free

love is “an infinite

causal series whereby

each element in

the chain

is

here and now

dependent on

the one antecedent

to it” proximum est ut

(+subject, and the subject is love)

love the antecedent is the house next door

before love

was love, perennially

Hannibal of Carthage took refuge after his defeat, even the gods fall to Graves see the tomb of the Ptolemies

it’s time to grow up (of meadows, fields) it’s time to be covered (e. g., with flowers) 

in Latin, the tax collector

and the prostitute

are called by the same holy name (for they are loved)

you see the pseudothyrumi (hidden door)

to the place of séance, to the nearest

curse of love

is cost

 

 

 

 

Maps

I

⌈ “as a convention, ⌉

an object’s image is said to be

at this (x) location

⌊ behind the mirror.”⌋

⌈ hidden from view,

the secret self the Id— ⌋

¿if a material (being?)

is opaque to the light, such

as the

d a r k

animal Id I’d hide

xxx

but

ego human and superego

god I’d perfect to avoid

an image

that is successively dark-

errrrrr

“the image of the object is the same size as the object.” how small am i?

 

II

“the image formed

(of Pygmalion with statue

or god with Adam from dust)

by light rays

that appear to come together

(in matrimony)

at the image rendezvous

behind the mirror

but never really do

(things fall a p a r t)  when fall is ≠ ∞

not equal to infintity; tone quality, on finite things. it is an anagram

a virtual image. 

a virtual ∞ (alt num lock 236)

a virtual image of infinity; alternate [universes] num[erous endings] lock[ed doors] 2 [people] 3 [is a crowd] 6 [66 the devil’s in the military detail]

a mage of verses, roses

rural finery

a virtual image can never be displayed on a physical plane (dreams)

III

“the other side,

where light rays do

not exist–

and where virtual images

are formed–         is called

the b↓

ac->ks- i de,backside

b-acks-↓                                             ck^

i-↓                                     a^

d->     e,          b^

of the mirror                              ɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ ʇo ɘbiƨʞɔɒd ɘʜɈ

souls go here. and

the things the cannot

e x i s t

on the physical plane                      they go HERE too.

III

“when the (beloved) object is at the focal point, the image (of love) is infinitely far to the left and therefore not seen, as indicated in (b).”

but “when the object lies (naked) between the focal point and the mirror (this page is a surface for an angle of incidence light touch down on the) surface,

the image forms again, (turn, be love)

only now it becomes

virtual and upright (like a pop-up book)

as shown in (look and) (c)”

 

 

black out (if i’m honest)

I

the rachis;

the distal part of the axis

of a feather shows stem cell white;

conspectus of angel conceptus

and the immortal adnexa (unveiled:

 

anatomical organs of a genus

of prickly shrubs,

the leaves pinnate,

corollas fleshy human and

proximal to the dais

of gestation; goddess light).

 

II

zero; i adjust the sights of a firearm to hit the point aimed at–a target having no magnitude or quantity–the metrical foot, the trochee

v a c a n t

having no modified inflectional form.

 

III

at zero hour, the observatory duty scientist watches luminaries

pointing NASA’s Swift telescope at a singular swath of sky

in search of the theorist’s holy chalice:

flashes of x-rays and ultraviolet light indicative of a wrinkle in the universe.

black holes swallowing dead stars.

i saw a romance of person;

mysterious events set in a remote time and place; Einstein’s general theory of relativity foretelling the pyroclastic flow deposits

of her fallout

the federal bureau of investigation’s most wanted

colliding in spacetime

with systems of white supremacy and suspicion:

Angela Davis on trial for collusion in a titillating murder case charged with political valences.

i look like her. fear me.

formed in the image of a black panther party member, my flesh and its historically subversive adnexa conjures

the government’s institutional memory of

an all black branch of the communist party; of militant resistance

(for a limitless time at all times resistant)

against police brutality; against extrajudicial terrorism

always.

and so, this is the reason

why eyes follow me. my past life is

why i can’t buy a candy bar in peace.

the cashier’s afraid i’ll steal the status quo

and exact a revolution.

 

IV

this is my prayer:

i will not be your negro.

“Negro Slain By Texas Posse: Victim’s Heart Removed After His Capture By Armed Men”

the real headline is this:

in order to kill me

you’d have to kill me in every permutation, iteration of

all time existence

i’ve ever been manifested in.

lynching is not enough.

 

V

i wrap my head like Congresswoman Ilhan Omar; Somalian angel who wears her hijab like a diadem. a map of the horn of Africa floats on a backlit screen: the central intelligence agency has an online fact book. a black star denotes where Mogadishu unfolds. i see her like i see my father.

complicity and the axis of spin, that rachis on which tangential velocity spirals, twirls like the finger of a goddess touching secret countries–that is the revolution of quiet that allows the CIA to back death squads in lush Ayiti.

orchids of state terror bloom from fertile ebony loam. fifty tons of cocaine (worth one billion dollars) paint the Haitian military regime thunderbolt gold.

secret files contact the dead; speak of Duvalier in whispers, saying,

“he is ‘Papa Doc’ the virtual personification of a voodoo god; to the country’s overwhelming negro population, he has shown himself to be anti-mulatto (i am in awe of the menagerie of

disgusting, divisive

incarnations of jim crow’s one drop

red, tear shaped

rule)

and a devotee of black supremacy.”

the special operative called us negroes; thought it odd that we’d think ourselves divine; spoke of the communist threat. i read the agent’s special report, eyebrow cocked convex, thinking fuck this son of a–

Ayiti: near apartheid, tensions viscous between the noir and the subtly mixed; in Papa Doc’s palace auspices glint wetly on coils of goat entrails;

president for life,

vodou spirit Lwa of the dead and his tontons macoutes (the bogeyman) were:

gang; cult; secret police; fascist militia

power: raping; extorting; murdering at will

with a cold (in cold blood) grip.

and the vampire of the Caribbean selling blood by the bag

dealing human body parts;

while mad max mutilated the genitals of political prisoners.

slavery made us brutal

 

VI

“our Doc,

who art in the national palace,

hallowed be thy name.”

he revises the lord’s prayer.

he rides in a bulletproof Mercedes limousine,

raining money on the people; bankrolls

fall from heaven (our Doc

who art–)

 

he decapitates a man. the severed head

holds secrets

that can be divined

from blood. the brain will

tell Doc what he wants to know

because he is a god–

 

when Papa Doc dies, the US is afraid that Fidel Castro will see the witch doctor’s daughter, see

that she is tempestuous beautiful

an emerald window glowing across the sea

calling in low tones to Cuba.

 

VII

there was an idiot

who called my country

island of the damned.

we are free. we revolted

against the French.

our land a mystery

like naked bodies behind a magic cloud.

the jungle. the starved look to us

for consumption. they want to see

the cannibals;

the blood spilled everywhere

(where is the bleach

for the kitchen tile?) dripping;

hearts sawed

out of stiff bodies, the pink muscle somehow

still beating

with black fire, witchcraft, magic.

the watchers,

they are the cannibals.

oh, the poor refugees.

fuck you.

you’ve failed

to see

the politics of magic.

you are so easily seduced by

blood sacrifice, by brown

bodies, by unrest

large enough to rip timespace.

you are the one running from yourself and thanking god hail mary for the wretched of the earth in this fun episode of escapist media consumption.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Disturbances

I

dark s*

after — de nocte

in the — (i.e. secretly) clam et occulte

i love, am loving

to love

* meaning substantive

i loved, i have loved

(having been) loved

 

(of time) i am to be i was have been am about to be in love

abhinc annos centum a hundred years ago i was in

love

 

 

cruelty                                                                                                                                to expose (a child to die); 

in damnation                                                                                                                       to leave (a corpse) unburied;

foolish                                                                                                            to turn down (an offer) 

animam abicere to give up (this) life

to disappear from sight;

die; (of time) to pass, elapse; to chrysalis

change, be changed;

to go to hell!

for a hidden, abstruse secret of incest

 

after dark in the dark secretly i love am loving to love substantively i loved i have loved (having been) loved (of time) i am to be i was have been am about to be in love abhinc annos centum a hundred years ago i was in love. cruelty to die in damnation, corpse unburied, foolish. sin: to expose a child to die (i am that child), to leave a corpse unburied (i am), to turn down an offer (of marriage?), animam abicere to give up this life and go to hell for a hidden, abstruse secret of incest.

II

when artisanally executed, the praxis of cipher existence escapes the sagacity of high order mystagogues. unseeable. it’s being a witch’s familiar to the senses; it’s a cacosmia that melts the eyes in their sockets; it’s a white vibrissae, a whisker catching the last dust of damask roses–dust whose osmagogue composition brings notes of burning soul to your nose (have you seen a soul cooked like a Peking duck? the flesh crispy? you hide that.)–yes, that’s what being invisible is all about.

if i am naked to even nakedness (that agathokakological political state which unfurls beneath Yggdrasil of mythic Eden)–then,

now you see me (clothes on)

now you don’t (clothes off).

if i am naked, i am disgusting. if i am naked, i am censored. i can hide my soul in plain sight. you don’t need to look at me unless i am getting fucked. in that case (the instance of fucking) i am fit to be seen and had like Peking meat. i hope your eyes melt, the flesh rendered to sumptuous grease, empty eye sockets smoking, glossy lips dripping like apples in Eden, choking on the invisible

womxn

 

 

Dark at 8

I

i stood at zero dark of aphelion, and beheld–

altocumulus at altitudes almighty. i went to the clouds to see the cobalt blue devil that lives in a vanilla orchid.

i asked her: to die, what does it mean?

“no;” she said, “the exodus, the taking away is the equinox of death and life: both”

is that the meaning?

“occur on a single day; and that day is an entire human lifetime. the season of fatal dark and final light is a candle: out it goes.”

so I ask, can you take a soul without killing it?

“that is a question for the haruspex.”

II

supernumerary finalities move the Ouija planchette towards existential ground zero.

what is your final fantasy?

what is the onus of ending?

weightless the world was a fogbound cathedral of English chalk downland; a white tellurian lacuna vanishing in fluid tides of time. superior to the world were towering gelid sarsens of ice; the jettisoned moraines that lie supine in a sarcophagus of quiet propinquity with the omphalos of the world. you had a book of stone, an incunabulum in utero of time. the oeuvre of existence was bivouacked in the fabulist finger of a goddess; and she wrote the saga of humanity’s existence in a stone baetylus.

 III

can a world–never to return–be turned on Pygmalion’s metamorphic axis of persuasion? can it be seduced from the underworld; and coaxed into making a circumstellar pivot? or pushed into the orbit of messianic materialization?

i’ve never seen an irretrievable planet retrograde in a protracted devolution towards inceptive grace. i want to see my stolen star, Venus, accelerate from exnihilo to rebirth. the appreciable traces of starlight can’t reach you at the opaque apex; your evolutionary anterograde towards optimal, final dark is inexorable.

your flight path is an irresistible slime creep towards sidereal summits.

look at the long torque of time, and her interplanetary revolution: she tears her glance from nadir antiquity–the south pole of existence–to look beyond the cloud gods, and what she can tell on her abacus is your infinite altitude within soluble time.

she’s looking at your heights (and by she, I mean Time): you levitate above your glyph like an umlaut; and your umlaut bleeds as if those two zeppelins (mere dots) were divots made by vampire fangs.

and so that is why she, and I, and the whole world, are looking at you. you’re the most beautiful irretrievable thing.

IV

look at the way time turns

to the person who waits on it for

the impossible resurrection

of love’s apotheosis; the minutes are indifferent, and divvy fate with smooth, unhurried hands. i swear, what will be, will be, no matter what we make of it.

when i get what i want from you it will be years too late. what will i do with a message from the graveyard all spun out in type on foxed, delayed telegram paper?

i know what: i’d track down your last known address, run down to your house, and see if we could buy our ragged lives back. upon learning you were really, truly dead, i’d empty the penny jars to purchase your soul. i’d dig up your grave with rivers sluicing down my face. i’d pull out the dismembered limbs of love, and sew them back together; and i’d stir up the dust and years like pale light falling as gingerly as maple leaves;

i’d leave the days of humanity behind in this our moonlit autumn

for another cipher existence, some place out of time’s flight path, and all because you wrote me. do you hear that? i’d do the digging all because i was summoned by a dead girl whose magic i can’t shatter, not even with the crowbar of ceaseless age. and who can tell how the years will pivot, or what life will yield for the sylph’s among us?

V

unforgettable and

i keep you on a planetary carousel: my orrery; the apiary of subsonic minutes is silent when you are caught in the loop of my uroboros. below the submontane strata, the clockwork is broken; the time is not ticking; and the celerity of solar systemic processes slows; the light-years cease; the pilgrimage of planets–their orbit–abides in prayerful repose; and i, clasping the Aquarius clepsydra of all refluent time, hold you frozen at the serac–i’m unable to relent you, my cacoethes, my sin.

when i have you caught in my anfractuous hoop, the cloud buffs roll off the sheer promontory; and there it is–love’s fecundity waiting like an ocean of eights; because, eight is the signifier of eternity. eight never ends.

8

 

 

 

 

Truth Values

Hey, Guys! ❤

I’ve been on hiatus for two years. I’m currently living in Micronesia. I have blue hair now, haha! I’ve missed blogging, and interacting with you guys. So, here’s a new poem.

 

Truth Values

the unit of power, the valence of red

when it is present in racemose inflorescence–that

truth value is

incalculably able to confer

immunity after the tradition of

winged scarabs

 

my predilection for premonition shows me sonar *

* *bell tones in

* * *an ocular dazzle of apple liquor blips and Merlot phosphenes. Arresting color

seizes me; !!!

and i

am poised t-

o  relinquish all

structural integrity–to crumble to decubitus at the door to your wor(l)ds.

the circumflex, that caret which ascribes a rising-falling tone to every word of meaning, holds mystique by the calyx until ultramicroanalysis renders the whole flower corolla as Lucifer who fell from Venus the star; the devil and the petals fall down

in rich, life-like textures of sound hue.

the photorealistic transcription of starched, chevron creases in your vocal cadence; and the heady dimensions of the nexus color–

color wrought of tertiary synaloepha and the exponent of evocation–these stereophonic tinctures cameo as the rubicon on your tongue: you won’t do it.

here comes the (mounting symphonic) moment

in which the manifestation of spring is an inverted corymb; sweet animus of soul

and the golden interior

reveal 

a truth value whose abstract specifications are made definite so that there are no questions of meanings, no probes searching for the contents of inscrutable semantic glyphs.

no; even

when faced

with zenithal negation, there is just:

suffusion of spring; daisies from the tumulus; and the incomparable psychological phenomenon of sudden and fatalistic love.

a god soft palate

i loved you once,

in the coagulated moment of

all my past lives.

*

blood is a math that ages much;

the way people do, it deepens

in body and color

on a years long journey

of polymathy

up a god soft palate.

*

 

i’ve turned mecca gold, i’m painted in

calculus grace. it’s so nice to see you (and your fucking Windsor tan eyes)

again. i keep meeting you even though

we’ve n(ever) met; we

seem to be hex-trapped in a tetragon of entangled fates and in this millisecond i pledge a melodramatic bitch’s scarlet oath that i’ve met you at least a chiliad times and it’s absolutely dizzying like January snow in Syracuse.

 

Hundreth Year Angel

 

Aureole over apparition winged and solennial: celestial slimikin starrified I have stibograms (facsimiles of your footfalls) etched in steam on glass. A golden yelve places embers on the deva thysiastery;

I worship Iliad’s pagan Helen in phoebus form: desiderium is mine in dolor violets; I miss you. Mythic Lily of the Incas, I divine you in shamanic tones; frothy, velvet delphinium delineates your mystic, Delphi purples; Greecian Hyakinthos lays palest bell-shaped hyacinths on the flaming scathefire of lust.

I burn sacrificial incense of protea and peony; Queen Anne’s lace and sea lavender are for your soteria; mikado apples burn to chocolately wenge, turn falu in fulvous flames. I wish for you in ciphertext; like the Rosetta Stone, I yen in glyphs. Like the scriptures I go between smoke and Hebrew, leaving Greek in the ashtray.