deepundergroundpoetry.com

faxit deus!

strapped to some unfathomable debilitating
fear -
        yet that it is: fathomable by the tinge
of it being primodial -
                                          archetypical -
a very real "god" without an organised
boasting court of a spanish inquisition -
                                        just a solitary ordeal...

new york city concrete -
            in 1970s style grit cinema -
                              something akin to:
          a veil of flimsy sandpaper covering
the eyes...
                      as i'm thinking of buying
charles olson's maximum poems -
             not that there's much of a difference
between a hardcover and a soft-,
         at forty-quid a pop...
                      that's comparable to splashing
out on a heidegger's black notebook...

some awe-inspiring punctuation -
morse and shrpanel -
                              a pinnacle of rewind
as i sit and watch: america the 1990s...
          and it's so much the same export
and it's so much what's basically new-old
if i were to keep my eyes
itchy with glue and insomnia...

i think i'll buy the book -
                                               cur non?!
it would surely make starving
              so very spectacular: spec-tac-ular...
hardly a near miss -
   because there's always that:
                         to imagine a square
is nothing when imagining a kangaroo...

   nor like this → here or therefore ↓
-                                                             c
h                                                            o
s                                                            u
i                                                             l
n                      (e)                                 d
i                                                             e
f                 (d)                                       v
n                                                            e
u                                                            r
↑                         noiɈɒbnυoʇ ɒ niϱǝd ←

                here: right - no centre -
                       here a wish: left -
                                      begins: no leftover...
someone once told me to stay away
from the postmodernists...
                                    but on a diet of acute
sensibility and teasing that old
fulfilling desperation of life told by one
against the marrow millions...
                    
to present a whole chicken for a meal...
when compared to...
   a bowl of chicken hearts that can be used
to make a broth...
you wouldn't roast a chicken
with all the tender insides: of liver,
of heart or stomach...
            headless chicken you serve...
but...
             this one chicken is...
           and a bowl of chicken hearts ready
for a broth / brew also...
                               but the tenderness
of a comparison...

   i should have bought tool's fear inoculum
when it first came out...
i should have bought tool's fear inoculum
when it first came out...
                  
an ancient fear like a shadow that can move
on its own will without
a necessary body and a projection
of the mind...
                      
for the same amount of money...
tool's fear inoculum or charles olson's
maximus poems...
           let the heaving sigh of american
originality pursue a decade longer...
         i'm not exactly supposed to find
cultural exports of russia appealing...
                   i might...

           but america comes naked...
comes certain... comes brown-nose and comes...
a lethargic stress of light:
if that could... but it's not possible!

i shouldn't have bothered reading
postmodernists... beside Olson i don't think
that i have...

                   it's not such an impossible
gesture to wish for:
              given... one's own wish is...
the sulking silence of a theatre -
                    deemed impossible with actors...
i feel so many crawling eyes
over my body when i designate myself
to a rest:
  but always prior...
                  before a dream: there's never
a dream...
there's the erotica of suicide...
a complete kenneth koch hard-on
for jumping out of the window...
there's even the added "mystery" of
jumping out of the window
with a knife...
                      to make sure...
the knife is pointing at the heart...
            because... making a pancake
of oneself...
finally having a revelation that...
yes... upon impact... there's the skeleton
with electric extensions of nerves...
that there's no exoskeleton
and that upon impact...
the pain spreads like a soothing
immediacy - that there are not days
or weeks or medical induced coma
recuperation...

                     what is the common question?
suicidal thoughts...
oh god... aren't they the best sort
of erotica... the will to death is all that can
be sometimes achieved...
when so little of life fits...
hierarchical agonies and groans...

it's not a hard-on but it's...
                a sort of goosebump hot shave
and friction stubble
of a tickled pair of bollocks suddenly
dropped into a bowl of creamy ice...
with the whole guillotine spec-t'ah-cular!
it's hardly a hard-on...
it's an imitation cunt...

                that death must be fucked is
so certain: inch by inch i try to escape
the monotonous anthem of pride of the elders...
the coffin the grave the hobby
of tending to a yet entombing epitaph...
death must be the best fuck to come...
beyond a mere dog howling bark and dangling
whipping of dirt with hind legs
and broomstick tail...

        a pristine man to exoskeleton -
a satanic gravity of falling...
                          it's so important to imagine
falling and how time
morphs... perhaps throwing a stone
prior and then chasing it...
                 or at least pretending to chase
a laughter of the mountain
given the nibbled at nugget: guiding one's way!

because it can't like being with a woman
and debating the worth of vinyl
in the shop - how one might invest
in buying up vinyl -
i did buy a frank zappa vinyl and
there's no debate...

i think of death personified...
but unlike the personification
as a mere skeleton:
   i imagine that there's a mouth...
an anus... a stomach
and the intestines...

             of a god i find a heart at ache
and a mind with scabs...
and i can't help but acknowledge
the genius' agony of:
beside all that's perfect...
the rats and the brimming full
of imperfections...

               i wish for a thought
of luxury that's very much a death
of either a patriarch or a sowing
  shut of a glutton's passage..
                  accents of rhythm:
enough to allow a pass of bass mingling
with the drums: the drums have lost
their prized concern to be excavated...
and all feels like Sunday...

even the trees rest...
               there's no insomnia of work...
there's enough of the intricacies
that manage idiosyncracy
to manage a well conserved sigma purpose
of...
            how Σ = ◻
                    
                      these whimsical details
that are - but also leave
the contraband of gypsies unaffected...
splinter of the mind: a caution
when a word is used
contrary to the shackles of
revisionist psychopaths...
         since that's the right definition:
and psychopaths are prized
Nero bulls should the "other" N with
bigger... come giggling...
laughing because the route of
the river was... the drying of the tongue...
not because of point: ever being
made...
but because... there's the bite of the bait
of the tongue made into sacrifice...
and oh... my sanctity of the mind...
isn't...

toward a sea of drowning...
  toward a sea of night...
          toward a gorgon moon...
and the antithesis
of jumping from a height:
  that a drowning might be concentrated
upon...
             a question: regarding
a buoyancy of bones...

              the taste of warm whiskey
is always a bite...
                   i once hoped to have made myself
in an acclaim of expressing love...
i was... apparently... the great don juan
loiterer...
              the penny count st. matthew
drifter...
                an arithmetic mad count lesson x:
because... algebra is how
a large number is condensed...

               i still love the taste of
the bitten off nails...
            it's unlike... well... it isn't...
because you can't exactly fixate your teeth
on an in-between with cartilage...
come bones...
and the hair is: a fly in a champagne flute...
but nails?
nails are like target practice...
when one has to come across...
playing the flute of
a chicken drumstick...
leaving the hollow wooden piece
and some... marrow...

          a testimony of a word collage
over a wording... that's also a limbo fretting
that's a bad grammar:
the bad taste of analogy...
the missing of teeth "metaphor":
that all metaphysics, can be,
a metaphor...
that... any language spoken
these days... that isn't greek...
with that lisp imitating iberian primo...
is like... a death sentence with
time: inconsequential...

               there's a pretty poem...
there's a pretty flower...
there's a spider, there's the concept
of architect...
                  and there's...
       the great gatsby: fly in a champagne
flute to have to... "spoil the party"...
there are the postmodernists...
and there's the: vague... tongue-chasing...
modernist-revisionism...
a post-tow-too... of the post- in light
of all 'ings myriad'ern!

     the heaving dust of words:
that by a democratic majority are...
unread...
like some... fiddling genghis khan jr.
this... loiter...
  this... john adams' ripe lingering
apple of frustration...
                     to have to imagine:
heaving for applause...
then: that there's / it's necessary
to heave any or rather: no applause...
than the deserving rite
is inhibited parlay of the pickled pear...
the shadows can somehow make grief...
that the sun can spawn planets and
subsequently moons...
          
                  it's oh so impossibly true!
the fickle drama of youth
and the paint-stroking of hormonal
rogue over-powering a blatancy
of blue teasing suffocating a "purpose"
of bishopric purple...
beside the already having
arrived at... cardinal creases...
otherwise hasidic black basic...
            
     my faint! my full moon!
             me jolsting the aspiring
marathon sprinter of a oyster's worth!
the leisure of barricading stones
that's grieving for some wisdom from
a solomon & mountain.
MatthewConrad
Written by MatthewConrad (bilingual-zoid)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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cchasecarver
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