from 7 UNDERWOR(L)D 8: TRANSTEXTUAL
but talking it a transport
to the next fueling, a gas bag, so I forgive myself
since no god but the vernacular will make the effort.
it's the getting off the page
that disburses a world.
to sort through branching verbiage
as my tangle, a romance
breath-quickened. the revolutions have all been waged.
so much dead wood in the canon, it won't fire.
what's left but I want to express myself?
fitful romance, a measure of ocean.
the word measures. desire fucking rules.
dash of lautréamont
who died in love with transgression,
the story of I
though we may hide under covers
chewing a garbled slice or two.
a french commonplace that the pieces fit,
not unlike the cancer in my neck
that is not, say the machines, but let's face it
always there, a player nibbling the waiting game.
nothing text-ile stays woven.
no truly acid free paper.
whatever sins acquit in my name
come corrupted, taken back by time.
present tension of their distance from
whatever today inscribes me
but looking for company. the baudelaire woman comes close,
so I get inside her. hotel bonaparte. she a big blonde mane, a trace of girlshine
on her skin. a talker all right,
but I'm listening to myself, the tongue that pets her body.
in love with woman eyes.
the way she reads me.
and out again to rive gauche streets,
st. germain des près belling us
as we go free. galloping boulevard. stable cafés.
run a metaphor into the ground where it belongs,
what we come to.
"I like that you know where you stand," she says, "so I know
where I stand."
no idea what she's talking about.
tellus. the obscurantist.
she's right about one thing. I'm careful what I say --
I want to be felt.
no relation occluded, french talk euphonious,
latin smooth snagged by throat rumbles.
the lovemaking voice. on the boulevard st. michel
a voice pools desire, crêpe with strawberries, sweet
of red juices spilled, splashing a lip, thigh.
a voice re-acts. sounds above ground.
from one location to another.
tomorrow's bastille circus. many thronging.
only clowns think they can bury this,
that our time is romantic, on stage.
what, if anything, underneath?
the fossils, their hardcore animal aspirations
but it's all myth-knowlogy, carving up
the day's white light.
a serious artist will violate
those communal hardasses, blockheads --
if it doesn't make you go for your groin . . .
a little bottom feeding would do us good.
sure it's thrown back in our faces
masked by tattoos, the sloppy paint job of writing
yet something travels upward, an emotional jolt,
assembled in transit so re-cognized by us --
an idea, an idea with a trace, a trace
of what tears at coherence.
what is meant? what isn't meant?
gendarme spinning the intersection where traffic bedlams by.
how many precursors? how much have I swindled?
perhaps only vomito to offer,
instrumented as dis-course.
another fashionable notion. another dead end.
it's the nucleus I'm after, that principle(d) erection,
the wiring that savors her,
the network mindfucking her.
if she orgasms, I want the credit.
a migrant dream for sure.
from one country to another, pacing the public cage.
homeless unless privacy re-covered.
an inward backwardness,
a step by step retreat from
the flatland we have become.
begin with a n-ocean, the juice of water power.
build a city, a sectioned off,
circuit and circuit breaker,
no engine but a charge that gathers, disperses.
when that's done
bomb that shit to pieces.
because we need to get it back,
the storming into and out of . . .
a messy kill sounds good to me.
sacré coeur erotica,
the torn skin
of a god.
thorns in the brainpan
stroll by the seine. blue lights from a tug
spin the water
and it's so long to the baudelaire woman.
who loves you, baby?
who else but the soul man,
the word man
trying to make some sense of it, as if
I could talk my way out of this, as if
it were my idea.
a murder committed to me.
I experimented. tried it on. imagined a stitch
a crossdresser, a clothe-s-pin,
trunk of the godtree,
by eiffel's tip.
I bent backward