Sunday, February 18, 2018

la mierda de siempre
cadaver of endless time
- Ivan Argüelles

socks burning on the grave your
hot shat leg boiled off a
chained lake the shape you
drank stones stretched the heels
¿a present so small it don't exist
you “live in the past” but
past happened already it don't
exist future not happened yet
it don't exist you “live in the
future” has passed already
when are you when are you
writing this? la mierda inmortal
tod o mort-disant “so
squints a beak...of decimated
canine pulp”- I.A.
shoe's tongue
taste my blood
air fills yr clucking pants grease
filthy seconds” at the wheel
flies running in clouds” - I.A.
turning of your face's
turning : a shoe cancer dreams a
boat was the dream of
roots crawling in a coffee cup

flesh blanket
stones and wind


enraged the eye that corners
you embraced embrace the
shattered pole my iced
word shroud it was your
cumbrance gritty coldcut in
your sandwich thick with
socks' long walk across
a rutted cornfield was
your head ccrustedd wwith
aantsts and a rusty spoon

was your head crusted
with forks and a
creamy knife rewinds
your form of chewing
breakfast with an
ancient pill it was a
hand yanking at your
tongue what said what
said a dusty wind mum
bles in the edgeless weeds

moss and dice

defonetics swim my clut
tered face was “where”
my stunned fork mute is
stuck thinner in yr future
gone is was a nostril's
grinning light luggage
beast nestled on the stairs
was itchy was your spoken
shoe plunger through O
heaps of notes steep fool
risen to illumination in the
afterwind of your linguine bowl
itchy leg
explication's liver cut



Thursday, February 15, 2018

le visage armé

the dream of a carnival is the
dream of a brick sandwich in the
bread slick with mayo was a
brick once the dream of an
open window's now the dream
of a shoe the shoe's “celebrated
impact precursor...greatly naked”
)Jim Leftwich( before her endocliptic
sawitch and your sleeping cheese “the
brick's a book” ,nos sin aire ,and
your coughing ccoughing cccoughing a
)gun nodule pinched beneath your
hanging shirt( A FOUL FOOL WALKS
)“sty sensory sen-fire rites” - J.L.( wears
a hat dripping paint your hand your
sscrew - I swallowed the wall
it's brick you thinks she he says a
plummeting chair:
caw breeze
face of arms
A FACE OF ARMS race of wars
and worms burning gravel... rock
and what generates rock
vast and empty the final O Ivan Argüelles
the cream of arrival was the
stairs ,ascending from a boat
nos sin aire )eria nis son( my
dry sun-worm the page a burning leaf ma chaîr naitra la rose ensanglantée.
- José-María de Heredia