Saturday, September 7, 2013

la política del fin

nihil et beauty ,shorn
,the ladder and’s fallen
hair ,a sweaty sh
adow que los pel
daños trepa ,trepi
dation ,the hairless
rungs ,where the thick
and blind ,failing
,thread the skinny
hole ,if’s there ,of
human’s stream ,was
forks and windows
,clattering the windy
wig of bedrooms
and toilets ,roof or
skull ,a stone ,f
alling toward the
yard ,where nothing
thinks in its end

...pareció querer hablar
como un estrangulado.
- José Lezma Lima

m ists

loco ,ation ,in the cal
yx abierto , las ab
ejas mot ores ,one
the p lace or thinks
the sky ,is one and log
os ,dim on the ot
her side ,pólen del
aire denso ,y por
los ojos respiro ,las
transitivas tijeras que
el precipicio diminuto
conllevan ,g low in
the brum a ,lugar
inverso ,nunca lo
mismo ,ni miasma

mot hs

thug mote ,or syntax
falling ,from the c
heck you s crawled
a gnat extended ,ex
tent of’s extant s
lavering’s the rect
angular screen ,f
olded and sweat ,in
the skin pocketed
shirt you defolded
from its sleep of
70 anular yawns
,and dropping the
pen ,where yr words
,mites ,grunt once
on the page


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