Is it a trick? The soundtrack is out of sync.

 

 

In the spike of “speak,” a spook. 

 

             All plural of I is Is, pleurer.

 

All plait of plaint is paint, a parent. 

   

             In the spirit of spit: the unsupported past. 

 

 

As answer swerves & revs. 

           

            Met meat, meant mental for a furor— 

 

            A duel aloud in silence.

 

Before the assembled bled, I bled in fable. 

 

 

  

 

 

Unmake arrival, reversal. The risen smokes of a small universe. 

               

             That rival Mind will be winter, will be riven.

 

 

Rhyme of ice at the rim of time—laying 

 

              Earth atop earth—utopian birth—the play of plus minus us. 

 

Any second must come before the first, for first is thirst: 

 

              la mer miroir, a pool loop. Here, hearer, no hero, no god is guide.250 

 

 

 

   

 

 

             To marrow, tomorrow. 

 

             To the numen of the new moon, O sole solar soul.

 

 

Élan, gauge language, thou able bubble, thou free & fragile jail!

 

    But down & downer cannot be explained—

 

Nor the speed of the deeps, nor the Milk-splat of embodiment. 

 

 

The site of I, a vertical gash.

 

Go ash. Begone, gown of flesh—

 

 

 

    fled heart, red vegetable that winter leaves beliefless.

 

Will, at the trillionth hour, serves a bell-like power—

 

    a truth table bare of all repast.

 

 

  

 

 

No surer treasure than the trap of my ape-shadow. 

 

             Starting from the homonym of home—

 

My nature a frame in fracture. 

 

             Shall I then pose X, expose my star tissue?

 

Empirical to touch, the cost of empire—

 

What sound so wound, so round, so ruined?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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