I imagine you chopping the heads off eel
catfish blossoming from the underside of fir
trees tangling with the pneumatic branches of the law
wasted pornographic observations instilled as the capital
of excess profanation. The political task of your right to
capitalism remains slipping through the shadow
 
of, the potential for the transformation of a polity
huddled like a worthless slave in the bed of speech.
Destitute poppies, my limbs are available
for prophylactic conveyance. These poor hands,
they quiver thus: trouble my protrusions and turn
my paint to flesh. In lieu of actual declension
 
The cyclical head wants lopping, the imagination bears
the loss with patience, declares all allegiance to a merciless
conclusion sweeter than the listing of the earth’s difference
from itself. I gave you a book and you wrote
in the back of the book:
 
Infiltrated by the idea of prose, barking like an owl
in the gaping insignia roseate and plastic like a flower
whose rebel yellow rooftop does belie
the tonsured alleyway that calls and calls,
you a hungry fish in the paranymph
squatting in the underlit paragon of the
vestibule. Cowering within the molecules
of discontent, you squander yourself,
 
 
as bleak as beauty. Hells of quivering delight
come upon me like a fever of illness the dream
of our sure demise, in lieu of your wedding day
and death, you signal to your erstwhile friends –
deliver me now from unbearable enjoyment for I have
defaulted on the body and slivered the slipstream
slipshod indifference of rapid firebrand torment
 
Afterwards, the ring of coin striking the footpath
was all that distinguished the nuptial meaning
of the body from one in which
 
all of my limbs were filled with the sighs of devils
And all of my eyes were scoured for the love of voices
In certitude I ravished a series of little miracles, basically
rays that I apprehended by means of my internal arms
and chest experienced as the ever loving tongue lashings
of thousands of immature nematocysts whose propulgations
fulminated in what I like to think of as formalized doses
of seabather’s eruption. What followed was the thin gruel
of the underside of the law in which confining the child’s body
came to mean doing justice to polymorphous mental disturbances.
 
Bringing up the bodies meant leaning heavily on the family vernacular,
tickling tepid swans fleeing from the still night swarms of eels wreathing
indecipherable symbols, tenderising the opened stomachs of cows gleaming
undercover sea bass flopping onto concrete mosaics of slo-mo turtles. Erupting.
Blue plastic tubs. The little bridge spans the brown tributary, trays of women
setting wrinkles of bright chillies in the cellular geometry. Of the letter, the cubicles
were filled with a misty stench. Mouths closing over libraries of flesh like molluscs
 
finding a rock. Pretending entrail windings of oozing bedsheets,
busy with the mock horror love affair of rioting dismemberment.
Your avatars, my pipe cleaner, are strangely moorish, striding through the rainbow
denizen, tripwiring the narcoleptic fuselage; your addiction to welding. What stake
do you bed in the semblance of Celtic excision?
 
Populate the body and explode it with liquid nitrogen.
 
Streak of neo-formalist, sensual as pylon. Dredge the retina of the cave
still blindly saturated, the history of love seized as a thread through the spine
of the Eastern King Prawn. Mother’s valuable abstract painting metamorphosed
into fading photograph of suburban rooftops. Woman lifting morsels from bloated
fecundity. Objections against this or that conception of the rejection of several further
outmoded deliverables embodied in the garments and preoccupations of certain quasi-
mythological personages. Ecstasy, prostration, and every ornamental semblance Encounter
each announcement as if from material apparitions, intent on believing long after you have
ceased. I gave you a book and you wrote in the back of the book:
 
All leaves are withered, all bark is peeled away
What starts with a tickle ends by bursting into flames