it’s a dramatic age. caricature mindfully mindless hunts its own shade
somatic fates are deeply unintelligible, or hysteria at best.
desire lurks phlegmatically, emotion is reason, and a beautiful creation
creates schematic originals, smothers mother dusks. the only sense
of drapery lies in what it hides. squaring the
circle swears brotherhood to wars in a reversal of fortune, the masonry is sacred
hell heaven on earth, paranoia just bravura,
of sorrows like fortune to the misfortunate. well, this is what the esoteric is for,
a nightmare charm of romance in the Romanesque, play and folly
chips of love while goggling blind men rules the world, the artillery
arrives late at the field of battle. quailing and adventuring
a truly strange compilation, the last word in cheap human fraudery
an ode, in reality, weakens weakness, hymns of humanity become hits, culture
is worth as much as filth under fingernails, if a bawdy story
is the fashion power is honeyed or icing on a tart-retort.
dough like plastic explosive threatens threat from the gallery.
shrapnel of an atomic bomb is a slip-up in sense. a print
of the art of dying well, life’s skilful burring, the material wins always, celery
snaps, people decay away, all in all – natura naturata.
death spins, twists like a leaf in the wind, a natural disorganised perfectionism.
far from reason, the age ripened for state spy-rings to
secure it for some briefer eternity. the fall of Fourierism,
grand finale, fate’s finger, the wheel of misfortune, never mind - dictatorship.
it presses close as water, bursts into flame, exemplary and objectionable, it’s all causerie.
nothing’s unsure – that’s as sure as taxes.
in calm delight, in probable disbelief
the world drowns like lead: from the heavens dead ghosts like hail
(of tinctures satisfyingly gratified) dissolve in walk-on roles.
after defeat victory incarnates: there are no prescriptions,
of course. the impoverished bourgeoisie prepare to become the scourge of God
and dysentery to forestall its defeat, for quixoticism
to re-reform the law in form of linctuses in uniform.
peace is hell for generals with no army, Rome a sinecure,
it is honourable to kill, heroically destroy, wisdom is infantility.
the universe finishes in infinity. from these vista
it’s clear you‘ve got to be fucked to be undefiled. that buffoonery
is the advent of faith, the harmony of Christ in the Antichrist, contour
in the thing. to settle those relations brings you joy of misfortune (the gasworks
like an ascension) as though return to fear delights you, return of tortures,
ancient schisms become those welcome guests, a new choir of customers.
the devil will know what of all this is true, important that the haberdashers
teems with luxury articles, and post-modern adventuring
sometimes with mettle (then anything might be menagerie),
worms that on arrival are nothing but procedure.
it’s a dramatic age, there’s no time for anything; a jeweller’s
of taste, play and folly, their victory incarnates, censorship
lurks phlegmatically like wild beasts, at the end faerie
plays the card of reality and defeat while between caesura languishes.
it’s a dramatic age, every structure is unstable,
inertia is faster than the wind, the huge a miniature.
dramatic as on the verge of a breakthrough, like cosmic acupuncture
wars are waged phlegmatic, inventory meant for the dead.
it’s a dramatic age phlegmatic as textures
god’s pamphlet schematic brings those myth-time disclosures.
