[ from le mécrit ]
poetrys beyond the pale. and anyway it doesnt
exist, even if it ended up more familiar
than possible, these lines jacked up
and peeled ————— with cold cuts / all unequivocal
all like fractured before me, before my unli
kely (for the last time!) imagination stands
the invective of the parasites of the poetry clan
hands of high ceremony, herbivore sauces,
whatever, seems to say the one with whom i strolled
before breakfast from pleasure to pleasure of the flesh
from the pleasure of love to the pleasure of being.
how ———ous saturn is! and to think that i’m that odious
like thicket, like thorny, like pole star, like sump
with lines paunchy and scrawny by turns, in any case
sick. snacks for the corpse that writes that says
that it exists and that you gotta watch all this,
these happenings. haul the green verse of outrageous
regimes like you oughta into the current of verse below.
you and me both dont give a fuck about anything but horseplay.