Clean Again

crosswise pornographies bundled in a brick window. moribund whirlwinds acting on instinct. the medicine of a vengeful heaven. vicious morpheus fathers an ideology of romantics. a para poetics of the damned collapses again into a sonorous logic organized around my skin. my pussy. i weep the voices of cotorted animals. caged in brass. the medicine cabinet that holds me here.

einstein says that gravity cannot swim into a brick mirror and the greatest syndrome is suicide and sympathy. shrodinger's cat is dropping acid behind my epiphany and too many delightful nights alone broke a fifty year smoker from the fever of his own ego. rutherford's atom is shaped like his nutsack and bohr has forced reality to urinate appropriations. like the one we made when we were young. phenomenal young poets sleeping in our dreams. smoking our poetry out of dignities of lamented lovers we'd known and discarded like sins. accumulated in comfort under a warm sun. how many myths from your pollution to mine? douglas says that separation is purity and hegel will purge this prayer in a new pollution. a linguistic feedback loop like concrete witchcraft and the empathy of parody.

pray again. derrida says there is no difference between tombs and words. normative terrorirsts are poets without language. carrying rain to the spiral architect and a heaven of virgins is a memory of genesis. animalistic black magic apples. poisoned by a rejection of wine. kayyam would be displeased. he said that ascetics gangbang the future in a torrent of screams. he couldn't have known of freud, who wished to fuck his own mother in a normative introjection of one man's malady. the name is a tomb blasted in a prison of solid rock and a blanket of pallid rhetoric.

it is this that poets sell their souls for. fantasies of an alchemy from a half remembered history. mysteries of the dismembered and several thousand deaths later we are born anew in a napalm of porous rock. forgeries of crosswise prisms and heroes stung under a covering sun. like the memory of a concrete genesis that was no garden at all but a category of qualities covering a starless sky. how many tears from your rhetoric to mine? plath says that we are all just objects blasted around a broken mirror. foam intercepts the sun and defines business for a suicide blonde who absorbs predictions and restrictions in a dysphasia of pallid names. my moon seeps around your truth. merging with mirrored sources. i will never be clean. again.