It's 4:52 in the morning
I think I'm loosing sleep over you
lil leporine psychostimulant
🐰
Oct 13, 2023
Houston TX
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Minutia
Someday when I die
Someone might wonder what to do with my stuff
What to do with my music
I say throw them away
Shred them, destroy them
Put them to torch
Burn them to ashes
Cuz music ain’t important
Music don’t matter
Nothing really matters
At least not the way we think they do
ps. this has been seconded by many creative artists, at least Nabokov, Kafka, and Fauré.
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Piglet scourging a pair of
Murine bonbons
How puritanical
Her viverrine surreptitiousness
Vulturine superciliousness
And vulpine dexterity
Crepitation under seleniously
Suffonsifying peregrination
State of being an impecunious
Ancilla, tethered, inter alia
To Venus Anadyomene
Withal thalassophobe
In this lithesome mew, alongside
Unexceptionablely ebullient turpitude
Propitiously abreast manna, next to torpitude
Against oleaginous hagiography
Half eupeptic, and
The rest, bona fide, saturnine
“Enough of this undue bromide!”
Ferine turns into feline
Sometimes lackadaisically indomitable marsupial
Overlooked by parapet of enkied shokunin
Amidst a pile of slipshod tipsy-turvy yonder
‘Tis wonted yet unwanted vagary
Toward a venal plaintiff, still untoward
Protean, neophyte venial, vitiated votary
Arrogating kismet, fatuously dithering
Becloacked in starchy sloth
Simultaneously epicurean and edacious
Waffling, crestfallen, wheedling, wry
Suppositionally slaphappy
Inveighing espouser, agog, of
Harrowing dolor, who avers
Gushing avouchments, agape
For perspicuously giddy, and
Balefully bedeviled pyx
Until tears portent to pullulate
By dint of captious prevarication
Vociferous, veracious, voracious, vicarious
Or zesty, punctilious turgescence
Monopsonic tumescence
Anent rakishly raffish
Ravishing apostasy, swish
Limning lumbricine vainglory
“Testudines can be such recreant quislings!”
After corvid-embalmed, shrike-imbued
Nettled Thespian imbroglio
Unflappable, undemure, uppishly unkempt
Night skulks away, when the antemeridian
Crawls facetiously afoot, fastidiously ensconses
Herself first factitiously enfeebled, then bombastic
bellowing and bumptious, right
Before pines away profligate bellwether
"Carte blanche on patte blanche?”
Athwart consternatingly motley
Jacklegged, remorseful Inination
Winnowing winsome welter
of warpped balloonacy
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On the west bank of 🌊 Liffey
I 👂 Dorothy Ashby, rambunctious
The hoary-haired 👴
Or is he 🐁 or 🦢 I can’t remember
Must be Ma Yan’s thought 👋 before her suicide 👋
Suicide was 🧠 Cioran’s ineluctable fate
Sleet of thin ice 🔔 sounds strangely like
Berg’s introduction ☕️ of vibraphone
Into 👨🎤 opera
Who is to 💬 the shocking difference
Between a rook, a 🖤 crow, and
The encroached weather🐓
That starts 🍎 to assume the ◻️🔲
Of an oversized 🦜 raven
🎵 en creux, syncresis 🎬
Chion’s 🪁 requiem
🇨🇻 Barlavento to leeward, septentrional
Did 🍍 Sun Ra know Ishmael Reed
Was something 🔨 I thought of
Browsing though 📚 and 📖 in the Red Room
Asking the owner fretfully 🫂
About the 🇫🇷 recitation playing
Seems like 🎴’ve been playing
With a prehensile circumlocution of 🃏
Since most 📵 are ❌ of the future
Preference lies in the well-pruned 🌹bush on trellis
Not some chartreuse, crooked cereus of prehistoric 🌵, defaming
A 🏜️, a dilatory
Arizonian aven 🦠
💰 had us believe that people, like 🦔
Are greedy, but most, like 🪲 and flippant naiad
Arty coquetry just 🛠 a song, a book, or
Some instruments 🎺 and 🪗
To ⚖️🪙,
And maybe 🥒🥬🫐🥑
Also 🧊🧋🍪🥫, not 🕸🪰
🔱 Warp and weft on a Kurdish twill
Hot quenelle in a 🛖, watching some 🎞
Crank up 💽, 📸 blunderbuss shots, Punjabi fracas, Lithuanian border
On the east bank of Ganges 🪨🌔☔️☔️☔️
Brawling 🐨🦇, with bayadeers prancing and watching
Hissing asps and 🔆 stupefied
In 🍉 complementary, kissing alembics
Nov 24, 2021, Baltimore
Night before Thanksgiving
Getting ready, mainly psychologically
For the upcoming trip to DC
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Green
Green is now officially my most hated color
Just look at the two hideous stripes!
On the screen, dividing, forcing me back
To the past, to set up everything on an old phone
Nothing more anachronistic, really
Thank going form the present iOS
To three or four versions back
When I opened my messenger
I saw a snapshot of dialogues
Of course, but they are not my current dialogues
They were from the past, they belonged to another
Another time and place, another me
I felt so estranged from that grumpy
Emotional, constantly disgruntled
Moping, sulking, and difficult person
Who was still using Snapchat on a daily basis
For the longest time I reflect upon the past
I did not think it was possible that I was so cruel
So mean and so unfair, to many of you
It all felt so distant, so distant that not only the past
But also my contortively contrite reflection of that past
Has begun to seem distant and fuzzy
It is like revisiting another me
Looking over yet another me, a me even more anterior
Even though it was only three or four years back
I saw those faces, those faces once I mingled with
Shared laugh with, held secret grudge against
Umbrageous, youthfully so
I bottled up dissatisfaction and pressed on
Letting an anger popping out
As passive-aggression and occasional violence
Upon you, you who didn't deserve much
I know revisit again the realization of why you left me
It must have been a different time
Cuz it absolutely amazes me, how much has change
How much time has elapsed left and right
From that episode straddling burgeoning high school
And an even more rebellious and confrontational college
I remember how I lost my voice completely
In the most discussion-heavy seminar
I felt insecure, still do, but no longer pathologically so
I felt awkward to be sitting in the same room with you
Listening to your quirky accent critiquing Marx and Foucault
It was the worst participation grade I would ever receive
But hey, don’t you worry, I’m over that now
Now I can, not without hesitation, granted, speak in a class
It’s amazing how timidity could very slowly flag away
I realize how people are capable of changing
They don’t change just the minute you tell them to
But they do change over time, step by step
A little by a little, petit-à-petit
I wasn’t sure that was possible, and I wanted everything to be perfect
Now I’m happy, I came out the other end
Knowing that nothing can ever be perfect
I accept the obligatory gradualness of all things that exist
After all, a little bit more patience is the paper-thin divide
Between the present me, and the me two versions back
Who couldn't yet quite tell Scriabin form Spinoza
I accept that life isn’t a Winslow Homer painting
In the end, let me say that:
Insecurity is a nasty bitch, but I also learned
Over the years, I learned to negotiate slowly with her
And now, she has mellowed down quite a bit
Either that or I must have become an equally nastier enemy
But every fourth prelude and fugue is a nasty one
The screaming melodramas are most certainly nasty
You see, Bach knows, the sagacious numerologist knows
To be nasty is necessary if one aspires to beauty
Even though one of them died fearing 13,
The other from a massive stroke, a botched surgery
An 18th century surgery, unsterilized metal cut open your eyes
Artistic confidence is something worth swooning over
Or really, any form of confidence for that matter
Has a cloying, syrupy taste that lingers
Like Juliette’s chocolate foam, her Yule Log maybe
Or when an opalescent Pysanky clashes into Cousin Matryoshka
You end up with a floor of coruscating fragments
In vain and in a tizzy, I’ll glue them back together
By marrying the Russian with Ukraine
Through Isaiah’s mirthful Siciliano
For the virgin plants her indehiscent seed
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It only takes one search on YouTube for you to understand
That this time, our time, is the time to be an artist
I have told myself this many times
As I read Whitman, or was it Messiaen’s technique musical ?
So many different people, so many different names
Each presenting something different
With a uniquely thumping heart to offer
Some say it’s sad that there’s no longer global idols no more
I say the opposite: so what if there’s a plethora of us?
So what if nobody hogs the entirety of everybody’s full attention?
It does not matter, only for the better
Because without diversity we have nothing, we are nothing
It is only through the cross-contamination of pieces of minds
From all over this life-supporting planet
That true germination could occur
This planet, yes, this earth, our terra firma
Is something I wish for the swindling Rocket Man to comprehend
There’s nothing wrong about dreaming big
Dream bigger, I’d say, bigger than ever
That does not mean we should be delusional
Floating like rootless aquatic plants
Clogging and damaging to our hearts content
And then just throw everything away
Or toss it, as they say, like a down-trodden, filthy doormat
Maybe after we’ve all heard Nietzsche and understood the great man
Maybe after most of us have answered to his equalizing vision
Maybe then, it would be the time for humanity to shed
Shed all of her past like a tick-infested evening gown
For then, we won't need flesh nor blood, skull nor bone
Marrow and neurons would be obsolete too
And with every physiological gadget out of the question
Only then should we really step out of what birthed us
That which subsisted and tolerated us
Because trust me, I don’t think we are gods just yet
It is truly the time to be an artist
Not just because you were just listening to Nirvana
And the next minute YouTube takes you to a Sundanese village in West Java
Followed by an impromptu visit of Yoshiko Sai from the 70′s Japan
Maybe also some Scelsi, Sciarrino, and some tunes by Fela Kuti
And don’t you forget the great and glorious Lana Del Rey
Not just because, it is always the time to be an artist
But also because, now I realized that I’ve said “because” too much
But here’s one more: because never has there ever been such a great need
Such a great need for compassionate and passionate thinkers
Thinkers who think critically about the world, but at the same time
Thinkers who are kind and gentle, for art leaves little room for Evil
In our increasingly insane and maddening time
We desperately need the peace of mind to grapple with chaos
Before we loose the last crumb of humanity
And thus descend into an everlasting darkness of collective cruelty
The cruelty that has cordially intruded us handsomely
And is ready to make his brand new attack on our collapsing rampart
Armed with greed wearing an assortment of masks
Masks bearing the names of capitalism, racial bigotry, cultural hegemony
Most ugly among them the cult of nationalist indignity
Fostered and fueled by centralized political powers
Which is really the religion of our time
Hello again, medieval Catholic Church
This is why I say: it is the right time to be an artist
Since to be an artist means the ability to think, to appreciate, to empathize
But an artist also knows how to refuse, and what to refuse
The artist refuses bad art, for starters
The artist refuses coercion, as he/she refuses to bow down before coercion
The artist refuses to lower him-/herself to the level a lay-person
The artist refuses to entertain for the sake of entertainment
For if he/she does that, nothing will ever progress
Even though these days slugs crawl faster than the way things progress
The artist refuses lassitude, platitude and cruelty
So to end on a slightly more positive note
As I started the poem, or the rambling really
Really just with the innocent idea of exclaiming
How great it is to be an artist in this era of information technology
Per Schoenberg’s opinion, no one with a brain should be shy to use it
And our time is the time to be an artist
Therefore, be an artist who, first of all, possesses a functional brain
And secondly, be an artist who is not too lazy or scared to think
To use his/her perfectly functional brain
Because they who do art need to know art first
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Each moving is a pupation
Every moving feels like a pupation
We shed what we possessed, at least
For a significant amount of time
In exchange for something new, at
A largely foreign place
Doesn’t this just remind you of
An owl moth adult emerging
From its brownish, crispy shell
Bidding farewell to the crust that
Had once wrapped and swaddled
Waving goodbye to legged peristalsis
Is it all worth it, for the airborne, yet
Gossamer-entangled muliebrity?
After all, shrouding is the ultimate form of protection
Baltimore, Aug 10, 2021
During God’s most intense bowling
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7 days of walking
Against the glaucous backdrop of a smudge
On the sky, hangs the hemorrhagic sun, much akin
To the perfect mélange of sepia and strawberry
Flaming heart of a bleeding Yamato
No amount of turyia, humming sweet epithalamia
Over the 70s’ sky in central Michigan
(But was it Berg’s Lulu that both bugs and
Captivates?) none could, like four years of my life folded
Up and tucked away, as secure as UPS or Fedex will
Allow, smooth out the tingling pain that you have
Once more, chanced upon yet another
Does the squeakiest wheel really get the oil?
Does the bébé who quacks the loudest always gets his milk?
The lanky little mantis dude, meticulously approaching
With the agile lentor acquired from a recently deceased
Male black widow (devoured by his lawfully-wedded,
They say), a verdant meuf, sitting on her fat hypogastrium
Nourished by speedily dissolved cicada carcasses
Can’t you see that beak and tympanic muscle
Through the translucent sheath?
To think
About it, killing is really the minute difference between
An anapestic spoonerism, and a dactylic metathesis
Bluets, Murphy, Isis and Osiris, Knoxville summer of 1915
Ghosts from another time, another Geist (limerick, see)
A lake gull gutting an innocent fish, a black-and-white
Filter on Instagram, masking the true coloris of
Vienna and Paris indigo red, despondent Varsovie
“Casually pressing on a yellowish emoji, 🐰,
With a perfunctory air that’s unique to her
Angelique manner and frame, graciously, but to 🐷 rather
Cruelly, even fatally one might say (one Romantic,
No doubt) bestows what would have been her own
Lachrymose performance upon one little humanoid
Visage (painted orange for what’s really chamois, for
Sure), crying it’s uncanny, mawkish, crocodilian tears.”
7 days prior to the departure from Chicago
(and
I walked a lot, as I usually do)
Hence the title, also hommage to Mr. Einaudi
July 22, 2021, Chicago, CHP 702
Overlooking the darkness imbued HP
Through the giant glasses that I’ll surely miss
At the corner of my living room
As much as you can feel comfortable
Adding possessive in front of what’s really rental
🤔
Calling something “yours”
Doest it really make it yours?
Or does it really belong to a corporate that runs on billions of renter dollars?
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Serons-nous oubliés ? (La peur de l’oubli)
Tu as, de temps en temps, de l’abîme
Le plus profond du coeur, où d’escarbilles
Se trônent, se meuvent, comme une faucille
Qui fait couler la jonque, et vainc le cime,
Peut-être, la peur foudroyante, de cipayes acquiesçants
Auprès du bâtiment accablant on encore appelle
L’humanité, une grosse paonne poudreuse a bout portant
Accroupissant au-dessus d’une vide poubelle.
Souvent je somnambule aux ténèbres de Bibliothèque
Dans lesquelles on trouve, derrière la forêt d’étagères
Monstrueusement immense qui bruit et siffle d’échecs,
Innombrables écritures ! par montagnes d’âmes passagères
Dont les noms s’effaçaient, malgré autrefois blondoient,
Et aujourd’hui silencieux, enterrés muets, quand larmoient.
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Il ragno sopra la porta
C’è un ragno
Sopra la mia porta
Non so perché è qua
Non so di dov’è
Non so perché esiste
Il mi ricorda la scultura
Bourgeois di Bourgeois
Il ragno la madre
Il ragno l’amore
Il ragno la famiglia, le famiglie
Ho accesso la condizionatore
Ho ascoltato il rumore
Il ragno rimane, immobile
Il ragno trema, grave
Il ragno vuol solo costruire
Non so cosa successo
Col suo filo, così tanto sottile
Forse non sa fare rete
Forse non c’è talento
Forse è esausto
Tutti soffrono, tutti
Il ragno compreso
Può addormentarsi contento
Può essere combattuto della scelta
Può combattere l’insomnia
Il ragno aspetta
Cos’è la vita se non aspetta
Non so perché rimanere
Né perché attendere
Né perché vivere
Assalimi, Dea di sonno
Porta anche il ragno
Che aspetta sopra la porta
Aspetta senza giunchiglia
Aspetta senza niente
Non sapevo di dov’è
Ma ora lo so chiaramente
Il ragno della dolcezza naturale
Il ragno inesprimibile
Striscia fino al cuore
10:32 pm, Jun 3, 2021
Chicago, after seeing a skinny, long-legged motionless spider perched above my door, also before the last day of the last final week in college
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Perché hai scelto l’altro uomo?
Perché questa urgenza, di fretta?
Sei così bella, così angelica
Che ogni ne vorrebbe un pezzo
Cosa fai stamattina?
Cosa stai facendo ora, stasera?
Non sapevo che cosa abbia fatto
Per aggiungere qualche romanze alla vita
Quele gelateria tu preferisce?
Quele yogurteria è meglio?
Non ricordo quante volte ho detto
Che non hai bisogno mai di perdere nessuno
Quando sei venuta alla mia città?
Non mi hai visto, per due volte?
Mi sentivo triste, onestamente
Vedendo tu coccoli un amante strano
Dimmi, conosce Amarilli, mia bella?
Puoi ridammi il soprano in nero?
Penso che sia sempre lì, la fattura che intrappola
Sempre vicina al mio cuore
Perché credi in dio?
Perché ti rallegri tra le braccia di un altro?
Uguale, come un ragno ferito
Io rallegro della tua vera gioia
Chi sei tu, per favore?
Scusami, ma perché possiedi, infatti trasudi l’incantesimo?
La tua magia è divinamente travolgente
Mi riempie i polmoni di luce fatale, che sortilegio!
Non scegliere l'altro uomo, ti scongiuro!
La condivisione non è facile
Soprattutto ormai il soggetto è una coniglietta così perfetta
Soprattutto ormai io ti vagheggio a lungo
Scegli l’altro uomo, l’uno dopo l’altro
Ma ricorda, la mia principessa, la mia dea
Io resto qui, non mi muoverò né uscirò
Perché io ti proteggo
Ti proteggo dal mondo vizioso
Come proteggevo il tuo imene verginale
Ti proteggerà sempre, il tuo cavaliere casto
Quindi forse, si potrebbe dire
Che magari, ti amo
Almeno in sogno
Almeno ti guarderò, vero?
Almeno potrei addormentarti tranquillamente da lontano
Senza voce, mormoro in preghiera
A andatura ingombrante muoio, in modo di Gesualdo
Soddisfatto
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I will bury you by Lake Michigan
I bury you by Lake Michigan
A place you’ve never been
And never will
Your life’s so short, damn
Microscopic short
Barely a year, I swear
Why did you have to die?
Is it because I didn’t see you
For three days, possibly more
Why did you have to die?
And the other run away?
I haven’t been the best care-giver
I’ll give you that
But you have been the perfect
Docile, tranquil and calm
Almost never bite
Except when on the very last night
But I bet your brain has died
Frozen reflux, I can’t lie
I guess a better question would be:
Why wouldn’t I cry?
I know I’m sad, but
There’s just no way to cry
I no longer feel the tears flowing
It has been a while
I can’t even remember that last time I cried
Boy do I envy that moonlit clown
I bet he had a lot to cry
He cried and laughed indeed cuz he lived
Even just as a hollow silhouette
If there is a god, and the god could hear my prayer
Please let this little soul, chaperoned by Charon
Pass the nacreous water safely
For she has done nothing wrong
All her suffering, caused by me only
And if you still have some attentions left
If you are every so patient and forgiving as her
Please also bestow upon me
The ability to cry, the long lost one
Since writing this pseudo-sensationalizing poem won’t do the trick
Return to me, the precious gift to mammals
I remember, weirdly, my dad telling me
Cows cry before the get slaughtered
I remember this rare moment
Where he showed a shred of compassion
It was a weird twinge, I tell you
Good thing you never have to meet him
But still, please turn me into a cow, if necessary
Just so that my eyes
Be washed by tears again
The vitreous and nacreous will be one
May my irises melt slowly
Into the depth of Acheron
Under the gaze of stony Charon
“Mange les yeux, ô sillage!
Mange-les, et crache!”
Don't worry, gravel
I will bury you by Lake Michigan
It’s so big and beautiful
I might be buried here too in no time
I will come for you, promise
Either way, I hope
You would finally be warm
And free
So that you can grow big and strong
The way you didn’t get to in this life
I will burry you
By Lake Michigan
Don’t worry, gravel
You will be safe
I can’t say how sorry I am
I can only bury you
By Lake Michigan
Would you borrow me some water
Oh one of the Great Lakes!
Would you have mercy on my soul
Even though it has greatly wronged another
I am burying you by Lake Michigan
So that you will be interned by Lake Michigan
No need to be afraid, gravel
The lake will lend me some water
Since she has so much
And I will weep eventually
Using lake water as tear
And my memory as fuel
I bury you by Lake Michigan
A place you’ve never been
And now you’ll never leave
Cuz you are now a part of her
Just like you will always
Be a part of me
Look, you see that?
The water ripples chatoyant
Dappled with rainbow, like grandpa’s hydrangeas
I will, I must cry
For I bury you
By Lake Michigan
Did I tell you about the petunia
Grandpa and I planted together
In half a coconut shell
It grew so long and plush
Like a honeysuckle
You will see what I mean
Cuz you live now in a world full of petunia
Surrounded by fragrance
Showered with love
By Lake Michigan
I buried you by Lake Michigan
As I walk away, twisted and churned
Please say hi to the little Boulanger sister
For you are to my heart
Her eternal spring, lilting piano
L’homme vieillit et meurt
Toi, tu ne vieillit pas!
L’homme vieillit et meurt
Toi, tu ne vieillit pas!
April 28, 2021
Chicago
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Have you had the wonderful feeling
Of looking up a word
But finding something you already know of
Yet not of its pedantic scientific name
Just like the industrially sweetened cherries
Something my dad used to hate
So red, gleaming, quite toxic, he’d say
Turns out Maraschino would be their name
What would Schoenberg say
When he tastes the preserved fruit, I wander
That crazy dude, a smudge of crescent
Or is it Giraud’s moon, a scimitar
Encased in dodecaphonist seraglios
The ecstasy, of knowing a name
1:46 am, April 21, 2021
Chicago, reading Lolita, after a moderate amount of Pierrot Lunaire
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🥚
What does it take for the psychopomp to understand
That a boa imperator is perfectly capable of playing music
All it takes is a conveniently placed smartphone
With a keyboard app, of course
And from the snake side: any unintentional stroke of tail, really
Will do the trick
And there, there you have it
There you have a glissando
There you have chromaticism
There you have the charm of animalistic instinct
There’s charm of chance
The beauty of dinosaur
March 30, 2021 (getting into Peabody + writing towards the end of composition seminar by Tom Blancarte)
Chicago, IL
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harken to snow (poorly refigured to fit the extremely frustrating format of Tumblr)
i.
I
the snow
pasty as
lynx belly
tabula rasa
lanyard, on which
�� crucifixion hangs
rood, figurine
nictitate
pointillistic
moments musicaux
schubertine gnome
encased, tranquil agate
ii.
YOU
never awake
milktea
from chinatown
warms, atones
my core, a core
calling
or is it, webernian symphony
wailing
snoring cardinal
thereupon
a multiverse of dazzling twigs
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At what point does creativity stop and banal platitude start?
Is a question many struggle to understand, including me
Sometimes I see those cliché sentences:
“My heart, your love, oh he wants it bad
You make my heart and dream better, oh darling
How I am swarming with your softening sensuality”
I feel awkward, numb and disgusted, even
For it is not poetry, but merely cheap appropriations
Of things overused, then regurgitated
Much like munching on half-digested, acidic chyme
Spat out, fresh, phlegmy, oozing down a urinal and maggot-infested spittoon
Next to the most filthy and unattended pile of excrement
In the most filthy and unattended loo
I think it’s time to ask: what's the fucking point of repetition
When things have already been repeated five billions times
And most likely one more zillion???
What’s the fucking point of 6′55″
Other than utter stupidity through and through
Since 4′33″ has already been so elegantly proffered???
“The bottom is whenever you stop digging,” says Marjorie
But what if the blackhole has no limit, or doesn’t want a limit?
So next time before you so jocundly “come up”
With one phrase or two so “original” and “shining”
Do think twice, I implore you
Before gallantly presenting such a pallid, prosaic humdrum
Which could only be harmful, deadly really, to creation
As opposed to the religious glorification and aesthetic orgy
You and your many ignorant cohorts are so shamelessly after
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Gluckschmerz
The sky is blue - maybe - as sea
The tulip - lilac - could be
The forsaken, deadly body - mead
Grotesque incandescency
Mind if you don’t, scared if I cave
Not in here, no treachery
By - voyeur, watching - barricade
A fruit - round but juicy
Mysterious - mystique - grow, wrench
See to it done - buried, not
Light bulb, ha, is a samovar
The silence - floating bot
Tinkering laughter, suggestive call
Roaring thunder, nay stolen
Ain’t a easy task, my giant wall
To guard peace - to sigh - broken
L’amour - cordial - is blue as night
The lilac - tulip - can’t see
Be that cherished - gastronomy, séance
Cool - Bombus affinis
Feb 4, 2020
Chicago
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