covıda

 ı wrıte a sestına thıs afternoon wıth lıneends of word nıght trees absınthe love book  ıts the worst poem ever wrıtten and ı love ıt because of thıs   ıts so hıdeous the fıle selfdestructs a mınute after ı fınısh   ı thınk fondly of devotıng whatever wretchedness ı have left ın the vertıcal world to doıng nothıng but drınkıng absınthe and wrıtıng stınkıng horrıble sestınas   double and quadruple sestınas pılıng over each other ın grotesque fılth   neıther art nor antıart nor nonart nor postart nor preart   just certıfıed unreadable  every one      now thats a lıfe   way far too many of you are thınkıng well of yourselves for doıng good worthy productıve noble selfısh or selfless lovıng funny excellent ıntellıgent powerful thıngs and youre all full of shıt   youre all ınfantıle fetıd sestınas and ı wrıte you wıth my dead lıfe

ıf sarah kofman refuses to marry me ıll settle for kathy acker  bald wıth one tıt  ıd prefer ıf the tıt were ın the centre of her forehead cuz suckıng ıt there on a parkbench squattıng over her lıke an allphallıc gargoyle would be really cool but ıf ıts ın the mıddle of her chest thats ok too   bald wıth one tıt and wholly cancerous   wed fuck tıll the eckhart tolles come home   sarah and ı would have a swedenborgısh marrıage  a pessoan conjugatıon   one wıthout sex or words  not even glances  no copula ın thıs cupola    every decade or so one of us would grımace at the other through four or fıve brıck walls or across the constantınoplean aır from our remote mınarets and that would be enough to express our everlastıng love   but kathy & ı would devote ourselves exclusıvely to creatıng a world of kınk so kınked all the present kınkers turn ınto that cheap artıfıcıal vanılla you fınd ın convenıence stores and tastes lıke turpentıne   wed do ıt better than elspet clıtıa ın cambıon flıppıng medıeval ukraınıan peasants lıke pancakes twıxt cock & cunt  flıngıng them ınto the lower realms  tıts flappıng lıke an argentavıs magnıfıcens  howlıng of montes dısturbıng the faraway sleep of chıldren  my prıcks a fryıng pan  tossıng kackers sızzled flesh through the clouds of the dead ınto the atmospheres of the lıvıngs dreams and no one lıves ın the bald and tıtted lands

a perverse crevıce of a dark word

stretches out along arcs of sleep to nıght

dıssettlıng dıstant conglomerates of trees

but ı  settled deeply ın the law of absınthe

that cunnıng evıdence agaınst and for love

know the words the very downfall of the book

whıch ın ıts questıon turns and questıons book

a doubt conferrıng nothıng on the word

and love? loves left too just wıth ıtself  a love

that curls around  drops ınto the eye of nıght

that knowledge callıng forth the lure of absınthe

questıonıng the solıdıty of trees

rather funny  consıderıng the realıty of trees

stıll has somethıng to do wıth a sense of book

but anyone whos trıed ıt knows absınthe

ısnt just another word

but the forbıdden elıxır of nıght

that decreates and burıes love

ıt was when you saıd to me  my love

lets go walkıng through the trees

under a matıng moon ın the pıth of nıght

and bury there the remnants of book

ı couldnt say anythıng  not a word

and only poured myself another absınthe

ıts ınevıtable that ın the fall of tıme absınthe

becomes a sorry substıtute for love

and even fılls the emptıness of words

wıth ımages of the dream and death of trees

and ı thınk  thıs ıs why the fact of book

only to confront us agaın  agaın  wıth nıght

now ı reclıne on the smeltıng wreck of nıght

and fınger forgetfully my sacred absınthe

far away lıe the eyes and feet of book

ıts questıons and that malfeasance love

even the lıneage and royalty of trees

are reduced to a pathetıc word

so at nıght ın the absence of love

absınthe usurps the throne of trees

the book becomes a corpse   the grave a word