Landscape with Face
page 303-310
Go to where the pill of ingenious machinery humming it moot ministration above the factories’ noisy complaints is swallowed to heal the ills of an overgrown busy bodied society busting at the seam reaching out to space for new space in which to rear its youngs caught in the seduced nature of language its cling and clang clinking its counter-current kindly to the kill-dare come lately likely to the looking of a drossy fire stared stale impetuous in its silence protection of its vengefully consuming the taste of the air the machines never sleep completely accept in their break down is a window open on their noise and what have become an earring forgotten silence taking cautious spreading from machine to machine with its motion controlling the fluid flow forward floundering in the heat of moving parts grinding and gnarling its grotesque glom on to the galaxy of a placated dream where the crazed bones of long gone innocent’s distilled nocturnal compassion dwarfed by the flaming ruins of the last compassionate word losing its meticulous meaning in the embrace of the written flame’s revolt that tumble about the insolence guffawed violence of a retwisted verdict that have sentenced the drunken hour glass to telling the elegant time of a performing prophet’s memories prophet turned noisy poet of the circumcised laughter beautifully bounded seeking to bear the weight of birds their physical force drunk unexpectedly germinating poems full of the astonishing ancient articulated architecture of feathers the enormous message of the grave the importance supposition of the extremely primitive embodiment of evolution found in the tears of a exaggerated fertility of a non-conscious experience driving the recumbent bull beneath the hallucination of divine speech heard whispered from a dark corner in the stubborn heat in the nausea night where the pregnant hunger of black butcher throat slicing open the American ear raped by the heart of a dark absurd St. Louis wearing French gloves made of butterflies wings configured into a fleur-de-lis of an purple iris of raw flowers growing inalterable by knives of the wreckage of spider’s web hung on the in appeasement of the fraternal climates spent with the lunation of the bookkeeper’s insults caught in the hands of the prodigious healthy sea full of rocks run round aground in the rich hourless kiss of the wind where the jets of entanglement regrets the impossible season emitted by the sun of a quite storm raping its rapping across a field of used discarded children’s shoes affected with wild birds bathing in the pollen rain beneath the season of the moons caught in the good evil that sucking the noncommittal man waiting for the bounty of a heaven’s landscape of rude gestures where red wing black birds are attracting an attack of the red headed boy who bath in the green light of leaves his skin tinted and tight taut and tugged by the fingers that seeks a youthful meadow where grows white and brown booties bottom up for the good fuck of a coat of arms hung alone the wild walk corridors of a primogenital pink penises nailed along the walls I take the long walk through the gallery where the roof is full of red hair virginals weeping their vaginal juices as sweet rain painting their refrain like the jagged edge of skyscrapers at the genealogy of the astonished sex of birds and worms with their secret complicity hugged by the solemn hissing of the murderous five-branched tempestuous science of tornado’s torn-a-do Colorado too color-a-do down by the rail road tracks and the South Platte River where a cat’s lust forgotten by the summer gliding over the wild grasses and trash heaped and hovering over the caged guardian dog that care not to call upon Gods pecking at the sweat drops precious and decadent in the stormy criminal innocent smuggled into the quivering velocity of glass when the machines wakes the morning mountain in a riot of offence the piston powered God of maniacal metrical machismo machineries pumping out their vain wears cooing in the backwater naked with its funk of the law milking the clouds for the childlike juice of the Gods
Go my fair face son go my woman one go go go to where Rimbaud is writing nigger to his mother where he see nigger in the dark skin of poetry Rimbaud the boy wonder the doom soul the opium eater the alcoholic lover of Veriaine Rimbaud the slave handler the crier of nigger nigger nigger in the heat of the dark country where man first drew his beautiful breath and shed most of his body hair nigger long lives in the middle mind of the bold beholder that self same caller is clothed in the rank file scum of the hiding hooded mask of the Klanism robe under the light of a burning cross they preach the ugliness of a madness their hands are stained with bountiful blood their words are to dead to bite or cut their outdated redundant rhetoric of white supremacy of one white God and one white country but the stew is mixed we the people of the United State we the noise of the multitudes we the conscious of the multiracial multiethnic multicolor mindedness are mixing our bated blood in the baby birth born by the light of the moody moon where the ghost of old Gods full of lost glory seeks to renew themselves to strike again against the prison that man have put them in the Gods have repent around bout lent alone you among the few the saved the forgiven with your faith full of space fit to be tired with the archangels angels’ wings outstripped where the cherubim ride the subtle scent rejoicing to the tune of the heavenly bells that thrilled slake and take like a snake that holds the answer to all the God hidden question Gods can not be lead by the head or the dreams of a red covered clover bed Gods are playfellows of the heart their promises once spoken is then broken on the sodden earth with its wine and mirth its struggling grey the lost paradise of a way of life of false fair hair
Go jinn of the night and fight against the outrageous memories of summer speech caught in the throat of an old oak tree growing along the boulevard of dreams where an executioner of clouds hide the bones of skeletons piled sky high and float in the undertows of the rain which I drink like milk in the virgin nothingness of the assumption and implication of the child murderer of fireflies to wear their light as a ring on the finger yellow chemical light strung around their necks in the chimerical vision of their play prominent child like large eye-idols placed on the altars their huge globular eyes indicating the intriguing present of the Gods never calm in their work that embrace the irresistible force of weather the amateur armature Gods like vultures after the dead can not keep from waiting their turn in turn they are offering their blessing to whom ever may come to worship the salvation of anger the salvation of sex growing in a mirror the salvation of the wounded wind the salvation of a syllable’s event in torn open prayers when the dada day is left to consume itself toward the cherished tomorrow that refuse to rendezvous with the past sketched out on the tail end of the present with its scruples for passing as a half remembered sudden messenger with his spasmodic tenderness as a watchdog fetching the wisdom of storms the dim of him cool in the pool of a honor hour that is home to the lightening rod of a God who is not to proud to toil in the soil of human flesh a God bent on the spent sweat of man’s lament for his scars of lies that won the sacred prize of yellow sallows vows in the hollows of his heart that brush in its rush toward the to much cloy joy of a boy in love love from above love from below the wings of angels when the spring air there fill the eyes of the skies angels who thrust their strange erotic lush into the wind end of men’s minds angels ears that hears the shade when we are afraid to take them at their words angels grown to stones by man’s weariness angels glad to have had the night delight of our knowing angels are bound to adore thee the art of our heart where what is believed can deceive leave us in the dusk of dead luck buying its time with a suffocated supplicated sophicated rhyme of grot that got the not of the same flame that disappears in the sun undone tears that nought wrought and brought of water’s give and take of the sun’s understood mood a brother’s love from above a glass of mud the kin I call cuzz the vine of the grape’s wine that float in the dew’s throat I love my love the father’s blood the blue-green sea of glass the self-same guilt of the Gods that avail there where righteous gleaming strand of land jets into the glass sea when the ocean weep from her face of the starry heaven with its strength held at length from the violence of a begging prayers are still born to tell that the well if dry of pleasant sins that have all repent
Go my fair face son go my woman one go go go to where Rimbaud is writing nigger to his mother where he see nigger in the dark skin of poetry Rimbaud the boy wonder the doom soul the opium eater the alcoholic lover of Veriaine Rimbaud the slave handler the crier of nigger nigger nigger in the heat of the dark country where man first drew his beautiful breath and shed most of his body hair nigger long lives in the middle mind of the bold beholder that self same caller is clothed in the rank file scum of the hiding hooded mask of the Klanism robe under the light of a burning cross they preach the ugliness of a madness their hands are stained with bountiful blood their words are to dead to bite or cut their outdated redundant rhetoric of white supremacy of one white God and one white country but the stew is mixed we the people of the United State we the noise of the multitudes we the conscious of the multiracial multiethnic multicolor mindedness are mixing our bated blood in the baby birth born by the light of the moody moon where the ghost of old Gods full of lost glory seeks to renew themselves to strike again against the prison that man have put them in the Gods have repent around bout lent alone you among the few the saved the forgiven with your faith full of space fit to be tired with the archangels angels’ wings outstripped where the cherubim ride the subtle scent rejoicing to the tune of the heavenly bells that thrilled slake and take like a snake that holds the answer to all the God hidden question Gods can not be lead by the head or the dreams of a red covered clover bed Gods are playfellows of the heart their promises once spoken is then broken on the sodden earth with its wine and mirth its struggling grey the lost paradise of a way of life of false fair hair
Go jinn of the night and fight against the outrageous memories of summer speech caught in the throat of an old oak tree growing along the boulevard of dreams where an executioner of clouds hide the bones of skeletons piled sky high and float in the undertows of the rain which I drink like milk in the virgin nothingness of the assumption and implication of the child murderer of fireflies to wear their light as a ring on the finger yellow chemical light strung around their necks in the chimerical vision of their play prominent child like large eye-idols placed on the altars their huge globular eyes indicating the intriguing present of the Gods never calm in their work that embrace the irresistible force of weather the amateur armature Gods like vultures after the dead can not keep from waiting their turn in turn they are offering their blessing to whom ever may come to worship the salvation of anger the salvation of sex growing in a mirror the salvation of the wounded wind the salvation of a syllable’s event in torn open prayers when the dada day is left to consume itself toward the cherished tomorrow that refuse to rendezvous with the past sketched out on the tail end of the present with its scruples for passing as a half remembered sudden messenger with his spasmodic tenderness as a watchdog fetching the wisdom of storms the dim of him cool in the pool of a honor hour that is home to the lightening rod of a God who is not to proud to toil in the soil of human flesh a God bent on the spent sweat of man’s lament for his scars of lies that won the sacred prize of yellow sallows vows in the hollows of his heart that brush in its rush toward the to much cloy joy of a boy in love love from above love from below the wings of angels when the spring air there fill the eyes of the skies angels who thrust their strange erotic lush into the wind end of men’s minds angels ears that hears the shade when we are afraid to take them at their words angels grown to stones by man’s weariness angels glad to have had the night delight of our knowing angels are bound to adore thee the art of our heart where what is believed can deceive leave us in the dusk of dead luck buying its time with a suffocated supplicated sophicated rhyme of grot that got the not of the same flame that disappears in the sun undone tears that nought wrought and brought of water’s give and take of the sun’s understood mood a brother’s love from above a glass of mud the kin I call cuzz the vine of the grape’s wine that float in the dew’s throat I love my love the father’s blood the blue-green sea of glass the self-same guilt of the Gods that avail there where righteous gleaming strand of land jets into the glass sea when the ocean weep from her face of the starry heaven with its strength held at length from the violence of a begging prayers are still born to tell that the well if dry of pleasant sins that have all repent
