Munich International Airport. 21st December 2023,
Great Snake God River,
The forgotten threshing Juniper Tree
I watch you deliberate on constellations dimmed-
I see the factory wind-
For the shining columns, Doric, Ionic, Iambic
I see the forgotten threshing Juniper Tree
I watch it flicker across the vast rib,
Great Snake God River
Small, chartered plans are thrown:
Across the creaking blue eye of sky-
An image out of the threshing Juniper Tree appeared,
Great Snake God of River
And astonished, you and I are still.
I sing at shadow paths, between two strangers’ kissing, that’s the Commandment.
Always from there,
I am singing.
Great Snake God River,
The forgotten threshing Juniper Tree
Image, I watch you together decide on constellations dimmed-
I see the factory born wind-
For the shining columns, Doric, Ionic, Iambic
That factory does not move us.
At shadow paths, Commandment.
On the train from Berlin to Köln, October 20th 2023
I have incessant disdain for knowledge-ape
As white trees beat the darkness-
Gripping the retina formerly known as Rhea Silvia-
Vesta
Vesta
Vesta
The smoke of the wreath wanders at nape
The dull drum thrashes it and they and whatever else they want to call themselves…
No Meaning, much therapy, all gender
Some twit next to me on the train, has a copy of Plato’s complete works next to him on the trip to Köln. Rattles it’s galling logic at edge of shirt sleeves, Mr Earnst, vexing gestures spoil against clearing of forest and red-brick tenements clawing our window.
All the rest of them on silver train,
Rude, ignorant, desolate, jolting, thankless hoards of lowest-self, the only thing attended at within.
Cart them all off and do Nature a favour, whispers the Black Angel,
As white trees beat the darkness-
Into the hand, formerly known as Juno:
Brought in by the Etruscan Kings
Brought in by the Etruscan Kings
Brought in by the Etruscan Kings
Blood cloud flare at waters edge.
Red forests rush the window,
The vast nothingness of horse hearts in carparks-
Grocery stores and holes like larks-
And the sky an enormous duvet, wraps the gingerbread houses and the Leaping Hills Howl from their sinew.
What good were the Romans anyhow? And all those bastards and their kin. Despicable obsessions of control, laws. Even the best of them was a lawyer, Seneca. Their art is and was (slowly decomposing thank Christ) mediocrity in extremo, their blood lusts, a failure also being never quite enough to do anyone completely in.
Some moron in the seat behind me “oh jede must ihre eigene Weg finden, das ist meine Meinung”.
Oh how I hate people until I or they Whip the smile. These fools haul themselves around in aridity, slave to the ideologies of Other, all the way to the ditch where even there, even they would never think to slow-look at the Small Star.
This cretin, Majority, much to say,
As white trees beat the darkness-
Winter’s silent light flashes above the dale.
Sacred disdain wrenches borders of the Tongue, formerly known as Ogma
Ogma
Ogma
Home
Ogma
28th December 2023
The stars have been polished
For the deer is wounded-
For one eye Knowledge-
Has been by moon half-shade moon-ed
While excavations of mind
In emerald wood discovered-
The One present Kind-
Through vast form, turned to sound
So frenzied the cobble
The Word spun from writhing angle-
The red song of dark Hut tangled-
As the sun thousand slitted over America spangled.
The stars have been polished
For the deer is wounded-
For one eye Knowledge-
Has been by moon half-shade moon-ed
Looking up under that giant black limb Birch, plucking at New England stars
I, astonished by what I do not know-
Moving infinite-
Toward final unknown undered…
Where the wind handles the invisible bell.
Threads the inside of the hour.
27th December 2023
Has awakened earth and sky sudden.
In the dim branch’s thrust-
The exile night’s Poplar-
Whose sank way swings:
The lattices of Cumha and of the Rose astonished
Bronze breath wears the maple,
2nd Ave, John’s Coffee, New York.
Staple of solitudes sitting-
There stories screw fate with Wheel-
Waiting for the abyss in The to open.
We drilled the neon NY night,
As thought bartered with sight,
By Love I dared completion-
Between the deep hearts ration-
The present, and we, drawling the tune of the pockmarked lash.
Afterwards collected the bridges and tunnels,
Whose bards burdened with light whispered in Bryant Park-
Our jokes flick the guttering dark-
Contemporary poets falsely accursed, with psychoanalysis could perhaps, perhaps more gently mark:
The expanding Toy of Thought and the quivering of the Lark.
So coming now to ease of rest
Concrete drain songs silver blooming-
After dream stills wild nest-
Vast American Empire thronging,
Teach me your way of ease and blistering aspect.
Has awakened earth and sky sudden.
In the dim branch’s thrust-
The exile night’s Poplar-
Whose sank way swings:
The lattices of Cumha and of the Rose astonished
Written in Hatfield, Massachusetts USA
1st January 2024
The fierce brain of observant man, a thrashed fire waiting, rises above the darkeling meadow.
To articulate in forgotten speech, windows burning along the vast line of purple night.
Turning, turning on the air
At historical byroads from distance unwound,
Screaming, screaming inside the funeral lyre, a thrashed fire, waiting.
A set of events
Of harrowing importance
Tottered
Inside the shuffling mobs who canter in your rooms and sleep dull dreams of stables.
Talking and dancing with all the children.
Death is talking and dancing with all the children…
Turning, turning on the air
Screaming, screaming inside the funeral lyre, a thrashed fire, waiting.
Illegible signs of future maps are dripping on the stones paths from the edge of chiming.
Acid in the well.
The unopened, unworded books open, rushing upon the body of wind.
Strange creatures, many eyes many hands, hang from the hanging garden, leering.
Turning, turning on the air
Screaming, screaming inside the funeral lyre, the thrashed fire, waiting.
Darkeling meadow upon darkeling meadow whittles the past to point.
Storms crumple like tin foil around the shoulders of the smudge-headed men in shirtsleeves.
Four of these men, their heads Glasgow kissies, black to black teethy complaining the sea has gone cold, the wife is a bitch, the moon is half torn.
In the sky, in the distance, beyond the pub window, if you squint you can make it out…
In suddent shifts of dawning light, the scales of a valley, the light jumping from it’s back spits at the sky.
Turning turning on the air
Screaming, screaming inside the funeral lyre, the thrashed fire, waiting.
The fierce brain of observant man
At historical byroads,
Illegible signs are dripping on the stones paths from the edge of chiming.
This land of your father and mother.
Turning, turning on the air
Screaming, screaming inside the funeral lyre, the thrashed fire, waiting.
Written in Hatfield, Massachusetts, USA
1st of January 2024
Those with only political attitudes, those who do not make, have nothing to sing of themselves.
Hence their annoying, cloying despairs.
No one can bear to be in a room with them for Present time.
They know only past, only future and of the two very little.
Instead of making a life, they’ll discuss yours through the mouthpiece of their smallness.
They lack the courage to be makers.
You know them.
6th Ave NYC, Written 2nd January 2024
The moon is small head of black sea
The window is upside down farming
Of marrow song and grey horn-
Flashing green of childhood keeping
Infamous asylum Dionysian
Backwards forwards throttled-
Whisper desert Pergamon memory
Who howled the wash-room’s peak
Coat ‘I used to be a professional athlete, I make ma ohwn food I don’t hweat at Johe’s but I like 6hsth HavenYou’-
Be Black Sea small head Marrow of Horn soon, sweat song have doubled up for the Mourning.
Boston International Airport, Written 3rd January 2024
The self-determined inner life,
Industrious view carved-
Drove you to the ribbons of tunnels-
And the rivers rough sneer, within.
Shove steel to steel in the pressed palm
Split tenor of dusk-beast mourned-
Above the pillars of life rising, felt not thought-
Feel don’t think, for more.
Written in Detroit, January 4th 2024
I force Word to it‘s explosive point.
Around me...
The raw-bronze maple lengthens...
Tender greens lengthen…
Story reds lengthen…
Seething blue lengthens…
I shock black at its’ back:
with day and night draped on shoulders,
I’ve been Pact-
Transforming all things into:
Is-
I force word, virus wish, to it’s explosive point.
Friday 5th January 2024
Missing the troubadours-
4 corners of the room paced
Flaming Elm with the hearing cars
On the road, three of us on the wide night to Boston
Old camp mystery of disquesition to accomplice
Glow talking about John Prine and Adrian Borland
Missing the troubadours-
Detroit, Michigan 6th January
Dying into ourselves over and over Youth,
The unconscious, a peculiar thing dived, drawn up today wot?
Uncouth border of another the Letter-
The beautiful or our knecks garlanded with garbage?
The wind bending inch by inch the field
Of what we do not know-
Up the winding stair of sleep and of waking
There-
In the motels and kitchens
Lines acrete to concrete whole
Taking the walking slow,
Rising to life lop-limbed,
Wielding the stare on the star storming-
The excavation of not-knowing
The tight veins parting slip to-
The leaning into Beginning
Leeds, Massachusetts
7th January 2024
The thin map of snow and silver weed
Blurs rampant seed specters of truck drivers’ mead
Clusters of snow maul the air of tree fugues;
The darting Plunge of Alarm;
The thorned Wild Calla;
The figuration of the Bower;
Keen scented domestic briars
Go-throttled the pallid garden’s leashed rush-
On the warning of winter lead
The gnarled fists of your down-head beads
Euch Definitiv Einmal Sein;
The small clerical boxes stiff winter-winged din;
Purity of life before seen;
Sowing to one intent;
Keen scented domestic briars
Go-throttled the pallid garden's leashed rush-
Brief children between the marks
Play among
Domestic cleric
Between a two-home of Dark
The thin map of snow and silver weed
Wednesday 10th January, Leeds Massachusetts
Etching past-memory and present doings
Together: Becken 3 des Westhafens 3. Eckenfoerderplatz. Hohenzollernkanal.
Wooden houses are fissure-twinkling all Massachusetts.
A pillar of sunlight falls herself out upon the River and it is ten to 12
Kneading
Her
Communion
Light
Summoning
...
Body Companion of Grain Quiet
Ash, Ash
Surmising of forever
Ternal songs’ grammar
…
Despairs bladeish grinning lovingly misread
As adjunct and exclamations-
As adding and exhalation-
…
Someone is writing masterpieces somewhere, that is certain, in spite of all the pOLITIC!
You hear Boy Andrey in the gaps of the silken wind:
Who bends to the grass and bends to the wood?
Who bends to the sail and bends to the reed?
Who bends to the boiling and bends to the mine?
Lets be done with all of this ceaseless blathering
Together we can drink German beer in the Hofgarten
and somewhere in a distant village, a blind bird sings it’s insane insides:
OUT.
Written 13th January 2024
Kiefer’s pyre of black sun flowers decimate the morning-
Blackness tireless as a seal-
Who, became so far on a far road landmark?
Kiefer’s pyre of black sunflowers revealed in sharp Day-
Preparing open palm with trials and freedoms of levelled baying-
Kiefer’s black flowers decimate the Night.
Who, became so far on a pyre in black far the blazing hay?
Disorientated imaging of lost fathers and mothers pyre gleaners.
Kiefer’s pyre of black sunflowers tap on skull maps chase.
Intimating the inimitable excellence of Yea.
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