Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Angel Pi, Lulla By

Francis Alys' Paradox of Praxis, Mexico City, 1997
little lamb
on the mountain
atop the sacred
and filthy mound
angel of death
above her cloudy crown
like a glass wing-ed fly
like a wasp on fire
to a God who is bleeding
the eyelids of a strong animal
a lullaby
in sleep will come

Monday, April 27, 2009

a Garden

we have tried to sew our miseries
to the tree wings of the bumble-bee
and we once slept upon
the caterpillar's rainbow underbelly
while her peacock pupils spun a web of jubilee
and received us, disintegrating
into their illuminated womb--
we almost died poetically, coalescing

without form and within eternity

piously, grotesquely, we cry rust
as the corpse of repentence is burned
a pyramid of roses acts as a primitive casket
and floats like flame upon water
the smell, thick with power and victory
we are holding hands in satiated unity
in the glory of the fleeting sunrise
death all over us, having just gone for a swim

in the left over water of baptism

its so hard most always to melt away
out of existence, into oblivion
and to be wept out of the literal 
eyes of God--
please accept these flowers, every one
adorned in finite-ity
and sucked from the belly of the air
wet with mud and gold

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Monday, April 20, 2009

Floating in the Air, above the ground

Joseph Beuys' I Like America and America Likes Me, 1974 at the Rene Block Gallery, NYC
Photo: Caroline Tisdall

Infinite Seed and Spilling Into It

Still clip from Daft Punk's Electroma, 2007
Go on, look through my body of glass.
Manipulate the mirrors inside your eye
so as to illude my perfection into existence.

My driftwood heart is floating in a bath tub
of dirt.

And from this mountain, I can see the red star rise
in the ecstatic sky, like a colored-in triangle.

My eye lashes are attached to the vertical tug-of-blood
drops, sluggishly seeping out from an oblivious cloud;
and, the black-night fire
is reaching down from somewhere to swallow


Of the wild flowers, who will stand tall
and weird?
and drip in the translucent shine of destruction?

Who will walk into darkness, eyes wide?

an Other Daffodil Disassembling in Tune

Sunflowers hold the seeds of stars
on the tip of their heart's tongue,
or in the wake of the wind's repose,
and only the flutter-by knows.

She dances endlessly through the flame.
Ablaze, yet she will not consume,
nor be consumed;
while her joy lives by candlelight inside her soul.

We will whither the petals to tealeaves.
Light's blood will be forced down our throats:
a desperate medicine,
a cure for our ignorance, unknown.

In her sleep, we'll pluck her perfect wings,
and blow at them, as if at the bare neck
attached to a dandelion's weary head.
Her body's parts will fall like rain

All over us

Love alone

I can feel my soul unraveling

Stitch by stitch,
left for dead beside my body,
a mound of tangled black thread.

Contorting itself into an everlasting cloud,
it opens its mouth wide to suck the stars,
and consequently drools upon my pillow: blood.

My mind is drenched.

I eat flowers to try

My mouth hole is open but no one can see inside.

It is not me.

Carrying the weight of forests and ecstasty,
I want nothing more than to be no more.

Existence itself oozes from my eyes like an infection,
while I dream of the heaviest knife that never existed
meeting my glowing heart.

Decomposed in the Foreword Fur of Eden


has passed, is gone.

See morning.
Then, the yellow lake (and the cannibal fish),
the naked body,
and the cloak denied.

In the morning--
The ear that heeds not, the great mountain's soft song,
when in the morning, you rise up and destroy,
and the heart of the sun is licked at by our broken tongues.


has passed, is gone away.

See morning.
Then, the black sunflower (and the adulterous bee),
the eternal winter,
and the fake snow.

In the morning--
The owl that breathes not, into the mouth of the blood-horn,
when in the morning, you awake and annihilate,
and the sun suffers and settles down now over our rib cage, exposed.


has passed, is gone,