Sunday, December 23

visual speech

welcome to Paradise

glad you could make it

so radiant within their lights the holy creatures
f(x) is not 5 even if if is if and f adds and x is not y plus z with y is not 3 and z is not 2
sang as they flew and shaped themselves
laws do not derive from judgements
in figures now D now I now L
nothing is real

my heart is a plastic bag blown across fifth avenue while i write this
have some breast or dick it all tastes like chicken anyway

At first singing they danced to their own tune.
it is not in it i'm thinking wat denken ze wel
er is geen verschil tussen hen en mij die dat toelaat
And then taking on one of these shapes
you can't be present in two languages at the same
time because there is no you different from your language
they paused in their movement and were silent
only when i do not speak you can hear me
only when i refuse to write you will you read me
only when i'm dead will you beget me

i guess i am that
kind of mf mindfucking
bastard

you will curse me and then place
the words in the schrines of your ignorance

you will close your eyes and i will haunt you
in your scary petty darkness

you will burn candles to chase away my memory and the candles
will show you a burning resembling my words

i will delegate my relentless cruelty
to your greedy tyrants and they will
hold their sway over you as i fuck

you over here

and here and there again

[ Poscia ne l'emme del vocabol quinto
rimasero ordinate; si che Giove
pareva argento li d'oro distinto ]

all of us birds fuck ourselves over
in much the same way & will continue
to do so unless

my heart is a plastic bag blown across fifth avenue while i write this
my liver is caught in traffic in Amritsar
my fingernails are swimming in schools of horny fish out of the coast in Jamaica
my legs are falling apart in some desert east of Bagdad
my deepest feelings for you are butterflies hanging pinned in a cabinet in Brussels
my eyes are feeling up a redhead in the Highlands
my feet are exhibit a, b, c , g to k an z in a London court room
my books are suger to sweaten the oatmeal porridge in India
my love for you is my liver, my legs and a sparrow flying low across the meadows leading up to the church in Booischot
my heart really liked talking to you, its bag-nostalgia is hard to bear

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