Methodology

baby
I was out borrowing hands again
many of them

      dauntingly many

the well-known whirring
of the mechanism
as I extract,
sort the methodology
five equally sized piles
are making it
my own

I consume only
denominated things

06:48 pm

Hands are glowing

on the face;

scoring the point

of no return.

blazing

down memory lane in a stolen

funeral car

so late,

making your escape,

making your point

of no return.

The Consecution

Somewhere in the Negev
I chose to face the sun
turning from the deeper scarring
flame ignited in relentless hazel eyes

Quietly crumbling,
consumed by flames of shame
for betrayal beyond which – like
in the Negev -
there could be no afterlife the same

Like wings you spread your arms out -
no longer in the once
inviting gesture – but
to manifest the multitude of dust:

“All this sand is but the ashes” you said,
“of all the long gone Phoenixes unborn:
the duds, the meaningless dead losses;
the weaker birds, that never had it in them
no seed of new
just blind destructive urge to crash and burn”

And somewhere in the Negev
already crashed I faced the sun to burn
for betrayal beyond which – like
in the Negev -
there could be no future pages
left to turn.

Phoenix, Arizona (on the Valley Metro line)

Ah! You polished your lies; they were shiny and blank

(On your left is the life-line
violation’s on your right.)

there were never intention of writing you back
this lie is inertia, you leave me right back
[this line is intentionally left blank]

it is death by oxidation:
breathing freely, silver lining turns black
[this line is intentionally left blank]

this lie’s what’s in play now:
a damp, oozing crack
is it just the same line? [intentionally left blank]

Be that as it may;
Our line’s being slivered, ECG turning flat, on the firing line. This is it for us, these are lies back-to-back; its all along the end of the lines.

You’re my life turning blank:
(me? yes, way out of line.)

The bottom line is:
[intentionally left blank]

Elementa

Once again morning.
On the tongue lie corses
in unuttered banks, the
darkling words of night.
Flat taste.

The daybreak creases
around their formlessness
to form a throughpierced shroud.

I fumble towards the surface,
moving in mire-green Waters.

Hit the mark of world, fall
out. Eye-filling, deeper.

Fire is missing, the elements remaining
librate lustfully towards one another
and towards the boundaries of each.

The sphere of the faraway Fourth
leads the dance, she pulls the strings
towards brilliances of Water
and the brittle slip of Earth.

Like moist paper, the humid air
is crinkled.

And gasping
the mire-green stones are born.

The Expedition to Aiolia

The drawback of being a dynamical system
a weathervane, if you like
is that I reassess my whole existence
by the latest feedback
of an unstable reference signal

Earth covers angles per units of time
the particles are run by probabilistic relations

and still I seek for perpetual value,
dream of having a constant named after me
and is ashamed of all books of instructions
that I have not read

Song

The hour’s late but you are not
I am a man, you are a song
a song that never may be hushed
say, can the lapse of time be stopped?

To win all those precious things
that only songs knew to describe
I fill my chest with scent of You
letter of love is every breath

As the sun you scorch my skin
your lips passaging my damp chest
You found your natural element
the way fleet winds hunt down the fall

With onsets furious of thirst
I boil your blood right in your flesh
with steaming blush, wide open mouth
you reply silkily but red

Tongues of fire lick ways of blood
with every lick, something explode
but bites are quivering like frost
like frost reversed, your passion hits

You float your back to take a stand
as wavecrests crumble to the shore
your curve of back springs back for more
and you will soon erode to sand

Shiny nails, a blue-black night
your breath is slower, than before
because it all has turned to ash, all
but
a kiss, an eight-hour song.

Larches

The larches are dropping.
Needles twirl through the air
like hour-hands.

Excerpt From the Foliations of the Hortolobe

Human life is weight and roots.
We’re moving tactlessly, positioned in the planar
while trees are questing higher in dimensions;
airificated are we, at their doorstep.

And something took its onset:

A queerish task was delegated to me;
I was to draw tree structures illustrating
how branches split up species, and how races
and even more so sequences of genome
are branchened up to disjoin down in leaves.

I set to work:

I calculated with the most noteworthy
root-analytic doubly ranked precision
conceivably how tree-like topologies
could swell into phylogeny of life -
by merely isolating tree-space variables.

So, with power third reversal vectorable
I spectralized the law of field of gamma
until on hundred-thirty-fourth of days
my mission overturned into a fable;
that day, the tree-space gate turned penetrable!

The institution melted way behind me
when fearless, winged with leaf-seamed wings i left
stepped through the gate, through annual rings
I traced the paths of branches upwards, waywards.

Hyperbolas I travel in, I fly now -
in tree-space measured, a leaf-tree fruit I’m set.

I’ll plunge when I have ripened.

Gameplay

When I laid eyes on your

mouthsmile

the thought hit me;

Although I was meticulously lectured:
thoughts
are no toys
and not for hitting