Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Every Sigh is Architecture, a hastily gathered structure on a plain beneath a crushing weight

come round now
to my back yard

The sigh of lying on the Ground.
released under the warmth
pools under the eye lids
closed then open
to the sounds entering the
eye tips the eye lids of
feelings fingers
into the on tray
Radius of the dilated pupil
directing brightness glow reality
lie in the green grass
spy on the laughter next
door

I try for the every
word
the letter formed here
to mirror the bones of
myself rolling through space from
bed to the day and back
again, cartwheel slave to no
market, this architecture is
people like without a planet
to exploit

My Ancestors were more Rock
than ocean, my mineral
are fed ancestor dust and
I eat them, Vitamin B complex,
Fish oil, Ok so I am of the
sea creatures that arrived
in the water molecule that arrived
here from another system galaxy
dimension, but lived here
till now in various guises story
sequences, now its this one:

I gave birth to myself as
a poet, one who finds self
worth through words whose writing
is a means of containing and
occupying an emotion Whose threat
danger or simple overwhelmingness
renders us a threat danger or
overwhelmed - I was in my Pen
Pals flat in Jersey, with her sister
after returning from the island
off the coast of France. I
hadn't seen her for many years
and she while still young had
mellowed in her eccentricity and vigor
under the welfare of induced dreams
shattering under romantic unrequited,
a gaze to pure. I had met
her at an Art Class I had
attended because of my brother.
He'd been living in Phily
with my parents for some years
and had blossomed as an
unusual and creative talent.
Visiting, I had gone along on
what was a field trip to the collection
dare say the pantheon
Calders' in a collaseum of
classic battles between the civic
duty of capital and its private
duty pleasures. Walking the streets
in the afternoon, I had to
stop in my tracks as we
huddled herded around the
Bronze Moore where a box
structure at its feet had
been erected and inhabited
by the love of my life,
A homeless person.

taking photographs of these
structures, numerous, plentiful
in scale and design,
I went about my business
only to notice a young
starlet who'd taken to talking
to the people, the woman who
wrote her own
script.
She was a wonder, a site
to behold ad I did that
night suck her soft titties
for an hour or so in a
park lying on my back
on the ground, so nice and
lost I was to the dark,
How open she was to my
sucking how giggles fed
my simple need.
Now years later stuck in a
Room with her and her sister
I found myself yearning to
fuck all this up and
to not play the system, to
rewrite the play - I'd suggest
we all sleep together me and
her sister, her sister and me,
not together I think i had tack,
it could have been funny, hideous
but for the tack, but I'd
find I was out, down next
by the tracks, home I'd
escaped. Lost I was not,
I knew what I wanted and
it was what pleasant harmony
wasn't not, it was the rule
of scope a law of bounty
spawned in the aspect of
not unwillingly learning that
nothing everything dies, so note
the new ever splurge of
memory melting into the sausage
of new names

Before I left I had
out my little note book and
to it I threw myself -
Alas I wrote what was by
then the first thing I could
muster. Each words plucked
with a bear claw into the
salmon rushing at night.

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