Tasker
Open no nous to recognize the structure of the cage you’re in; it wont needs ginger,
coal-faced shoving ringlets down an ovoid head held flexible grabs stripped to the bole’s
stark spars with a feathery top. No political nous, no hole in the paunch—wheat/chaff, sap/brio, cheek/jowl—It won’t clewed to the gantry—to a low coaming, pillowed arms shaking this sack of
shit by the throat
Stripped the boles to stark spars, slotted angles in a smoke pall w/ sheets of transparent
telex around the throat like throwing skin in your coal face, struggle is the meat that even if you
recognize the first laced hole, you are with stain, without breath, doubled as a butcher knocking
knotted seam
What could be expected from the bouquet garnie in its muslin bag, eight kilos of assorted
flesh moved at tongue-level, jerked like a puppet, a brocade caftan jutting into tender human
stoppings, we overlook the little things like garbage in the tree
Sometimes I read your work & wonder what it would look like in another medium. Ever think of going plastic? (In my head this poem has another life as a super confrontational sculpture/architectural thing...) More please.
ReplyDeleteyeah man, like a Barney mould or, better yet, Beuys (i.e., social sculpture). great seeing you and Katja in the Bay. hoping to be a better bi-coastal being w/ so many friends out there now. we should revisit our Rust Talk and talk about ON soon... love, Thom
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