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Literature Text
Before the sun could rise, we returned from the East
And brought back golden gongs for our golden frescoes.
We were too alive to sleep, too enormous to tame,
And shook with the poverty that came suddenly with winter,
Calling and yawning, like stray cats out on the street;
When the sun came at last, and gorged itself on the fabric
Of skin, hair, and speech, we ran back, back, back
From our dreams of God, and the last flight left
Before we could even catch it; out on the road,
The world gave us tricks, offering leaves, blossoms, and other
Things as green as our blunders, while we called
For golden hands on our throats, a golden
Smell in the air, and the crackle of
Sunlight to consume our waning fires, amen.
And brought back golden gongs for our golden frescoes.
We were too alive to sleep, too enormous to tame,
And shook with the poverty that came suddenly with winter,
Calling and yawning, like stray cats out on the street;
When the sun came at last, and gorged itself on the fabric
Of skin, hair, and speech, we ran back, back, back
From our dreams of God, and the last flight left
Before we could even catch it; out on the road,
The world gave us tricks, offering leaves, blossoms, and other
Things as green as our blunders, while we called
For golden hands on our throats, a golden
Smell in the air, and the crackle of
Sunlight to consume our waning fires, amen.
Literature
Zemi
Things having to be returned to their transparency:
i.
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
ii.
are recalcitrance / and you
are convergence
& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets
(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )
iii.
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
Literature
In my bathroom again
God's in my bathroom again,
he's shaving the patches of his
beard and pulling clown-faces
at the soap. Last night
he held me as I lay in a fever,
made little screams, kept
the hot tongues from my face,
the mushrooms from my
spine.
He says his old girlfriend
tried to drink his blood, that
it messed him up
for a while. He says
it's been a long time.
God looks sad, jingling his
teeth at me like loose
change. The clicks of my
heart make me sick;
folding his pyjamas
would be
the kind thing
to do.
Literature
Genitive
I’m a linguist;
I get a lot of dates.
My aspirations
meet their bilabial approximants
in monophthong, glottal hums
that turn into shocked diphthongs
and fucking infixes,
palatalized by each glide of voiceless fricatives.
I’m a linguist;
I get a lot of dates.
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