Ouroboros Meditation

America Jones was born the day the burning building, the burning bush. Was first the crow to cross the birth, broke the window flat on floor, maggots turned from splintered break. Was thus she raised the son with pious fury. Utterly alone. America a war red white and blue stripe and star, alone an island ocean. Alone her savage want of suckle at her breast. With want to taste her honey. Beyond the water ocean darkness demons fell to madness in the winter silence nordic forests all was still. Was then with song the seed was laid and grow. Them seed as water taint the sky, falling ash. Her sing the hymn of forests. Have winter here is darkness.

Soft! What possible music, my dear sweet lady, could scarce then deign to consecrate the carnal rectangle of your nubile eyelash, to whisper amber sweetness, in gardens of flowerly bliss...

there are trapezoids such, octagons, and newsprint... when the device is activated with radio waves, it emits a quick burst of identifying data. this is how we keep track of you. very soon, somebody will turn you in.

you can drown in emanations, saintly prefix exclusion, the arabesque radiocafe...

analytical devices analog maneuver, i do not travel by auto. always then happens always most often, eternity never repeats. yet still this strange, uncomfortable titular consolation, that perhaps it is not God who judges, but rather it is God who is judged. This is a sickness to heal the heart like starvation, a cathedral then, home to beggars pimps and priests all the blessed poor in spirit, a sickness of the heart the automobile daily rapes her ovaries to suckle the genitals of banking institutions, and lives taken in occupation...

A betrothal in chains to this tender war machine, a life to struggle with wakefulness or sleep, fear or love of marriage for a martyr’s death... i do not think it well to hope for recovery from this sickness, as lust is but a cruelty of imagination, such is the danger in truth (the open grave of faith), a stale dew upon the corpses of whole civilizations gone mad...

What whispers tell of what remains, what should yield the hunger of these savage thoughts, this animal need... i do not think it well to hope for recovery from this illness... nor needn’t watch the moon as swallowed by the pregnant ouroboros vagrant escapades, nor the tangled bowels of the living machinery torn from the bleeding wall...

And broken glass, so beautifully abused... nor need to hear these screams through night, sickly hallucinations above the rooftops, and radiate disease in luminous night... for buildings to dream the cathode rays fluorescent, beneath the unanimous horizon...

fragment of a heuristic...

paranoid landscapes

Passed the ruined avenues
again, where the pale fingers
rest now on the broken glass,

while the curtains
through moonlight
flow endlessly away...

The thin American closed his eyes
as though crippled by some
disease of motion,
which has this need of the morning...

As for the fixity of powers,
to salient genitals abundantly
turns the residential night,

and with the attempt at smell,
our lady of a thousand bleeding eyes
might not fail to classify the influence of morning.

It shall come to pass
there fell upon the gentle disassembly
by shades a desperate stillness assailed,

by some bastard wisdom for an orphan prayer brought upon

this gradual damage, unanimous once again, where
pale fingers rest now against the broken glass...

The thin American closed his eyes,
stricken with some vulgar predilection to motion:

as for the fixity of powers,
neither the mutilated genitals
of banking institutions,

nor gently compared the residential night
should but fail to classify the influence of the morning.

Yet to admit only shadow, the thin
American dreaming closed her eyes while thinking
against the plenum echoes of defeated names:

rusting iron shackles and
crumbling marble statues
of men who have died
hungry tired poor and
alone...

Description remains, partial to pushing in
the narrow leaf. If some respite remaining
for this desperate stillness,

with neither need nor reason,
but a violent symmetry assailed...

The dreamer as though
ignorant of his own
perverse violence, which

beneath the burning rivers assailed
by arms to split open factories
and set fire to sea,

wanting only this one consolation:
to listen at the soft disorder.

So reconciled to the phantom traumas
of oxygen and light,

hours passed thus beneath
the burning rivers. While Henry
Kissinger, in love and tender,

dreaming in desperate stillness,
by moonlight when first
broke through the human silence

a subsequent hunger, assuaged
until the residential nightfall should
fail to classify the influence of morning...

And whole days spent in shadow, as shadow
(if I was awake or dreaming)

while reflected in windows along empty streets
at dusk, the blue glow of endless day

and the tangled bowels of machinery
torn from the bleeding wall.