Noxalio

in this line in which
executive is automaton—
pearl, as it is divined,
is endlessly strung
and restrung in order
to achieve nothing
ancestral nor revered
as something evocative
of traditional spangle—
devoid of sequin
twinkle, devoid of glitter.

ask Peter; surely he recalls

that, hyper-link was beyond
a passing thought—
designs in the dark
desert night, whose glittering stars
were indistinguishable from the honeyed sparkle
confined within crystalline casters
drained and replenished as often
as the occasion required;

that, exuberance was but one
of twin cardinal antecedents,
the other: pig-headed schlepp
through mud and muck and grime—
a bog of knee-high, months-old,
rotten, alphabet fusion;

that, blood was certainly spilt
as demanded
but was not of requisite tincture
nor was it on auspicious track;

and, that, clocks
no longer ticked thereafter
but cunningly blinked—

hummed, sometimes
still.

————————————————
subtitled: an almost-spasm
is not a spasm — at all.

a man who misunderstood
cipher, decodes: “memorize her
other names. cherry lips gape,
eyes spider”.

virus spins slide-show cinema
in one of his fevered dreams,
entitled: “she’ll always ask
for more”

he thinks: “no matter
how hard i love her”.

your rucksack
contained sons
and daughters

lengths of rope
beneficial to knot

rope-bridge across chasms

loom, shuttlecock
and fine, arras yarn
to weave and take flight
on magic carpet rides.

notice the tense—

consider something
stopgap

at once.

i scatter gemstones
into our cove; use fuck
for effect; reflect upon
installments of outlines
and their crosshatched
brigantine silhouettes—

color matched likenesses
of unlikely events, hog-tied
and splayed on to folios such as these

coincident display instruments
equipped for all to click on—
accidentally slip upon.

I came back late and tired last night
 Into my little room,
To the long chair and the firelight
 And comfortable gloom.

But as I entered softly in
 I saw a woman there,
The line of neck and cheek and chin,
 The darkness of her hair,
The form of one I did not know
 Sitting in my chair.

I stood a moment fierce and still,
 Watching her neck and hair.
I made a step to her; and saw
 That there was no one there.

It was some trick of the firelight
 That made me see her there.
It was a chance of shade and light
 And the cushion in the chair.

Oh, all you happy over the earth,
 That night, how could I sleep?
I lay and watched the lonely gloom;
 And watched the moonlight creep
From wall to basin, round the room,
 All night I could not sleep.

all three attach to a site
one lays upon; with bare feet
and plum-colored eyes
is one.

locked tight; fit, just so—
deemed pristine
even when lightly marred
by sugar spot
while, every so often
detriment pierces
a cipher.

roused by nitid light,
glare and despair crisscross,
desperate for places to rest—
possibly spot
a spot

to hide.

that, it takes
less talent
to survive
the night
than to live
through the bustle
amid daylight
is categorically
apocryphal;
observe a tarsier
or hermit-crab—
coterie of suburban
nocturnal inhabitants
lodged within
their very own
habitats, precisely.

heed the draw
of red-tide bloom—
emerald-neon froth
over midnight
surf;

don cheeseparing costume,
o, you, night-raven, you,
perched tall in plenary stance

& silence
curved lentiform

atop affluent-vagabond hut,
our refuge, enrapt
in sly-attentive cast

examine variform-befuddled guise
of live-wire & slouch
alike.

demise, devised in harmonic scale
& wallop of hooch-soaked singalong
song

arranged long-necked & slim—
incidentally chilled
by abundance
of ice

melting.

busy: stand-in,
at one extreme,
for insouciance,
premeditated distance,
at the other—
let us disrobe
misty vocabulary
without being relegated to reading
shapes of tea leaves
and smudges
at the rims of thimbles
of depleted, month-old,
espresso—
shall we?

in the ecumenical order
questions of the like:
who moved my “what-not”,
are neither singular
nor particularly recondite

yet, novella or not, fucking
blockbusting bestsellers
on the level with The Man
That Corrupted Hadleyburg
and that one individual
who would be king;

one to chortle; the other
to dwell upon;
affairs, extramural
to corporate routine—
designated: modern
convention.

at last, The Farmers tremor
with vermilion cudgel back-beat,

its finishes flame under floodlight
when mermaid in leathery guise

comes into sight whose onyx-midnight
carapace radiates platinum bright—

says, breakers, yonder, over the line,
neon in the night— requires three to ratify.

recall expounds to delineate gaps
across rupture and the probable

while skirt parasols in twirls—
depart before metronome halts.

and i, blind to the tussle
between caution and abandon
emerge splintered
sporting antique DNA
intertwined with avant-garde
motive;

a surrounding fraught with
conformity and over-board
braggadocio. “idiosyncratic”,
“throwback”, “deviant”—
illusory chimera
in distorted mirror;

purple haze at twilight
gone by dawn,
yet, ingenuously - man.

engraved in code: a dossier,
durably lithographed
demarking your birth—
you are required to joust
as your moniker implies.

assorted deaths
to be discharged
innumerable times;
reason to be pronounced
sacrifice
beyond popular song.

your martyrdom—
almost melodic if not
somewhat resonant
but not quite a hit
nor fit
for billboard.