Tuesday, January 21, 2020


I’m not ironic, I’m American: meticulous, direct! Driven
to depict the private flickers of the blast of my Big Bang,
my solo sonic boom.  Here’s what I discern. What else
but a ‘void’ can one face? What else but the unemployed
infinity of nothing could I be the child of? When ‘infinity’
and ‘nothing’ pause together in a clause, Famished
Mind wants so for them to cause orgasmic spasm,
seething warring parts – BRING IT THE FUCK ON
and NO! – pitched to an untoward extremity. The true
Identity of Trinity therefore reveals itself in God, whose
word-made-flesh turns out to be a pedantry furnished
in burnished diction, supernal grammar, eternal alphabet.
God’s a school marm. Wet or dry, we’re a marvel of
a spinning lingual vacancy, hollow unity, a Source-Void
paying us an adequate annuity that with impunity permits
us to reflect upon the probable delusion we exist. What
greater manna could we wish? Could there be more
to learn than this? Not so’s we can see. Freeze if we stay,
burn if we go, who cares, don’t know. But hush! Look!
I’m asleep on a lawn at the back of my house, aged three –
could this have been me, ‘neath a Mulberry bush?
We picked mulberries, yes, from a branch. But not on
a prickly bush! Full of ticks probably! What does it mean
existentially? I’d have sworn what I knew was a tree.
Here we go round the mulberry bush
The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush
Here we go round the mulberry bush
So early in the morning.
If there’s a god it got lost in the push,
lost in the push lost in the push,
if there’s a god it got lost in the push,
but a new one is always aborning.

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