Dove in Hunkering
The status of my illusion: great escape. You live here as well. Let’s say goodbye to the hunkered war-hawk. The corpse in the orchard owns nothing. Physiognomy lines itself in scythe & shrivel. The aversion is my own. By now, leaving feels hollow. This form of illusion takes the smaller claw. It troubles itself to dig the hole.
Is this pain? Or a poet making intercourse with wayward cities? People come & go, they hustle by the open fire. This is shuffling. Thought: rank—1. yourself—2. you, 3. white moon in polymer. Copied: a small tent of Babylon.
Come back from the whale’s belly. You lived here before the self-plodding world. Catchword: Revolution. Hear and keep the word. Dame, the coil; he’s your man now. The war body fits the grease. Will I survive the green gas? I think he will slip out of me now—
Make him a better man. That must come first, before the plunging of—aha, again.... Conversation with the bleeding. I’m not sleeping. I see counterfeit Greens, gases of nepotic contrast. Yours & mine just don’t coalesce. What’s wanted is a small clot—
I am no saint. Wash the blood from your hulled wings. Today: insenience. 3 parts of the other—how many parts to our one? Be A Light—Let Your Light Shine—I know less than you, love, washing, washing—Platinum—such a small inch—it makes it burn!
Why refuse? Why struggle? Why Pass? O Break it—it’s been feigned before—it begins to understand the play—it disappears. You’re broken in the back. The universe of spine & crotch. Rage on, completeness! I dug you out, I dug you out, & you crawled back in.
Deliver me to What Must Go before the What Must Come—