Poems for Tamas Panitz’s Steak Phase

I.

Blue tongue cut out of blue tongue
Blue flame forever imperfect gaseous seal
What warm weather is a belief wasting time with purified time
You too are a cash cow 
Future stew strewn across negative geometry renounced
Renunciation 
It’s a blatant dentist out there today 
It’s a migrating film reel of mausoleums, conspiring
I guess a beef broom
March hyacinth what do you equate with eternal colors?
Orange blue yellow Crevel colors dynastic and freezing
I aim for the back of the head
Call it abandonment
The problem revolves around enforcing daylight
Special justifications for dreams of the irreal sans stars
Sans heart
Sans irradiated trinities of grime
I had the strangest dream of bland water

II.

Plucking the last chile from tie-dyed darkness in the air
Orange trees grow on orange trees
Orange penis trees grow on orange penis trees
Yet there you are with your beige brain
Winter chef
Palliative death veneer
Mannequin-shaped sperm bank 
Pills for unequivocal short poems
Actually go ahead and get divorced
Alien daylight
Corsages of wasted peripheral commotion
Hermetic order of the golden dong
How did you see the diamond of crap
How did you see a web of light
I dream of mice and mice deliver themselves from evil
Oh so you want to trap yourself in the commode
Part donkey part bull

III.

My enemies are now variegated, as the sun is educated, spoke the Sumerian sky descending upon the seven gates of the underworld. A little wine would work its way into the dusty railroads of horror poetry, I say, while sparrows and their collective foam interpret Alcibiades’ grief. Oh lord, the body and its phantasms of angular lunch, and what can you do with that? Lie to a couch of leaves, ear open to the gray of baritones? Blow me.

IV.

Ethos of pure angles and slick. Like administering a form of future memory from which you could never come back, or go to. The flesh withers in the way frayed masks do. Throughout one life. 

Apparent surface or wanting of superficial wanting, I told you, in view of a story, an unpronounceable, I should shrine then alleviate an alien slab, plus my voice as its guest, the apex of milk is this. 

I was born regarding the giver’s ache, which is the world’s grammar, a valentine of grazing truth. 

I write about calliopes and calliopes break. I write about viridian superfluousness, and its permanence leaks, steam from its vacation crates. I write about the firmament, and, no, trespassers of the brain arrive from disbelief. Which means nothing to you. Huge thrills, hallelujah.

V.

Metaphorical metaphors are perfect
They have no surfaces; the body
is a coat hanger for most normal-bodied gods
Which is to say a philosophy of “thou,” accruing
dynamism of movement
This little exploration in hearing the bloodloss
of the middle-kinetic
of unlocking listeners from the face, out
What I hope is that by splitting the grown up clown
the cowing of it
I will see how the sun swings in that sky outside of human truth
Where flies fall apart from the inside
Like a thing walking into the cannibalistic night
no one has seen what I have seen
All eyes coming out of their obscene poetical maps

VI.

Split sunsets of anxiety, inside of Time. Time, yes. Time. “Time.” Time.
New flavors do reach me, but I want some kind of explosion. You have your duty, and she isn’t going anywhere.

I’m not trying to make you stand there forever, you know,
but we can both hear the sirens. They’re coming for me. Nude agates. 
New maggots. Until the continuation of proteomics. Tangerine-essential, if you know what I mean. They were always telling me that there was little less than exotic violence all around. Foreign song of skies absolved of their ignorance. 
I hope to see some kind of change in you, when you satisfy the expressionless ghost of my young doppelgänger. 
Fulfilled quota: demons yawn.

VII.

All of the goats have been removed 
from the island. Somewhere 
an auspicious gamelan floats by.
In the semantic pines, tubes of jelly that don’t want to stay. 
What grabs and devours like a dog or a dragon,
what arrogance, piecemeal invocation of some thing other than reason. 
Experience matters. Electric lesbians matter. 
Van Gogh cannot be saved. Space, delete. One on top of another our minds 
form a Mandarin Plaza or take a grand tour of every Western restaurant. 
Such is the merging of male tales; such is the opening of an absent treasure chest. 
I take what I am supplied with 
and make a major fist that the wind blows north, and I am free to believe in my own monotony.
Power classifies itself as more of me,
as a vertical clearing where the Old World invented angels. 
I remember this exchange. No way. 
“Zoning.”

VIII.

Neo-lagsterism, common grass. 
Ten-ton ecstasy; at this point you can’t stress out. 
I want to say what the thing is about without going:  Arriba, arriba, arriba!
The question is one of bone angles.
Mathematical asceticism, quotes of conjuring headscapes from the sands of pleasure.
Levitating pain makes no guarantees. A brisk tale on a Wednesday.
Am I finally sober? The black hole of self occasionally remembers to make a toast to the roads ahead, which likely lead to Venice. Ours are dancers. The times have changed.
A sweet combination of cutting and cold tea. Her silver rings bleed into gold.
The Blue Wife of the Rodeo.
Some souls die when they bloom, like a piece of gum, and others, well,
they write with sybaritic lips the contemplations of Tendai sunshine.
Just bribing the jury with the sea breeze of blood.

Tamas Panitz is the author of several poetry books, including The Country Passing By (Model City 2022), Toad’s Sanctuary (Ornithopter Press: 2021), and The House of the Devil (Lunar Chandelier Collective: 2020). Other books include Conversazione, interviews with Peter Lamborn Wilson (Autonomedia: 2022), and The Selected Poems of Charles Tomás; trans. w/Carlos Lara (Schism: 2022). He was tyrant over the online journal Blazing Stadium. Tamas Panitz is also a painter, whose paintings and stray poems can be found on instagram, @tamaspanitz.