from NO MATERIAL
[...] Put the lid on your dark pale tale, prince. The pockets in which we live remain defenseless. In fact, the wedding glows with weeping sails, her body is the bail and the lawn of friendship, when I see what will shuns from the mouth of fire. Bones dream too. Holy seeds excavate clones of faded waves. The voice is glowing, gay and echoless, spatial though, and trapped in pairs of pants. Wonder has floored and flavored the vesting of imperial scares. My hand grows a flame that gorgeous lean-tos pray below, and we know that love sings the breast of love’s ear. I’m tired of my flames, my gyrating all-green vacancy, my daybed of horrible curvature nonsense. Now my tears chew time through me, through grizzly and private thaumaturgy. I took the train at Kingston-Throop.
“In the full light of the world, in the full light of the world.”
In the full light of the world, I have actively hated the loneliness of signs. But I’ve saved many lives. Dark waves of prey commingle with certain sleeves of risk, playing with the works of blessed zipper beds. The light inside of the skull pains me. And its 69 drugs of tormented April. No one cares for the air’s animal disease. Now there are pure therapies of occluded memory, pears from purity’s errors. As sure as the carpentry starts in flagrant emerald beings.
I put the glowing putrescent cloak on. Oh, right, of course, the capital cape dolls also want to fight the wan version of me. The hooker stains on your dollar choker are flying off into time vibrantly.
Should we have blamed all fourth skills for the blood of the good? Scattered pilots invade a world of new consciousnesses, and, yes, the style of my eyes is blotched by tasteless murals of pain. The sane are now known as the last of you. Redefining the world as a black daughter, I am more surgical than tainted Sufis. Just dinner pains. Just air in the waves. Just the cholesterol of death’s caution. My hand is mantic. Obsessed with prior impurity stunts. The King James Version of outer space.
William Blake, The Ghost’s Appearance to Hamlet, 1806. Watercolor. Blake Archive.
“Like a summer in the mouth of all that replies to my certain essence, but in the end gold turns away.”
Certain glass punctuation clauses, certain nods to the office of the untouched backwards; am I dreaming? Glasgow bulimia and me, and how deep is the ocean when it’s being protected by what no one knows is going to happen. Ongoing sapphire. Guest vampire and black meal. Who do you think is the guest?
Phallic Robespierre. We like neutral cops. External vent.
Kill me and then we’ll see how much the judges wane: the sun with its titillating cutlery. These are all over-the-top sauntering window slums. Back to four things though. First, telepathic windchimes excoriating Christ for his internal fiery dolphin plug. Second, homeless tapestries all unfollowed me on Instagram, and I don’t appreciate that. Third, detached shadow spell silk green movement. Fourth, incandescent battering rams against doors of butter. Pour me from the inside, or you don’t have the chops for this.
Most ham appears like predestined skid marks. This is what I get for helping Niagara Falls with its epileptic belting procedure. Co-viridian night flights into aspect homes; sunlight is now considered fashion. Bodies are out in the cold cocoa of delight, the hallways of birth and older types of calculus, as if Death could not book yourselves a surprise. You shouldn’t slur at the boat scum. Simple diver of the fervent inhalation Cerberus, I pray for worse bird melts. I pray for knights inside of their aimless days. My shares in the kid stayed the same over four decades. A question for terrorists in a fucking enchilada.
Biblical Kirkland remains.
Painted lineament capitals.
Arthur B. Carles, Composition, III, 1931-32. Oil on canvas. MoMA.
Practicing the defeat of fundamental cashmere. My latest edition is an intro to horse suffering, Hollywood’s patterns that chiefly christen ratios of natural weather with understanding from machines. The government widens when called, and it tells the dead of their prizes all the same. Incapable of sympathy in the saddle. Incapable of comprehending the duck feathers of her soul’s position, in me a lake hyperventilates and boils with dolls. The lobster of summation. Holding mansions, begging for the earlier years when the shame of being operational crosses pulled hate from people of the day. A late pale goat is better than all of it. A serum, a change in actual leaves easing into dark stuff, substances that high risk de-escalated loves prepare for educational games. Higher reality gear catching blossoms by policy, by shrapnel or cheers. Or oceanic catharsis. Ample human details winging it for balsam preparation or Ninja Turtles. Do you hear the rousing through May? The subcultural Hesiod of rain? Injunctions nightly shocked but twerking, roommates fighting over cinematic qi. Hashtag imperial shrew.
Aliens can see you in the plagues. Sardonic shame coffee wearing a wolf’s seedmind and repartee. Wearing the right-wing aspirin being alive. A gale and an arsonist, in your hook of erroneous public Portuguese warmth. Jail in the glades, fault news baking porous castle clouds. Diction at the pussy’s angle. How many teeth are submerged in the spellbound Gallic barn? Hold my outer mind with weak whales and repetitive sales clowns. 4:45pm?
Foam god pointing down. Authentic mahjong. In the night of unclean time, in the day of every sand war, ministerial gland gore. I’ll shine until the enzymes focus. The breath is the spending of time in a spending climate. Turning martyrs into abstract food questions. Turning agents of the scabrous blind monocle into Corsican frangibility maestros. It’s all incognito dust bumps. Skymelt tenderloin proof. 1,000 proof.
My favorite appetite is owls, do you see now? A cage of original blue, an original blue cage, stages of impaired slurring where code words fumble. That’s often true, you know, plantlife wants me, yes. I’m sitting in the interior eyeball. My import plays an overture for those constrained by larceny; I am like the virtue of being beheaded. Gray grapes, billowing filthy dishes. Friends in a grave with friends: hello.
Wayne Thiebaud, Bakery Case, 1996. Oil on canvas. NYTimes.
Take, for instance, the cheap archaeology of pants: boy, it’s a sinister letter instructing you to maraud a Rauschenbergian fandango carcass. See the states administer their mustard exchange? It’s all but seafoam withering from communism. A stroke, a hedgerow of oral altars, prophecy in a can facilitated by lethal injection. So far, though, the directions are a Jacobean wicker preference, an intestinal, gentlemanly, insensate Cahuenga transfer for brokers. All the time I was told, especially at car shows, that the gates of marriage resumed under Kevlar echidna choice. Fully pampered for value, producing sparks of total recall.
Goddamnit, I feel like Robert Chester. Clear as a tesseract in waking, flamboyant orgone fluid. I totally had to mix up my estate with whales. Bossa nova geriatrics, or riding on black bones to the static yawp field. I’ve seen you, percipient tea stroke, at a time when the venom of existence was aggrandized by special, statistical refills of aleatory purposes. Alrighty then. Let’s go shopping.
Fresh horror reed. Marked incinerator of calcified shudder bulbs. Barthes would station himself at dry docks, waiting for distinct prize money parchment. What is warranted by gaskets combing over shade? Perfected dreaming cars or bottled brains for two gold vorpal leaves. The first time, I had miniature eyeballs; the second time, I interjected while cruising for salt. That’s art for New York City, you feel me? A patient plate of warfare: you can have it.
“Gum in the head is all I care about.”
Walking with a cow-cow. Permanent blank on a lemon fire escape, Paribas. Coal for flailing. Lift me up above the icy fat of my contracts. Guided packs of meat, what is wrong? Covetous beam prostate, what the fuck is wrong? Dinner in her hair, what the fuckity fuck fuck fuck? I evolve out of open mouth star castles, right. Centrist escapade, man, it’s not a way to go out.
Germaine Krull, advertisement for fashion designer Paul Poiret, 1926. Gelatin silver print. Art in America.
“Doing what we do, palpitating light breathing itself into smiling light. Seeds of self. Seeds of elf.”
This has to do with windows during the Weimar Republic. Tender olive-green chickens, importing toxins but too many. High life and stamped out route, flummoxed by strolling orally through masked weirdos. I watched while nothing offed all the caesarian and vegetative karma clasps. Monday, or Friday, morning, only. Water from the eyes dreams at times; water points to cardboard trial ranges in Africa. Substituting corn lunch like that, the stars were enmeshed in real paper bags that distracted themselves from momentous light goats. My breath braided in the wide open. I am a door to the very yard of your drywall by the fistful. Not looking in any direction, not hurting in the pregnant information of cop cars. Bosses writhe. Nice vanity mirror.
Passive tire shunts. Who makes the guarded arts? What kind of sleight of hand takes a biscuit candle for granted? Wiggling phone flame, the questions remain sober, the shit of reverie as an alluring pellucid dance partner. I reach into the bucket, and little lyrics tickle negation in Song’s sign.
It’s a pity that triangles go uncontested in this godforsaken cat life. Don’t go scavenging in dark cells, for dark cartoons. Oh cheesy snake, I dream of you again. Oh cheesy snake, instigate the curse and birth of money in my trade. Why am I forced to hear the terror of boredom? Bricks fucking each other and such.
“Not much to see at the coffin shop today, save for this crow in a field of amber crows.”
Like I have a pigeon or elves, the looking imbues the air with Tylenol heights. The soul is only a guise for pain’s ground. We know this. We knew this. The love doesn’t arrive for just anyone in this town. Violins go off in the tomb light; soon I write on recidivist papers about the one way streets and the poison of the intervals between melodies. All are welcome to the little goodness that titles itself prayer’s sound. A thousand miles in the usual talk of passengers ghosts. The plain business of going ahead. Opening the jailed me in order to think of cat’s bells. The glow sheds bismuth and marks of bismuth. Life is summery sometimes.
Phoenix from medieval bestiary, c. 1250. British Library.
“Yes, gasses imagine things too.”
District-blue canopy cartel, do you swear the murderous pie ends in this fear? I’ve seen a woman build an argument around nothing. Record skips. Record ends. Side A.
Side A. Chet Baker and the sacred probabilities. Cue If I Should Lose You. Employing doom, what, are there penguins forming to deter me from their calculations? My private bone structure should be challenging enough, in this or any other room. You suck in the heart as it suck-sucks. Blowjob passing the beginning of sleep. Never tempered for Montana like that. I’d hang on to the end of it, but the colors were a little swervy. This is all about Michael’s abrasion cortex and nothing else.
“I want the full amount. Which, today, should be like $10,000.”
You have to listen to me. Blue whales covered in glitter. A supper of webinar-chilled rabies. I swear to god, what steam wears might as well be blind snow. One out of five will end in flames. Professional Julissa: Julissa is a professional. Dashboard kinetics opening new accounts in the name of last things. Check the clock, tired fire hydrant. Check the cloak.
Fine, flooded heart pastes; sad gelatin notes. What do you care what hour it is? Psychosis makes you think it. Extreme codpiece surface, we have to fly out Saturday.
The point is: Time’s perfect children have impregnated me. Mesopotamian piss pills? At the time of the tropical games, I truly felt at peace. Peepholes all wrongly filled with veal. All willpower running on white gloom. I feel the beginning of squealing petrol hills, emphatically things rail against gulches of shame. Celebratory god-scry making rain in the lobby’s metropole. In my mind, sunshine moves like an Indian hidden or enshrined in silver songs. Love as the blind stick turning around, soft and kind of on fire. South Carolina’s womb kicks the helium from behind. Dark silos of holy holes. Butter and standing around. The long, distant crabapple of cesium. Hearing me, then hearing the mayor, a wired check certified by connective tissue from the opal beings of heart monitors. Blue fizz named Sharon.
Kerry James Marshall, A Portrait of the Artist as a Shadow of His Former Self, 1980. Egg tempera on paper. ArtForum.
Pervertable canopy barons win, and did you know that snow is a maroon what? Love is a necklace with both eyes sliced open. A bird imagines that. What do I call you besides the caul of ghost cities and rhythms? The kilt of sorrow disemboweled by sips of nocturnal warblers. The womb is the original kicker of plasticized mouth illimitation. The notches themselves are vibratory. No candles have been replaced with water.
“Art is bottled by words in phobic order.” Cha-ching.
Imperial garbage pterodactyl. Be here and be closer, agenda, my cord. This is maximum doggy bag. The whole of life weaponized like a snake pit. Honey scowls, refusing to rise from its stars. Madness storming a trillion exoplanets. When I see the circles of love, I evolve into the stiff campus of enemies and withered lump sprains. You would never text me anything that wasn’t a saddle. How do you ram stuff into blood? We live in the frontal flailing orbit.
Disguised pentagram buttons, I will let you know as soon as the agents of my addiction return. Prophesying residual four-sided cantaloupe stacks, god pursues you in the winds of methamphetamine, in the diet of pavement, breathing hollow bees, circles arise in the chance erasure of saturnine goldmines. Lakes lay fruit in blasphemous rain. Night being ordinary rain also. Relapsing on mental ides, surefire cream atrophying like a jewel in gray totality: the right thing. Exchanges of cold world eyes deter nothing, as cures for latent knowledge decay on the symbols of day, and there are no rules to funereal palsy, especially when demeaning exits fuel nests of offal. Ignorant recipes need the sun between their knees, the right time for fucking millenial botany, aliens wave their catastrophic pencil seeds in the gorge of lavender bones. On horses in lavender rivers of beef. Violence wears the coronal drip of worth, washing angelic weeds with lasers in winter. Clothes drown, smoke fries your thighs for apple spectrographs.
Charles Ephraim Burchfield, Sun and Rocks, 1918-1950. Watercolor and gouache on paper. Albright-Knox.
“The ground lives in me.”
“Places glow with oceans of seas.”
Scores of portraits rebrand the unfinished essence of thievery. Screams observe. Distant protracted verbiage, Coca-Cola horseshoe weary, pillows dying in marshes of silence, the closeted economy, empanadas of wigs, cold weather varnishing, I walk to the wasted archer’s evening dry rot. Place appears in me. Forks accumulate, appearances’ breezes grieve. In Judith time, in lecherous joke praise, diamond ear seam, justice acquiring wings for free. Fugitive girth pamphlet. A Ricardo risking it all among the fringe gossamer fawns. Territory of malevolent tetra things. Gunnysack gunlight delight.
Perfect asshole. Debt. Laundry. Marionettes. Lamb shank. Hairball. Discus. Chamois. I’m going outside now.
Curative dictation around belts. I’m inviting you to hell by the beach. From scratch.
“Dreams that coruscate from both up close and far away…” [...]
Eric Gill, Skaters, 1926. Intaglio print on paper. Tate.
