Of This Men Shall Know Nothing, Max Ernst

Orchids sleeping in closure
burn attachments

Unmask golden memes:
brunette insurrection
detonates mouth submission

Lexicons and grammatical heels
untenable pimento

Moon vespers ululate
enzymes leak from vinyl lips
pink swoon theory/wake the clamor

Fondle wanton tinsel
linguistic seminary martyrdom
penciled and chlorinated oompah gliss
“lingerie mode” wired for honeyed idioms
the “sugary parachute”

Carbon-copied neuropathic process
binary prom tomfoolery coddle sugarplums
figure-eights in “personal memory”

Metonymic mind-sprawl crosshair silhouette
clown-faced turtle wax
reap boyish gravy (such know-how notwithstanding)
vowel-wetting seen from cupolas
notched spasm serving mouth

Surgically varnished umlauts
Paratactical Tuesday promise-lumps
deepen spittoon furballs

Intentionally fungal crawl-spaces (flotsam at intervals)
nightstick interruptus trumps Rorschach bisque blot
cherub lunch special sale or lease bubble fallopian epiphanies
dial-up frappe’ yodeling thinnest of intervals

Second circle aftertaste fluff
approved credit membrane linger
talcum penetration dream jar

Luau sputum/lily dream
flunitrazepam among sentimentalists
left eye radio silence surplus Teflon
defiantly self-marinating vinegar host (natural born)

encrypt pink trauma              unmake tenure
between my legs                     residual fiction
punctual floozy foretaste        state-sponsored craving
mojo corduroys                      pout horizontal
monomaniacal bowknot        squeeze tenderloins

Degenerates your refusal factory cupcake avarice licks commodities
talking forever acoustic soup—salt hammer pontoons of pink rats,
no extension cord. Have you eaten? TV exhaust pipes bee-line into brain stem
—got it? Vinyl hem-line accommodates quattrocentos. Besmirched silence.
Corybantic mule-skinners gate crash the diaphanous. Snowflakes, bells:
incantations on paper, “poetry-as-conformist-entertainment.” Verbal kenosis.

The usual lisp

childhood parentheses

text of beauty marks

and blue flame

Freely admit penny-whistle salesmen, bird whisperers, self-Ouija-ing nominalists stuck in syntactical flypaper. Little tugboat doo-dahs make it numb. Deep red codex. A priori stomach protractors. “Hoping things will turn around.” Basement full of category mistakes, septic chum, and so I ask you: did I pay too much for your ontology? Smell of cufflinks, claxon dreams. What you call “pushing” I call “helping.” Someone defamiliarized the ice trays—left quadrant frisson an early symptom, mirror numbness in later stages. You suck ammo. Sleepy Germans come undone remembering moon-mist and sincere lakes from childhood. That’s why you should never hand an amnesiac a plumb-line! Gray hum beneath the lyricist’s prattle—that’s the ticket!

a new prose born of lyric enervation
watching shadows recoil from “realistic moons”
emerge from folds or creases darker than the mirror’s back
a word’s torn wing or whitening echo
Schonberg sonatas     flapjack boys      the body’s forgetful solarium now a tenebrous poem
(aren’t they all?)     ay-ay sir     community outreach “dialed up to ten”     a gaggle of beatnik
marketeers ponder their reflections in department store display windows and recuperative
looking glasses    “fighting capitalism from within”     sentences grown more centrifugal
dreamed into substance
call it “music without metaphors     an alphabet of bones”     each name’s weightless embrace
flat like throttled French phrases in a haughty maître d’s throat     foxhole amor     laryngeal
croutons                  fricative dispensary     functional butter fossilizes Protestant jerk emetic as
forklift floozies seem inherent    viral earworm discounted     corporate wham-bam     tiny
minotaur adrift on whimsical spreadsheets reminding us to dot bottom lines     buckle up and
knuckle down     (is there an anacronym for that?)    do you hear what’s in the air—scale of one
to twenty-six?
predictable moon-light falls aslant upon my “unreadable text”
good fog
fricative fricative      harsh your mellow     feeling interpolated?     a pain is a pain is pain

“all I do is bleed”
salt savory
arguable thesis

a long line of guttersnipes
lollygagging Sartrean schmerz-fest!
what is there to interpret?
are you wordsome tonight?

what I meant to say, O imaginary lover, is “diddle-yum this, a priori!”
The rest is silence.
Furthermore . . .