…all our so-called consciousness is a more or less fantastic commentary on an unknown text, one which is perhaps unknowable but yet felt…
To say it straight’s to abnegate the awe alterity
and praise, the perquisites. That said—the unconscious is
the abysm coloredin that the dream might be recalled,
a touchhole. The other is a flagrancy forced upon
the noumenon, a technicolored impest, a preempt.
About a sun redux an involucrum cenotaphs
its conflagrate downfall. Contrails pinnate, a wind arises,
caducous boughs report, the hawk discards its pinioned snake,
alation through and past pinwheeling crows incising fire,
a scintigraphy calid to behold and gelid to the touch
agnized at once when finelessly agnized as are all things.
Tonight I’ll make my bed and sleep beneath the boxspring for support
careful not to move for cobwebs etcetera. Am I
a wight? Rightful or not I dread to be or to return.
Doctor says I fast naturally and to keep it up
regretfully lugubrious, inguinally nutant.
I says I says eviternally as he pontiffs
at the Daemon.