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30 August 2013

Strange Dancers pt. 5

5. Supplicant

Aisha fucks in pornographic style
Legs astride what may be our own flesh
But to sleep-bleary eyes is as likely her own
Bronze breasted like a statue her patina is glossed 
Clarified as the sun returns to its office of
Eleusinian distinctions amid a fugue of hallucinations
Bronze skin aglow again with sweat as she fucks
Herself as she leaks coconut milk, its clear serum
Punctuated with white liquids somewhere between flesh
And fluid prenatal
Fist and forearm snaking into her depth
   Fuck you for making me do this 
She says
   I must fuck myself as I've no one 
   To do the favor for me
She says 
Pregnant and milk-breasted and as a hermaphrodite in dispute
Under the watch of the Mirage which creeps like night 
Around us blocking the whole of the sky save for
The punctuation of the sun flexing under its reluctant gravity
Its halves drawing apart a millimeter further with every crest and trough
Of our physical dispute with hands slapping and grasping
Slipping with sweat off the other’s body.

Under the watch of the Mirage which creeps like night:
   Here is your shame

Aisha impregnates herself, autosexual
Her cock thick and massive like a banyan trunk 
Turned inward upon the lips of her own wet space
Which a tangle of black wiry oilslick hair
At once conceals but compels notice
Adorning what must be hidden and unmentioned
Peace being never upon it in this land and it is
Her only weapon so she brandishes her pilose mound
Like razor concertina black with venom Aisha dares any other 
In her convulsions to take the place of 
Her own bronzed scepter, enveined
And it is then I see we are joined at the knees and 
Growing out of one another like mirrored images
It is I fucking her either prostrate upon her or on my back reclined 
But no ground forms a bed and we are aspatial
Only the position of our shared perception creates 
A horizon to which we may refer
Divorcing us from the possibility of masturbatory emission.

Aisha’s eyes crease in tortured delight
Her ejaculate covering our bared muscle and bones
Nerves resheathed in foundation but as we are
Made whole those three who complete our entangled trident
Find themselves ejected like splinters of sun above
It is a loneliness less strange than any company I have known.

This is a procreation beautiful even before the Mirage:
   It is vulgar

Aisha and I resplendent in orgasm as her
Pleasure milks supplication from I her partner
Our joinery all that separates us from the Mirage 
We are both besieged by this watching form:
   Holy though are we
   Loathe are we to admit
   Our divine arousal

Thus ends the image and the division of the world complete
Hewn by the fissile sun split now fully and our shade
In perfect accord with the boundless expanse of the Mirage 
Two suns overhead in darkening correspondent halves
Over this contested land and lightning brighter than the day 
Tears and grasps and slaps the neon ocean and beneath
These fissile streams of electric filaments I am
Dissolved beneath the sun.

This is apocalypse
This is apocalypse
There are reverberations of breath
This is apocalypse

And it is breeding.

27 August 2013

Strange Dancers pt. 4

4. Witnesses of the Dialectic Convulsion

Here is a moment:

The sun splits in half above the recovering Mirage, each fissile
Drawing itself to full height and sending spindling fingers sunward
Its sloughed skin finally too thin, the solar corona absent
Its gravity finally defeated by its luminosity
It renders us bare of skin at last with atomic compulsion
Sundering magnitudes of astronomical space
It splits with a vacuous howl which only our eyes witness 
Blue sky bending to violets and reds in its wake, Platonic
But which all present, Mirage and subsumed populace and we four 
Cognize as though it is our marrow boiling
Our diatom-scoured trident fuses in fleshlessness
We are one now 
We are one
And as Aisha lifts herself to steadiness
She sees wind bluster ash-spots on the Mirage
They blend into a reformed perfection
Which seems now faded by its exposure
Less the perfect midnight shade it was formerly.

Listen: there are eyes upon us and
A flash throughout the sky is a
A rejoinder to the flickers of moments before.

And now we four who are one in fleshlessness
One body alone but strange inbound mingling invigorates us 
Within this body still is the shore and the argumentative ocean
In its final moments
A voice overtakes us, we friends of this one body listen:

   Is it true you are critical of us

Mirage qua Reporter beneath heavy glasses 
Like insect eyes and black shadows pulled into a balding crown
Its white prism gleam a shining head like waxed linoleum and liver-spotted
And we are in a space floored with hard carpets like sandpaper
A ceiling instead of a sky, and flaking asbestos tiles 
The fluorescent bar-lights having replaced for a moment the splitsun
A flashbulb recovering as our dilate eyes recover from its optic clap.

And now we four who are bound in fleshlessness
One body alone but strange intercourse invigorates us 
Within this body still are the sands and the ocean’s troughs
These moments are infinite as our end approaches
A voice overtakes us, we friends of this one body reply
In chorus we reply:

   For none born into submission to capital or chrism
   Nor those to a yoke empowered state
   Nor any less those who inherit the
   Insights and crimes of others
   Can we be responsible for them or
   Rewarded on behalf of those
   Secondhand efforts

We are returned to the shores which host our dispute.

The Mirage is upon Aisha as the sun continues its split 
It is as a jewel under a hammer, these suns
Laughter from the Mirage even as it coughs and sputters out
Whatever of Aisha remains within its depths 
As the sun cleaves its halves and shards
It slips and splits apart, spat words and cackles
Ensconced in a bestowed light from sweat and the fire which threatens
On naked bone and exposed anatomy beneath the fissile sun
At thirty three degrees above a gross measure of heat we smolder
Aisha’s breasts swell with milk, splinters of sunlight transformed
Her collarbone catches light as its spectrum shifts towards 
Unity whether indistinct or undifferentiated
The light such that even prisms cannot
Discriminate the content thereof
As such her sweat refracts only umbra.

The remaining strength of the sun’s halves 
Creating darkness as they radiate their last
Aisha’s body lit like brilliant oil, her brilliance
Pours from within her as she in her lambency
Divides the form of the amorphic Mirage, it courses 
Regaining Its mass of shadow even as
Its cohort threatens to be laid bare by 
Radiance which so tests our travelers' carapace 
And the Mirage’s thinning opacity.

In this solitary body
Four pairs of lungs will not help us cry louder
Eight eyes do not bear truth any better
Eight arms and attendant digits no better articulate
This strangeness descending from the perverse firmament 
Of our world our shadows have split and have we mimicked the sun
Its shards and glistening remnants slicing through empty space
Transmuted to milk in a lambent virgin.

The Mirage licks its cavernous buccal ingress
Seeking to reclaim its dissident emigre.

25 August 2013

Strange Dancers pt. 3

3. Children of Earth and Ocean

Here is a moment:

Domine in the Perhentians
An argument between the ocean and the land
A young boy watches his belly fat and his skin like
Dried coconut husks and he is in the middle of the tug
His boat is red and teal and an outboard motor is choked and ready
He kicks his legs along the measures of the ocean
Its troughs slapping against 
Grasping for the bleached wood 
He has for many summers neglected to paint
His craft is weighted and in lulling waves his eyes close.

Boxes of tangerines and coffee though he desires neither
Overweighted and enduring the tide with anchored bylines
The call to prayer rings out on the radio from
Kota Bharu but no one stops 
Women in their headscarves obedient to the trade that 
Paints the boat and fuels the motors and fills the beds 
And otherwise consumes the business of the day
The women committed to the business of the day
Scarves glittering like jewels on the arms of infrequent tourists
Pale and watching the boy fight the boat’s urge to capsize in a swell
Watching women thick of trunk load crates up narrow stairs
Wading out and back wrapped in glittering veils bearing geometric images.

There is a flicker of the daylight and
Its unquestioned ubiquity is Compromised 
All present are arrested of agency 
For a moment too brief to grasp
Amplified by the break in the sunlight the Mirage 
Rises from each cardinal point and sands rear up beneath us 
A wall of white sands our trident with entangled arms
Diatoms grazing us and lacerating our final boundary
Thrust towards the sky and below us all are
Enveloped by a cackling Mirage.

The Mirage convulses and It like the sky flickers
Grasping Itself, Its gut and like rolling dusk Its dark veneer
Lowers towards the horizon along the entire circumference of the sky
It wails and a sucking sound of such proportion so as to subsume thunder
And cracks of gunfire from belligerents unseen
Pulls our hearing outward into a reverberating vacuum.

A newly naked virgin girl spills from the black Mirage
A labial vibration ejects her as a vomitory slipstream
Into the argument between ocean and land and into the boy’s boat
Her head is wrapped with a nearly fluid film, a remnant 
The now sun-spotted constancy of the Mirage’s veil
Even as the sun raises boils on the girl’s body in her nascent exposure
Her former cohort trembling as they perceive their own exposure
Her eyes of a striate palette and flesh accompanying and they see they are
Her left iris black as the ash-speckled midnight which hems the Mirage
Her right iris the tarnished gold of our own skin beneath the fissile sun
And its nuclear gleam of white sheen of tears glinting on her corneas
Her placental veil choking her as she spits up oxygenated amniosis
It is her vestigial propriety which alienates her in this exposure
Even as to her we are endeared by the subjection we now share.

Aisha she is and a virgin with rough husked breasts
Henna'd toes in the tide in which her feet hang limply
The ocean rinses the rocks below her feet of afterbirth
Her head covered, a diaphanous gauze
Embroidered with copulating pairs of creatures
Geometric in their adherence adverse to true depiction
Her form and physique an hourglass of sun-roasted brown
Her time already internally ticking in unseen granules 
Which duplicate the boils Aisha’s youth sloughs off
Sun plays on her breasts and belly
Her limbs likewise in geometric proportion 
Like an embroidery herself along the shore on the boat where once
The replaced boy was before and perhaps in Aisha’s presence he persists.

14 August 2013

Strange Dancers pt. 2

2. Mirage

And yet we are little more denuded than before
By eyes on us upon our shamelessness 
Glittering eyes emerging amid stones and scrub
Surrounding us a shrieking Mirage dark like night
It as as being throttled by space
   Look, you
A many-faced Mirage that is as many-voiced
Enveiled and piercing the quarry walls with a treble wail
   You vilify yourselves
   You in your ample prostrations 
   Your mere body 
   This is repugnance
   Entertained at the expense of 
   That of which we cannot speak but with peace upon it 

   How you ignore and defile our creed
   How you affront goodness on these
   Our shores 

   Where is your shame 

Night-veiled Mirage sweeping towards us 
We are rooted still in the ocean’s advance
It punctures the dull contiguity of day-sky
The Mirage waves its many arms more terrible than 
Sexless Kali of nightmares Its arms winged with ten thousand fingers
To root out and excise our essential nudity
To clothe us by stripping further still than those rays of the sun unsheathed
Whose fires penetrate a thousand thousands
Of vast absences layered between us, we and Mirage 
Such distance It imagines It can surpass to
Excise agency and unselfconsciousness

And yet the sun, that fissile orb
Does not ignore the cloth of Its uniform righteousness 
It too festers beneath the blinding prism
Waters lap at our toes, we trespassers rooted in contested waters
Lazy like one made mindless before an incomprehensible disaster
Voices within the Mirage no longer speak in harmony
For the first time Its interior faces regard one another with wonder
It regards Itself for the first time and rippling through those faces
Is sheer wonder and terror as that which once was indivisible recognizes
The agents of its schizophrenia.

For the moment our flesh holds fast
For the moment each of us holds fast 
Freckled in our infinite imperfections before the 
Rarifying veil, the fractal cloth of the faces inhabiting the Mirage
Those nuclear rays spot the Mirage’s cloth with white ash
And for a time we are, my lambic-drunk friends and I
At an impasse as the extinct and fossilized
Vegetation springs upwards from our shadows which like water
Our fissile umbra a shade of darkness enlivening stony ferns
Our shade separating Earth and hallucinations of the heavens
This is our unity.

The Mirage reels as though drunk as our shade
Strikes and divides the world
Black and many-limbed and in motive advance Itself caught 
In our fissile shade we inherit from our lysing star overhead
The Mirage reels. 

Glittering watchers gather like wave-swept agates on the ridge
Pebble-skinned monitor lizards an arm’s length are only juveniles
Their scales are sapphire and opal and eyes like polished jet
Among the fluctuating foliage which returns to its ancient fullness
We seek no shelter behind it
And despite the intensity of the sun and skyfire 
Fossils rejuvenate and turn from stony grey to verdant emerald 
They encircle us on this contested shore
The Mirage and us, we four

We are naked as we begin our counterstep.

09 August 2013

Sky Burial

We cut off his fingers 
Joint by joint and then at the wrist as well

Then cleaving from sockets and sinews his elbows and shoulders 
His flesh was tight against our blades and our hands were
Greasy with blood and viscera and gristle after hauling up the fresh
Death upon our backs to the peak above the village where
Amid dry weeds mummified by endless winter
The bare steep face of the mountain looks over the valleys
Which surround these empty wastes

Fingers greasy with his death and his body and sinews
He whom we knew so much of or at least well enough to mourn
And thangkas drape awnings of lashed bones and stretched skins
Rich with color glowing under the funereal blaze
Every design an imitation of the view
Though does the sun die for him
He our friend in a binding of vines
Dry like his fingers would be three days hence were it not
For our practice which we've undertaken
He of golden skin muscled in memory
Thangkas like national flags of the handfuls of houses in our village
Scattered like the digits and segments which we cast
Strewn about these cliffs which we know so well
But which know us far further than any of our memories permit

The thangkas
Flags of a nation fivefold and individual they bear
The patterns of the family which made them
They flutter in the wind
As we pass with calloused hands which smell of iron

We tattoo ourselves with sharpened bone-picks
Inscribing and instructing those who
Must cut us up as we have done
For our friends those most dear

For they will not know 
Those who come after
They will not know the methods so we demarcate the lines and
Joints and diagram the sinews of ourselves and indicate
As best we can over fires and alcohol to
Allow tears and the clarity which follows as we indicate
With ink of macabre origin the places a blade must navigate

We are cartographers of the corpses
We must eventually become.

07 August 2013

Strange Dancers, pts. 0 and 1

0. Frontispiece

My friends are strange
 talented writers
 musicians and actors
 lovers and mad 
 like lambic-drunk monks 
My friends are strange
 basking in the sun
 the sex of its golden rays
 we are bathing on the shores
 on the beaches of contested lands
My friends are strange

1.  Entourage

These shores are also naked
The sun having stripped them of vegetation as it strips us 
Unclothed beneath the nuclear sun, the fissile sun
It dissolves as it pours its rays over us like rain 
Its internal convections shearing off its own skin which
Sloughs slowly off and ripples outward 
Its mass finally exhausted with the burden 
With the weight of symbols enumerated
By millennia of symbolic hyperbole 
Its flares in our astigmatic eyes render us half blind.

In the distance immense thunderheads shimmer and quake 
The sky in its opal vastness trembles and blue bends 
Across the spectrum it bleeds into violets and reds Platonic
Over oceans whose inverse percolations resupply the thunderheads
   Enough to power the history of us
She whom we call Mei says 
Ancient gods cower amid perpetual rumble and roar
Our other mouths still and mute her voice drifts among us
   In even this much of a moment
She whom we call Mei says
Her name a tripartite declaration of heritage
Her temporal origin
Her infinite possibility 
Her voice a shallow shrug. 

We lie on fine sands ten thousand years old 
Worked still by the kneading ocean 
We four lie backs bare in the pattern of a trident
I the stem and my crown in the sea
She whom we call Mei
Medial of these three worthies
Arms interlocked and the feet of
This my self upon her crown
These three worthies
Above my underfoot.

We will soon be likewise stripped of our skins
As we have been already of our clothing
He who calls Mei his but not his alone
He a frank participant and august lover and
Instigant and acersecomic fallow-maker of language and shameless 
In decoupage he spat his name into the cresting waves yesterday 
He now goes without it and binds his locks with wooden combs
His vestments no more than sheaves of happenstance fabric which unwind 
Beneath the force of the sun and arms outstretched in riotous embrace declares
   It gets to one’s head!

Likewise another is his complement our sinister tine
Her androgyny in her Roman name July
They three are a dynasty in accidental reference
Though with them in this respect I am apart
Named instead for one who slept fearlessly
Among carnivores with golden hides beneath the Arian plain
We honor the habit of our names in prostration.

We are golden and olive and white 
We are speckled bronze and freckled
With constellations we reflect the blue blindered heavens 
Which the sun sequesters behind its crowning flares which meet their quantum
Twin entangled in the corneal glare against which only a lofted hand can shade
Shimmering in sweat and oil below the arcing bolts 
Our sweat flashes white as liquid prism
Chrism upon us it is the Undifferentiated Color 
But we ourselves in feigned sin are the alloys of a thousand
Baser metals on these contested shores 
Which ring with the echoes of gunfire from beyond the shoreline ridge.

These shores are bordered on three sides by quarry walls 
Rocky they are and even their primordial vegetation 
Remaining only as calcified periphery
These shores even have been stripped of mineral history
And what remains is only flesh as noumena both
Our compound projection is only ideation as flesh
Calls of voice echo in increasing volume beyond the mined bedrock
Echoes punctuated by firearms unseen compete even with thunder 
Sounds in factious combat cause our white sheen to tremble.
Mei she is extends her tongue languidly 
Along the collarbone of either neighbor
But not I who lie rooted in the ocean
Which kneads at me as it does the fine sand 
A hundred miles distant thunder answers the rhythm of 
Destructions cellular and psychic and borne by clarified will
On these contested shores.

Lying now as we do now our vestments in ashes 
Ashes with which we mark lazy crosses
Across each other’s foreheads  
Navels and breasts bear these fractal depictions 
The horizon and its ocean source and thunder
Beneath eyes and above sweat smeared brows
Paralleled strikes smeared on taut common flesh 
Fingers dress fine ash upon Mei
Her face and her eyes are as tarnished gold 
Lambent even in the shade of a hand brought to her brow 
Her fingers open to grasp loosed hair

On these contested shores.