POST-POETRY : DEMSKE.DOWNEY.SHAWE


a poetry hangover means you need more poetry until you get sick, then you puke all you have in your system is poetry then you eat it.

sometimes when people take hallucinogenic drugs they vomit. perhaps even often. painkillers can induce both hallucinations and vomitting. or pain. fainting. a lack of some fundamental thing like hydration or a consciousness and then you hallucinate and you puke. simultaneously, maybe; the apex of a fugue state being just an animal.

a medium in a constant fugue maybe a constant present. you can’t just be in the middle of it outside is inside of it infected & contangious, nature’s hypodermic needle punctured a metred mimic. then you zoom out.

the saint performs the script the saint is visionary & doesn’t vomit they starve, elegantly, uninterested in adhering to an order of organs, a body disrobed & cannot get empty enough to be so permeable that language may pass through.

a whole play about sugar would be really interesting it would make you sick. visions of pink how delightful it’s awful. a sugar a poetry a champagne hangover all the same stupid after but the only way. in love with the whole thing a hysterical snotty love. everything martyred adorably mute wide-eyed & too much so the whole clock hurt.

*

a visionary has to have vision it’s part of the word. nothing is that interesting but absolute transparency is endearing. a lot of fictional characters are like that, vacant. probably a lot of poets are fictional characters sometimes. finite narrative options this is one of them. parallel widowers weep deliquesingly & every day make the same thing it’s insanity. make the same useless thing how lovely.

*

exquisite corpse (stockdale.lee.demske.downey.finn)

Secular conjoinment has punished me with the red self-corrective dancer machine

“I was made for dancing!” my Leif Garrett self proclaims, breaking mirrorball bits with Saturday shoes

Having sat (give up the ghost!) or having day shoes put on, he axed with the Mirabel© foundation blitzkreiged upon his cheeks lovingly.

The cheeks are fictional, and I don’t like them at all, sweet-shouted the girl with sweet-red-cheek sprinkled with the rubber compound flavor

Turn the other pinch your cris cheeky mouth of the horse don’t look a gift cheek in the cheek hand in

Bush or else hand in bushel, I reckon I’ve measured  mites, I reckon they’ve done swarmed the carcass

Mighty mouse lousing up the carpet son of a shag blood in the mouse hole: a word with the big cheese

He is irrelevant. A siren takes shape as a marrow transplant blatantly. Then a wing-ed aberration

Alights in thee. The storied loft. What untoward beginning, what unruly beast begins to seethe

Hey smooge.  This wanton Rangoon slampants gazebo drome.  I like what you did with the thing.

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