Saturday, January 13, 2018

Kit Kelen #742 - les mots sous les mots

les mots sous les mots

bury the eye in heavens above
bark till the tree runs up

bill the bird for beak in

stim trumps twitch every time
(there are lots)

make the bastards want to read
and burn to blur
waft off
this senseless waste of charcoal

a little obliteration goes a long long way
or possibly that is the title

et sous les mots, les mots

it's out of the good woodwork
among the shapes
as heaven arrays
everything recycled

who'll choose
and who'll be chosen

democracy kicks in
as of the one mind
now unmade

no mark without direction, depth

no safe distance from a self

but definition in the shadows
a grade from whim through
convenient materials

grey pants

and rub till the thing stands up

go too far
go further
fall off and climb back up

a senseless waste of charcoal
before the flames commit

this is not the way in

see only through a little slit
registration of another
no, season

the city whole

it overbalances
where we tip out

every house is of its gods
it has to be light lets in

the aphorist will wink
we see

tap of the day
machine takes all in

work is the thing in progress
exhaust fumes come from here

go right through the paper
to the other place

all fucked up
could be a way of life

go too far
go further
fall off and climb back up

the art lecture
is all words too many

every house is of its gods

the wrapped thing
the underthing
the unknown
the buried

why does a thing deserve to be painted?

is there an eloquence in likeness?

each mark demands its own belief
one needs constantly to sharpen

if so returns diminish by law
pencil so

and then a city stands
an empire timbers out of frame

et sous les images, les mots
et sous les mots, images

there was a language there

let that begin my doubt

things inaccessible themselves

world other of the any mark

paint parties out

how dark the bright world corners them
you'll have this view of night

for things can't be reached
shall we draw a stepladder?

like diners
we gather to listen

sometimes look
and there's nothing there
you'll kindly picture that

there are no calories in this
a body cannot consist of pictures

faster than the work they come to

so live in the time beyond
it's an art to make
this standing
from the moment

rude presence
never lets us by

where hours and years have come to sit

though none look up

you smell the rain before it comes
and rally to the battlements
as with the other ants

every house is of its gods
it has to be light lets us in

nothing to see here

wherever you are
come out

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