What
is success? Wrinkling and buying
Reading
palms and predicting ice
I
have to think about emotion
As
a form of dilation. I want to know more
About
yearning and interpretation
Penetrating
anything is sensational
And
round. The insects scatter
In
a saga of unfocussed rage. Hunger
Burns
to inspire a pharmaceutical
That
conveys vividness and intestines
On
a pretty migration to Siberia
I
learn by what the plywood rubs
And
crawl wherever there is warmth
To
be had and death sparkles
Like
a chandelier in Louisiana
Baking
has a sexual component
Stitched
at midnight. These events
Emerge
from the steam of a long
Incubation.
The mountains cough
And
play becomes increasingly hermetic
But
if we don’t rob the bank the bank
Will
rob us. We must find other means
To
stimulate art. Everything, it seems,
Is
a paradigm. I blame the string
For
its extraordinary presence
My
reactions to Renoir keep changing
Into
light and dark and Bob Dylan
On
a horse. The word ‘wave’ is so divine
I
hesitate to use it, but there it is, wave
Feeding
wave after wave in succession
Until
it all flops down on the sand
Here
I am in a bathing suit
Waving
to you, throwing an idea at you
Of
sand and sky and malleability
In
the spirit of English romanticism
Reacting
to a tuft of hair
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