OUT OF SPACE AND FURTHER OUT AGAIN
Out of space and further out again, hares snuggled in a plastic transparency, knees carpeted by waterlike graffitis. My lips have the taste of a drug I’ve taken long ago, a drug that calmed my eyes, and calmed my face, calmed my lips when it touched them and calmed my legs when I tried to walk on them, and I was calm back then, and thoughtful and indifferent was I to Pluto or Mars, wilting a little more with each moment that I notice, fading away if I don’t concentrate on their conversation. Like, the handwriting in lemon on a splinter of uranium cease existing for decades. Somebody will remember how to brush it against the glimmers of a far-away forest fire the same way the gypsy did. One morning you’ll wake up, have a coffee with milk in it, brush your teeth, and when you’ll look up into the mirror you will know you’ve just been expulsed from Paradise.
There will be 5 different suns, but no night.
Here’s your whiskey, a glass for it, force me, and I will drink, animals will bow to me on my way home and open their chests so I will see, the magnificent shell that they held there instead of a throat and a heartbeat, and the candle I held will be solid, rooted deep into my steps, and I will hold the lantern up to the animal’s breasts and their completions were of a sapphire red crescent.
When the wrong sun will set they will go back inside, they will stay inside, rest, do nothing, hallucinate.
and a non-emotive knowledge of dawn,
dawn isn’t erotic, but if you take off your pants
and I take off my underwear and we stand in front
of one another kneeling on the bed
between my legs
we make dawn be.
I sit on the toilet seat and you sit on me
and we both pee. Blue-grey, steel, zaffre, from sea
to sky, from sky to sea. A sky sinks deeper
into the sky. Bats circuit the night sky with a wine
electricity. The pressure of gravity like cum
on a naked shoulder by the pool where I drowned
my japanese best friend when I was a child,
it’s good to count the time passing
on my belly, thoughts a stoned
persian green, and turn to my back again
to get an even tan. The sky’s full of pines,
and pine-trees, a luscious green-brown tint
tingling along my spine down to my cunt
where it nestles the letters I will write to you someday,
when I have time, when I am tanned,
among my pines, and pine-trees,
both the same tree, part of many different kinds of
trees. Pines, PINES, my friend,
Pines, and sticky buns from the asian restaurant I brought you in the morning, just after your dad visited you and told you to stop drinking so much bad wine, the floor of your room was bare, not made, and you slept with your chapka on (I’m turning from my back to my belly now, the sun’s bloated with my ankles, ready to spread them apart, bones gurgling down my blood, the towel under me is moist with armpit sweat, I can smell it, I put my nose on it, inhale, exhale out more moist, my hands are under my face, my face facing the lawn, on which a pinecone flutters like a nipple apprehending the tip of a prick’s caress)
and I slept naked. There by the small seaside you got alcohol poisoned, and your jewish girlfriend did not let you sleep at her place, because she lived with her parents and they disapproved of you fucking before marriage. Uranium spurts out your ear into your cupped hands, my old friend, I’m wearing the yellow socks you gave me before you left,
wrinkles of my fisted hand like Barbelo’s
Your house right next to mine, and our mom wasn’t home and you were on all-fours
them dream awake for a certain amount of time. (When I wrote that
My swimming suit is of a purple dark-green, darknesses surround my head like the edges of a beef heart, I cumshot the peaches in the peach-tree nearby. I cumshot the pears of the pear-trees and the fig of the figtrees. The fruits I make are these leaves scattered on the ground before 8AM after a short Autumn night, there’s a post-office on the right, further south a lake like a canvas of short paintings, dribbles of sweet meat on the bottom of our sweaters, which we wore reverse, to silence the stains; the black drinks we reserved for our Friday nights, and cold chicken leftovers on the table as big as the mingled space that is your cock buried in my ass. (As war is the god of the universe, a turquoise elbow on a tree-trunk remains, and is made whole by the solemn apparition of a brutal chant of roses)
this side of my thighs golden up against the timid halo
of the sky. The sky, dim and unnoticed
most of the time, I looked at you crouched with your nose
buried in the lawn, my arms held tight above the ground, each
patch of grass a little too large, your eyes rolling back into your
head like a frog fearing the icecold purple yellows of
and on to the whitening moss reflecting
grains. I’ve found nothing, not in the grass, not in the lawn; I smelled the grass, and I smelled the
lawn, I smelled my finger after
they’ve circuited you, we sucked on one another, we held our arms up above our head on the
pillowcase where we could let them rest. I’ve got nothing to found but the grass in which we pissed,
and the grass
in which we crouched, sapphired turquoises raining like a drive-in
line, my towel around my hips, I swap
my right sock
to the left foot
Since this, drunkness given, how to say it,
You will have the same face, with wrinkles like a tree-trunk, the
same face you’ve got when you were younger, restless,
agessss preteen boys kissing on the lips
after they’ve jerked off together,
becoming age-like with carvings
running along it,
like good old tree-trunk do.
their bones sing
a forest perforates the silence
In your letter you explained to us that Nature prevails upon Men because a patch of grass won’t care
if we stink, if we stiffen in rotness a moss ground will give us guts, upon which we can gently lay,
becoming giantesque ; a grass won’t judge the curve of the palm of our hand, or the texture of our
flesh, the smell of our armpit, the smell of our hands
in the inflorescent cauldron of a glade I laid, conversing with the
unborn, better then asleep, better than awake,
like unexisted, I forgot we were
I USED TO WALK FOR HOURS AND HOURS AROUND TOWN
I used to walk for hours and hours around town, without a single thought to disturb my errand.
This calm I felt was a lump of amethyst jizzing into my blood like a theater screen; I watched my walks unscroll before me like stains of sun daubing the iris of a young boy, his sleep like a virus wrapped in the shadow of a scarf upon which a dark-yellow beer had been spilled. Kids are excited about the snow arriving in garbage trucks, they woke up earlier this morning (the music they made
like a boy just about to cum) to watch it being poured in piles
onto the streets.
A wave parted from a crop of stars in the back of the car where I had fallen asleep and I opened my mouth for it but too late and the wave against my lips shattered into blue-grays and I gathered them as one as they fell down into my hands and raised them to my lips as a single whip of pastel beryl and stuffed my mouth with it as fast I could
I walked to a forest contained in the remains of a letter you wrote to me, the letter was what made the forest be, and orange or red roots like words of prayer delicately cracked the crust of sky to grow like vertebrae above the trees. Wings detached their colors from the contours of the blowjob you were receiving. Horizons detached from the sky like a layer of sulphate. I felt bare, and I
looked at my arms
and they were. Allah could take any form o he adopted the length of your pants you rolled up your ankles to walk through the rivulets of water. (little weeds grow fast, then they’re forgotten)
My hand felt my head resting on my hand, my head felt my hand on which it rested, my tongue felt your cock gliding up and down the sunset, your balls bumping against my neck like finding one’s
an estranged room in the dark. The trees let their silhouettes fall softly to the ground where they merge with the grass, naked and doomed to die
TURTLE NAPES GROPED
Turtle napes groped
By strong turquoise hands
And my palms the substance of a fire, only dimmer.
The black buds are in winter, the ashes of the ash-tree are chased away
When summer comes around.
I held a peach to my mouth, and once I held a handful of grapes
Or figs that had shriveled a little
I held a pork leaver, an avocado core
Or a milk glass.
Sometimes thinking about the woods is enough; going to the woods would be a waste. Our mom has that you know, she keeps on thinking that she want to leave her crappy job to go live with goats, she doesn’t know the first thing about animals, all her cat does is rub his huge balls on the diner table, actually everywhere food is baked. In a higher scale, Pessoa said it too, how his normalized life was the shell he needed to unfurl the lactescence of his wilder dreams and fantasies; how he wouldn’t have left the cocoon of his boring routine to plunge into the substance of his thoughts, but how the alchemy between the two gave him the necessary balance to live his life to the fullest, with a bittersweet melancholy rubbing against the tongue of his mind whenever he wrote about it.
Always it is good to remember the scenes from movies or tv detective shows for kids where a character walks among the crackling books of an old bookstore, or in the darkness of the narrowest alley of a library, and promenades his finger along the spines of ageless books, until he finds the one he was looking for and in a close-up shot his hand (either the skin looking juicy and wholesome or delicately dry, in an elegant manner, like powdered by pressed-up flower essence) finally roosts on the edges of the book we were looking for, and with a notch of the nail at the very top of the spine the hand pulls out the precious manual like a fragile mammal from the shelf and opens it and almost straight away (or after two or three rapid haphazardous attempts) finds the page we were looking for, and with a finger scans the text to get its substance; that’s a very peaceful scene to look at.
War is a side character in this story.
There’s a flea floating in my whiskey
I was eating standard green tree moss,
Trees fellated the wind, fire fellated the treetrunks, the wind fellated fire forests. Fire and trees aren’t enemies, but they’re competitive; each of them wants to show his devotion to the wind, and each of them wants to demonstrate his devotion to the wind is the greatest. To fellate To
is their labor and only sin; this is how fire is made. Dangling porcelains, white and green
clouds, a bear who falls asleep with his hand in the pot of honey.
Dangling porcelains. Fellatios are given. A stem grows in front of me, everyday a little more,
like a violet alphabet of algae embedded in the waves of a lightly cruciform sea.
White and green clouds came
Then the nostalgia began
Purdey Lord Kreiden is cooler than fire. Normal temperature: 36 degrees centigrade. Her book Children of the Bad Hour is available from Ugly Duckling Presse, and she co-translated Tony Duvert’s L’Ile Atlantique with Michael Thomas Taren (Semiotext(e), forthcoming). She would also like a really sadistic coach to help her with swim practice.