An Anti-Asemic Romance

An Anti-Asemic Romance

 

Maria Morisot

 

Published by Moan Lisa Press

 

Copyright © 2016 Maria Morisot

 

Were the deliverer

past break; still smoking,

hold his eyes

& cough volumes

of canticles, a revolutionary

flood.

 

While we take questions

of the ordinary state of

affairs.

illusory bands of concrete

hands, placed so gently

on the waist; and I turn,

 

Grimly speaking Anastasia’s

name to the undercurrents

of this philosophical rapture

with emphasis

on the point

of malnutrition & of self-

deprecation & depreciation

unto an everlasting moment

of rejection by

love’s cruel bite.

 

A palimpsest to hold

they keys to an

unenlightened

crash course.

 

Enter the bourbon:

 

Oh woe is me,

the capture & the cross

a substance abuse issue

too hard to go into details

right now, but I wanted to

let you know the problem

still exists &.

 

Wholly served potatoes

in the urn

of consecrated

remains, what

remains is

our purification

through thick & thin,

a bleeding light,

meaning nothing.

 

Who are you

who place this vow

between tightly woven

lips, almost as if

intertwined

as one fuel

for the burner of silence &.

 

Walk on,

into the catacomb s

plagiarize the demons

as they whisper

their silken spun

threads of insanity;

 

&.

 

Focused on the intensity

of the fire.

 

Two hands out-

stretched, fingers

interlocked;

extended perception

and an all-inclusive

heretical gaze.

 

I by the fire,

 

Associating truths

from the normalities,

kissing God, & in

sequence shouting,

 

“Who will be the

grand stand climate

orientation “

 

And ‘guacamole,’

comes in three flavors

at the little restaurant

by the sea shore.

 

‘Victory can be paved,’

said the walrus to the sea

& therein lies the form &

 

Function; capitalization

beginner’s curve.

 

In the times of

past periodic pulse,

when the refrigerator

light dies, leaving

only momentary pause

 

Too much excitement,

too much pain,

in the last hearing

before our

sentence

 

Structure gives way

to an opening & closing

of its decay,

so suddenly arrested;

&.

 

Urchin, urchin,

living in the sea;

pins &

cushioning,

 

A swallow of water

& then…

a momentary hurl;

you planted death

in my mind,

supplanting rage,

the rage of an

existential rain.

Ruin,

hypocrisy,

feigned inoculation

 

Steady as the hand,

my heart

subsides.

 

Bells for inheritance, toll

& the underbelly

of a Pisces plaid &

hand-made pyjamas

spun with wool

 

& there are many

oscillations, between

this land &

that.

 

—

 

Motion sickness ride,

& a

cantaloupe

sunrise,

fine.

 

Hurry into the after hours of the lake of death,

where one pope meets his maker,

& the capital of his constructivism;

 

Ploughs, chestnuts, & a consultation

of the gods.

 

Our small combustion,

revealed inferiority

& why our mouths melt

with the advent,

 

cholesterol confetti

& a wild wait

watching midnight

blue static on the TV.

 

Ejaculating ‘cause

my mother told me

not to. Making a mess

of nonsensical realities;

causing the last substance

of my unrest to drain,

and so I pass away;

on into the state of

charity’s dismay.

 

A public reading room

packed to the peak

with novelties, frivolous

forays of textual

sublimation; a dance

of sexual tensions

let loose in verse,

 

As seems the eye,

as sees the crocodile;

stretching out his maw

in order

to reach

the whole duck.

 

Cackle, gorge, inhabitants like red wine,

chilled cerebral pulse, in a monotonous

slip of self-deprecation

 

You were my

antithesis. Fake red roses made with

non-recyclable plastics, you

opened my mouth,

and let the honey

drip,

ever so carefully into

the center of my execution.

 

And there, my body made weak;

I

sat upright like

it were Sunday school &

I

crossed my fingers

hoping to catch

the next train

to mild, motionless

amalgamations of

cascading suns.

 

Power slides

through shifting sands,

and hopes—

fall through the gaps;

 

In this secondary sea,

away from an encumbered

mind; this paradise,

 

Where fruit grows wild,

and the flocks of birds

carry with them traces

of the chaos born in

oceanic waves

 

A tumbling, thrashing

symphony of water droplets

bubbling, colliding.

And you mistook

my sentence for a slight,

‘cause all I see tonight,

is through the looking glass

into your soul.

 

Imbalanced exaggeration;

two incendiary sentences,

one, not so immersed as

the other. In it, you held

 

Seamless expanses of sky.

Dreamless continuations

of dark matter. A Purgatory

of silence & a Hell of mad

reasoning.

 

Regurgitating flies; night black

bodies swollen up with puss,

a maggot’s cover, & poison

notions of a similar posterity’s

persuasion. You & I—

 

We climb into our angry

skins; beating blue & black;

defeating so-called sins.

 

The cocking of rifles

realized through aiming

gunmen; our childish

sentiments laid bare

between the breasts

of a devouring slug,

we want to close our

eyes forever; do we

want to take away the breath

of an….

 

Your touch,

makes rhythms

of the heart

concrete;

keeps me sane

(somewhat)

 

It is what drips,

beneath the ceil()

of our misunderstood

conclusion, your random

order of so-called

hard facts.

 

Destroyer of dust.

Complimentary

victim of Hertz

& rage. (raging)

 

Pulse &

pause

 

between statements in the serene

depiction of a girl (past tense); a butterfly

staged to die in the next sequence

of a foreign film,

 

Gunshot wounds,

plagiarist extrema

strewn about the lawn

like glass shards

after a terror attack.

 

There is no peace, no plain description

just the focal references which amass

a disapproving voice, so much

for the infinitude of God.

 

Even now, they play the voice

of one’s descent; that dissident,

howling, always howling

with the voice of Ginsberg’s

last great tragedy; howling

forgetting not what comes

once the darkness of night settles.

 

Amalgamation of

three principle points,

fairly injected

in the bloodstream

of a juvenile

waking dream

 

& at the handle

of the cupboard

one stands naked,

twisting robotically,

standing to gain

nothing at all.

 

Two sounds at once,

& the head held in vibration,

two dampened

miracles,

one percolating mess

of spiritual decay.

 

Tolstoy &

War &

Peace &

Neopolitical,

Ice Cream.

 

Holistic impairment

of the blood, cell walls

risking their life-

span in myopic resuscitation;

for certainty’s causal

relations, knock on wood,

burn the emissary

of discomfiture.

 

& we surmise

our premise is

prostheticized

& the prophet

carrying our bed

for a device

to bring down

the blades of fate

& faithfulness;

cutting deep wounds

to bleed through

pages of works

unwritten, these

poems sunken

deep within
unconsciousness.

 

Pins &

needles

formulaic identity reconstruction;

motion blur,

a pen drops

from the left-

hand, and callouses

with crime &

low intensity,

rise the altar,

rise the ghost,

they rise; out

of death’s dark

chasm, that

deep divide,

steadily swimming

through atmosphere

until they touch

open arms.

 

Permeate my sentence

structure with your

interjections, a corpuscle

concoction, brewed from

finite

shots of vodka & rubbing

alcohol, this distant sphere

where no one rests, no body

blooms like you; in your

drizzled drops of dye,

surrounding you the drab

deep earth tones which carry

out your color like a mad parade.

 

Thoughts like mad,

sirens having all but

said their piece;

 

& you won’t wake

up from this sedentary

state of being, just to

realize the world was what’s

peculiar series’ of exploding suns.

 

In the trash, I hear

voices; from the bowels

of the earth, I hear

conception’s pulse,

 

 

Imagine a graphic novel

of the scarce realities

consuming us in our sleep.

 

Wheels painted red,

skies the color of her eyes;

& this amalgamation

of our ancestry combined

for the incentive cycle

of a time.

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