“this time, I know much”
what can I do with a banjo string
when laziness fills the moon with
the brain’s proud smoulder
a hearse of tendrils of gaseous ash
carbons the real
often a violet burns inside my head
like lechery and fazzle-pop
doors in my face
never fully closed
made of smoke
I resent the streetlight in my mirror and bed
and your fume-like music
*
notes on the process: my style, whatever, changes or is determined on a daily basis. some days, I lean towards any number or aesthetic of mechanical reorganizations of text according to word length, alphabeticalness (or anti-alphabeticalness) or parts of speech. for today, for me, for the poem – as it was given – the images were so strange and exciting and face-slapping that I decided to laser-pointer on them and excise the “poem” references and repetitions and stuff. So, yeah.
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