no self-reference
she's busy producing
pleasure and moral reason
holding us upright
yet we endure so many
tricks when all we want is
the tang of touching
or the verve we felt
when we still shone
with that hope called naïveté
in response my soul
improvises another carnal
extravaganza that I record
because I like all notions
mocked as a thicket
of syrupy thuds
or as no longer germane
soul qua soul say
the more tenuous risk
is soul
which some leave behind
dusty in the back of an old
flaking book a sibylline song
drawing me in not like
a bearded god in the clouds
but traces and tones and slithering
vapors a metaphysical Cheshire
telling me I could finally evict
the angry fist who became chairman
of me for some time
I don't blame him
I was being permeable
today my soul is a deflated balloon
hissing her air out falling up and onto
sky's wetted lips where the birds urge
fly little soul fly
so imagine all of your bodily urges
crying out at once
then suddenly the borders
of everyone
blur into one hot mess
bleeding breathing learning
drinking stabbing
golding dying milking
stroking digging
glistening gesturing
shaking bounding staining
chasing greening
punking dittoing
barricading and working it
levitating cheating clouding
defending depressing lying
in return that dimension
without sensibility
where my soul
falls into a crevasse of data
for the future to find
spitting sicking
adhering framing furring
alabastering fretting
snorting lulling
solipsizing not getting past
the beginning
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