ARTHUR BOYLE
VERNAL
ear with bookbinding needle in the lobe—
bleeding teens with nondairy creamer—
actions unfeel me on the infinite spreadsheet,
bless stink taxonomies of sleepless mammalia,
temu-bought prophet begging donations
for LLM attempt at subway slam poet
(unflinching endrhymes essentially obama)
+ the very first book a 25 year old reads
creatine milkshake, grasshoppers for texture;
brain for content, content 4 life
stainedglass fascisti stream once and blink twice
supermax sheets sweat seethrough Wife the
big cygnet Narcissus playacting contingents
dreams:
two-end encryption, hot whisper, your ear
all fun / wet breath, the end always near
Don't go to El Salvador
Do they even have daffodils?
Dayglow orange de-
reappropriates
your DNC aunt, and
Really:
It's springtime, onslaught is spreading
Lambs stand on each other's backs
while the mothers chew
I renounce everything I have ever done
––––
VULGATE
Plantagenet fiasco at aristocrats' Christmas––
Dalmatian parade,
Sunday excess
of feeling
staring at an orange again
to make some kind
of deictic progress
or Hosanna! to the wreathlet
of plainfinger integration,
or just imaging my loss
to reappreciate
you
stropped on a bent letter,
on a snapped razor
I hid in the Charmin
to cover up its predictable edges
O deliver me from clots
on Annunciation Day
please forgive me
I can't
O forgive me
I can't
from a lot
or maybe nothing really
seen in others' daylight full
of soft grass I
never seem to reach
––––
ARCHAEA
What I-- can't even ask that, Stippled with alien lasers bloodhot to overload, brief asterisks functioning nothing but Clarity, as is known, as it is felt and obscured by itself, in its ringing The child in that place, is alone, only for irises' violaceous peel sniffing out the bog; a boything, say they are, trapped in rhythms near an excess of green and learning that, day over day, learning to eat what he's given. There is a great body. Quietness somewhere Augustinian. Central was scale. Absence, Abscesses leaking to crustlettes (tartelettes) rushing faction violence for the saccharine spop (vision is godly mineral splay / pop heads from boys' bodies off smack smack Hmm hun-gry, Hmm doo-oop, Hmm fresh meal fresh leaked) from a dog's asshole as She was walking, it was true, and it is the only way I could know her, held closely this way for seeking what she always does, um, in this case less richly in memory more claustrophobic and summary but yes it's here it's, mm, fatness of bees less lazy than drunk stumbling into anthers I missed her and the bees run into each other often Flamboyantly uncuddly thumb-sucking shit like And there were ways, off sidewalks off highways, with a truck, and, where the truck would, it's true–glass occasionally shattered, and the town sign in rust, but, there was, there would be, swallows, if you let them, if I let her I me be, in this, ah, sickle-cut air shapes on pinions swatched ludic like escape from all death, if, well, walking, ha ha yes with the feeling in the tops of hips swelling warm there now I need Who said what Wondering, wondering aloud whether It's not And Who Never wouldn't Never, no, I don't think, so, never Unless there was that chance, something unpeeling from the walls–self–unharried in the slough and thus menstrual freebleeding there with conifers and shale and that commissar of feeling dictating it back
A dog stared. The eyes unfixed. Not the middle distance but the longue durée; there is a wish for this to be a new sight but he can't stop staring at blankness in preparation for Then he died. You keep getting riot schlock on my tear gas dreams, getting hit with a plastic baseball bat "Free liver and subliminal reports," says the death fetishist, and I think O "I would like to make you suck my toes" bawdy toejammer listing whistfully and just fucking asking for it If you ask me But I see through him to the iridescent green rot like wood found waiting by / for me, crumbling like a cake tree is what we called it, there in the place where you do have a middle and pull quartered phylum to hold it and The death fetishist looks at me blankly / fuckingly "Well" he says expecting I think at the least free liver
desired, or I guess a subliminal report "I'm torn over wish-fulfilling to you" he says I say "Mm" "I think you prefer fliction" well we say "Indeed" hm "I've come to see your humor as sincere" ah "That first sign no doubt" so "Well" yes-hm "Well" well "Let's make you whole again."
Manic is the luster (*of a helium balloon, spun whorling into obscission and a woman's breath that sounds like tiny screaming) well-meaning ants crawl up from the well chasing heat-spawned yes-manic actors still bleeding freely (barely) from shards of glass in skin unconditioned to mace Stop The thing I feel Oh the whole feeling arms crawling from the throat with hands clasped onto my lips and it's Me
coming out of
me
is Me in a whole death-fury aimed at a cop O I can't–stop–You Stop I Can't Wreak punishment amongst jambol dancers try The ants filter quietly through this couloir, internecine in a long colonnade of red bodies trusting others I'm going to kill cops; I'm going to kill cops and I can feel the façade crumbling under that weight of batons where now ants welcome like Lautréamont pick at my toes and enter the stomack of Her (who came out from Me freely) I'm scared because The motor force looms. Its vast architecture appears, calm from great distance. A mess of probabilities, seen at less-than scale. I know my body acts. The dualism reconvenes. A chart and way (opposites) pointing the same direction. That's–that's–hmmmm
grungrunggrungrungrungham hm, if you see what I mean, what you say translucently–I mean transparent–undefended from others' asterisks, wouldn't you say? Isn't there someone you forgot to ask? Isn't there lukewarm goulash at the store? Are you eating all your légumes? I am. I am? You are? Who knew? It's ferrari. It's ankles Don't avoid meaning with me I'm not I never have–I wouldn't You are It's agglutinative I concede. I thought so. You forgot the asterisks; I never do, they stud dendrites in personal constellations and I feed lovingly, on the background thrum of luminescence (dit <<"burning">>) I quirt, keeping marriage agreements and forgetting I am not some elegant thrush no, more of, ofness, right, which is to say Ahh ah ah ah–YES So, I'm going to tell you something. There is a man. He's a youngish man; he lives on the Canadian border. I've seen him through great distance. Listen–he wants to be a peasant. He drives a truck and dreams of release through total abstention of agency (submission @ god or regis why distinguish anyway); he's the dream of lobotomy girls; he is my own dream of suicide; Drive the truck (yes), We Value Rural Community (Ah): Absolve the self of world. And his condition does represent youth's rejection of task with a rightwing flavor because the implications of juncture terrify while Creamy sheets snap back beneath the duvet and the two of them, it's true, luxuriate, While I am heat in breath; I am just its motion What is this anyway, then, why It really is the shift–the rest–small tomato in the mouth (bursting) so clear internal motor force and I It's true, though, sought / found the Real, yoke and the neck's resistance no Manic is the luster (ah)–caught in voice the Real but I The heat goes into the world; I make it. Out of my stomack. The heat goes into the world and Sheer forces drop sideways onto unsuspecting victims, the difference here being history's not actually abstraction, functioning morelike unseen bus/truck cutting "corners" *now* say solipsistic legitimacy, *now* say world-perceived =/= world-met, the test being physi not philosophical but you don't care for assertions, do you, Oubliette–beautiful name for the baby [x] So something resembling coffee appears. La pause, avant le début. Une crèche, cachant la lutte. Et on commence avec preparation relegated to instinct, albeit trained like vines to wait and occasionally flower, otherwise summoning lignin strength ah!no, rigidity, though it lives on the roots of others and though it lives on the roots of others binds them avec le flêche de sa flesh, no flash, please—piercing, as a framing nail, or a sheet of them thock-et shot from the nailgun percussion feel good in my arm <<arrêtes>
Archaea proliferate
making
All New Homes
for Us
!
––––
J. Arthur Boyle is pleasant, co-editor of The Amenia Free Review, and an adjunct at CUNY. Some work is in or coming from Action, Spectacle, The Chicago Review, COMA, the Cleveland Review of Books, Fence, Verso, and other lovely places. Please see jarthurboyle.com.