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The wings pierce as if they were eternity. —Shuzo Takiguchi The Japanese Crested Ibis is now extinct. “To claim as arcane vapour ruination by intrigue by kindled leprosy morays so that I take up in my glottis these moral hallucinogens which actively dim which nourish themselves on behalf of active heavenly terror as if forking my verbs with cryptography with bird interrogation with a haunted crystallography of deception mentally cross-fertilized with defective aural lobotomies so that I momentarily sing with a cosmic catch in my wings floating above a black waterfall of rye dazzled by partial torments by seeming in-seminal scatterings by snow in smoking germinal mazes it could be said that my blood has been scorched by intensive Venusian plasma by updrafts of wheat by molecules that slaughter my throat continuously parched by wild in-secular genetics by unfiltered parchment by incipient nerve cuisines empowered by listless cranial singing carving androgynous shapes with my voice me an ominous fluttering angel kept aloft by diagrams of smouldering electrical truth as a tempestuous solar charisma I can never speak in terms of oceanic remorse or with the temperament of fictitious remedial doves no I am heightened by sudden sociological flaws by prisms of seasoned parallel tornadoes though shattered by various Saxon devices I am the flame throughout the soaring absolute I denigrate I take on sanguine territorial opposition with a force enriched with untoward fertility with a dominate tendency to waver with excessive a-regional metrics with inhaled phantasmics spilled on fortuitous migrational soils there is ermine there is discourse by nugget there is scarification by increase each of my echoes spinning through pictographic parabolas graphic with indecisive incest which abstractly reduces which plummets into the frothing systemic of bees a crepuscular arachnoidal utterance by sun bells by pestilential archive by vivid tourmaline exposure there is expressed interstice flotational temperature by prophet by sun exposed Greek therefore a palace erected in bone plazas to worship each grainy avian heaven each tumultuous spire by detraction so that there exists the one true clarity the cloudy singular beam more blinding than sun noons on Mercury pinnacle by rot by hovering phoneme & tremor by sorcerous frigate & plasma by flaming interior sign by defenseless grenadine morals as with Enoch* I continue my metamorphosis singing in capsized tarantula tree melodramatic by despair cogitation by a sense of entrapment split along the cusp of a-tonal meridians each guttural burst struggling at great odds at hieroglyphical knife point dazed with magnetic electrical fuchsia each of my wingbeats as death as co-existent termination as spoiled rudiment by colour so I splice my lamentations & open the diachronic to spawned confusional rotations amidst the equator of sundogs heated by corrupted memorial sparks my beak aligned with cryptographic cunning with tantric scratches inside my steaming ink well treaties my aggressions in tune with an aching heraldic nopal its coronal glare flashing upon a-clinical watery mnemonics filled with carnivorous morphine & diamonds flying in Bardo* above the scattered wrath of oneiric sesame pontoons eclectic with my knowledge of furious marginal germs & diseases hyper-extended with discord those bony schismatic ghosts fused by synchronic retinal burning drawing from the sky a milk seasoned with phlogiston & Hittite galvanics yes chandas flecked* with sulphurous heretical clauses because I deny & re-invigourate I tear down I re-pontificate the bile from empty animal invasions breaking through poisoned civil cataleptics entangling quotidian farm worlds with my traitorous acids culled from a barbarous daily wine here I am winged with oracular sun-dust flowers my eyes scattered into translated demon like a blue demonic spy sailing across transparent carrion planes so as to re-inhabit the dead so as to scan the weightless centigrade margins in one simple respiration I summon the tendencies of electrocuted corpses the stony wrath of drowned Phoenician sailors my voice drills with North Asian alewahs* akin to compounded rock points on Vesta or Ceres yes I drain from stars pre-glottal alluviums moth ceramics a chalice of rote pestles shaped by incipient hulls of deadly carbon grains I sing across distracted ingress baying with sounds not even the dead can decipher I can only increase funeric confusion the invisible force which uplifts the void which ingests the force of negation & mirage yet I sculpt in weakened anti-negation spasms rampant with fire distorting by quotidian thumb piano by plagues which sustain gregarious verbal gestation subsumed from susurrations extracted from the scattered logistics of Titans from the fevered optical beams spilled from greenish sundial eternities Ramses* or Hatshepsut* or Akhenaton* invading as cherished cyclical spores their luminescence by blankness by swarming alchemical moons by bewildering errata as in rum by higher being by serpentine & flowing whiplash ideology above all I’ve cosmically transmuted the atmospheric bone the dementia enveloped by protest by turquoise weight & somnific solar inclusion singing by eclipse torrent by waves of flame erupting from mirrors & dreams of post- extinction a geneaology of circles beyond aphids’ scribbling & logical strontium dialectic my bleeding unbearable shadows brewing a sumptuous fever of poetic electrical charisma its lightning shafts of snow & rum & blood mixed with the grains of stunning axial omegas”

If there’s pee on the seat it’s my pee, battery’s dead I killed it, canary at the bottom

I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life. I want a peek at the back Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows. A girl gets sick of a rose. I want to go in the back yard now And maybe down the alley, To where the charity children play. I want a good time today. They do some wonderful things. They have some wonderful fun. My mother sneers, but I say it’s fine How they don’t have to go in at quarter to nine. My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae Will grow up to be a bad woman. That George’ll be taken to Jail soon or late (On account of last winter he sold our back gate). But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do. And I’d like to be a bad woman, too, And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace And strut down the streets with paint on my face.

They have no song, the sedges dry, And still they sing. It is within my breast they sing, As I pass by. Within my breast they touch a string, They wake a sigh. There is but sound of sedges dry; In me they sing.

(from As You Like It ) It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o’er the green cornfield did pass, In springtime, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring

Lying is an occupation, Used by all who mean to rise; Politicians owe their station, But to well concerted lies. These to lovers give assistance, To ensnare the fair-one's heart; And the virgin's best resistance Yields to this commanding art. Study this superior science, Would you rise in Church or State; Bid to Truth a bold defiance, 'Tis the practice of the great.

Memory, hither come, And tune your merry notes; And, while upon the wind, Your music floats, I'll pore upon the stream, Where sighing lovers dream, And fish for fancies as they pass Within the watery glass. I'll drink of the clear stream, And hear the linnet's song; And there I'll lie and dream The day along: And, when night comes, I'll go To places fit for woe, Walking along the darken'd valley, With silent Melancholy.

Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay ye low? Wherefore weave with toil and care The rich robes your tyrants wear? Wherefore feed and clothe and save From the cradle to the grave Those ungrateful drones who would Drain your sweat—nay, drink your blood? Wherefore, Bees of England, forge Many a weapon, chain, and scourge, That these stingless drones may spoil The forced produce of your toil? Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, Shelter, food, love’s gentle balm? Or what is it ye buy so dear With your pain and with your fear? The seed ye sow, another reaps; The wealth ye find, another keeps; The robes ye weave, another wears; The arms ye forge, another bears. Sow seed—but let no tyrant reap: Find wealth—let no imposter heap: Weave robes—let not the idle wear: Forge arms—in your defence to bear. Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells— In hall ye deck another dwells. Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see The steel ye tempered glance on ye. With plough and spade and hoe and loom Trace your grave and build your tomb And weave your winding-sheet—till fair England be your Sepulchre.

My silks and fine array, My smiles and languish'd air, By love are driv'n away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have. His face is fair as heav'n, When springing buds unfold; O why to him was't giv'n, Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is love's all worship'd tomb, Where all love's pilgrims come. Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!

(from Twelfth Night ) O Mistress mine where are you roaming? O stay and hear, your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further pretty sweeting. Journeys end in lovers' meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love, 'tis not hereafter, Present mirth, hath present laughter: What's to come, is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me sweet and twenty: Youth's a stuff will not endure.