Secrets of the Inner Mind

The Age of Gold cracked me up last night, asters and sparrows to be exact, that unrelenting knot in the choral fire. It’s good exercise, to get out on stage, to stand in the silvered chamber and deny emptiness, when the pocket falls so deep one could mark anything out over the top. The India ink drops continuously, its likeness, still Helen as phantom not the truth of the state of her body but being awash in a sound uprooted. The desk is still a symbol I pile things on, pin down elegies, illegible dates, introductions scrawled on slender backs of envelopes, receipts, small machine-like cloud chambers, talon disconnected. Sunlight burns my feet putting away the wet mop, where I am stopped from almost killing myself. All that wobbling of the lens nonsense, I will cling to the truth of the soundtrack tearing through the unveiling: Jeanne Moreau’s scepter coated in dust a darkness poured from the open door, crowned enameled teeth of Tyrannosaurus rex • Their portrait is crushed to the point of flowers Their lines are reaching arms out from the center Their lace is torn over the image at points a flame-like insistence flaring this all up from behind one piss-driven, lifelike icicle the diamond district through a downpour past the love-sick dungeons of Dante, a cleaving after in Sappho, what remains of a dialogue? The small, blobbed cellular enclosure slipping it into strings letting it wither • No god but the act creator eternally rested in light fears for my life dissolved in the booth largely unknown fire exit back/ of the hotel closet door satin sheets light foot thunder lover impaled/ outside of that world cutting young poets much slack and the box for the board missing: remains of the maze spit out from a star