DIN

DIN

Ein Aug,

:;:

Eigentlich

:;:

cut the wor(l)d from our

skull, a way left

:;:

in silence, here

a scratch, a battered

notebook, too much

unloved, the white of

god’s eye, another moon

of this wor(l)d, an
other year of fakes,

an unfinished list

:;:

HOST

HOST

we are none,

pigheaded,

provincial,

take what we

think,

:;:

a world to a-

void any that

is a

not us.

“MOORED AGAINST ITS TERMINAL PIER AND COVERED WITH GNOMIC AND MEANINGLESS GRAFFITI”

“MOORED AGAINST ITS TERMINAL PIER AND COVERED WITH GNOMIC AND MEANINGLESS GRAFFITI”

sunthrummed into

a later age,

unblinking, the

world sails

from itself,

unended but

returning, bringing

us to that

blistering beginning.

EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD pts 1-9 [from the vault]

EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD pts 1-9 [from the vault]

NOTHING IS REALLY REAL UNTIL IT IS MADE INTO A SIMULACRUM OF ITSELF

NOTHING IS REALLY REAL UNTIL IT IS MADE INTO A SIMULACRUM OF ITSELF

present a quote of

the world,

like

a half-whispered

prayer, a sky

bled too white

for stars.

“AS IF INHALING THE WHOLE WORLD”

“AS IF INHALING THE WHOLE WORLD”

stone tongued, skip the

ochre sunset, colors off

peeled billboards bare of

spraypaint, signifying no—

thing—some other other

shadowing, asphalt skinned,

soon joined, packed, three

abreast, streetlights shuddering

and struggling to vomit up

a semblance of illumination,

one by one dumb mouths open

and each sings his choking song...

MISTER DUCK (R&R) [from the vauit]

MISTER DUCK (R&R) [04/04/10]

you and me against the world / world about to end

by the neck, under netting,

you become our blustery best

abroad—an antic-frantic

anger, a guileless smile, the

scene-stealing wise-crack

ing, voice-cracking—never

as worldly as the wabbit,

but every bit as dangerous.

even when it's your blood,

red and Pollocked around

those whisperthin hostel walls,

a half a hostile world away,

before you settle your bill

back into place and slip back

into our dreams again.

DER MANN WARD ZUM SIEB

Der Mann ward zum Sieb,

in the particular, leaf rattling,

autumnal chill, deceit settles

to the bare ground, waiting to be

stir-

red up by your comings and go-

ings, fine particles for you to

inhale and filter, becoming, at last,

the machine for forgetting that

god meant you to be—

less tender, as the waiting begins,

for the world to freeze.