Sunday, March 29, 2009

Dropped in here, by JKD

Cut-up combo + adaption of by The Porcelain Bird Jon Wonham, Rabbit & Pork by Rufo Q and the Poem "Letter 1" from Dan Machlin's book Dear Body: (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2007)

I am a cluster, droplets of a nothingness, your prayer, if this is the year of all that must kill, bomb, of a child’s egg, I have words: porcelain, lay, cabinets, a toilet, gents, seasoning, sometimes in great numbers, that which is forwarded. Marked. The endangered, if you please, past clarity. Send the body. Of Lagavulin, the teacups, bowl with birds in the birds in the handle cracked from flowering, I suppose. If with you we see living, never meet, non-acceptance, winters in likes (by lakes) to cause, for a cause, we tend to temper off. In children’s feathers, fathers of brave little birds. It is death, is it not? And has set the year of the priests into motion. A hymn to become man, tiny beads as in birdfeed, song blown to craters inside which she finds Madagascar, breaking. Fuss, perch at bedrooms, tell bodies and girls at all removed sequences that which is read about or off in lists. Caskets by mandrake roots where we plant bulbs. Opportunities to sunbathe are creating symbols. Iconography. Things lie down—as now, listening at night to stories, naughty, threatened panel-painting of crucifixions. I am never this house. My father’s. Ours. That that one lives is no comfort, no mourning could give know-how, nor species insight. See or seen? Shoot post-free in the cold, sprouting. Of porcelain, post-partum, ruby-red-robed Calendula eavesdrops on the bees. Is your missed nuclei sunbathing? Has he gotten lost in cross-pollinations? Ruins thinking of symbols, hagiography. Fissures in its eggs cry flush, commonly look out for the passage of figures: this Japanese tree as snow. We are in our separate, if only concomitant, events. Where to fuse the terrace, when to stun back again? I was a museum of our first litter. On all the porcelain lists, bowls, toilets flying toward a sluggish hotel. Angels clasping detritus, letters making numbers in a convex angle to still be calculated. One falling off, then the next, crumbling. This bird in collections resembles a city disabused. Mask the unpredictable fro-ing, he is spent where his limbs lie down. It is only that which I can graph as a point.