WOBBLESY
My wobblesy body feels like it was made of TS jelly wobbles and was
dragged Through the Looking Glass in search of a body of knowledge
manga fans oh how all the animations allow you to stylize my body horror
They do not give out Nobel prizes for nothing come
Follow Me
I shall take you out deep into no man’s land to where the Nobel Prizes grow graphic, thick and furious like a jungle or an industrial complex
oh this thing entropy nothing on earth and under the spell of gravity can resist your will
under your Sith serpent
power
avoid
becoming aged and bent,
crippled by time or
flattened entirely; rolled tighly into a Prufrock ball
silver-papered
collapsing under mass of own gravity or hideous weight
such as the case
with its monstrous prosody
that
cuts through carves through
sinew and line
thar mighf be way better expressed
But I am consciousness, damn it,
and will
not be so undermensch, slave
mentality addressed
and so will resist
have it in me: in my D and also my A
to pull a radical chemistry, total
kitchen-sink alchemy
become blob of early science-fiction
horror
terror of the cosmos eveb
with ridiculous prop and
sans world-altering green screen
philosophy-rewriting graphic
(that
book hollowed out
where Neo
hides his truth
truth you
have to see
and feel)
and as blob
name up in lights and
star of the John Carpenter show
lovecraft loving myself
(yet nothing masturbatory)
demigod of
sexual psychosexual
sixties psychedelic acid
dissolving everything in my slow inexorable path
and
then some
putting paid (style of
late capital
economic erotic orgasmic ectoplasm)
of all that
Borg resists, fails your
cosmic Turing test of simple logic
suppliy and demanfd
not to speak of Malthusian
stupidities of my sweet but stupid
biodegradable humanity
float tp the surface stuff in
the primal soup and
expendable offal connecting tissue
body fluods
in event of war and advent of
armanents’ industry
could cry for
this humanity
if I had eyes
and I had tears
lurking in the undergrowth in
alien camouflage
so far beneath ice and
fire
and blasted rock planet
of your proverbial, perpetual underworld
below, beneath and
so incomprehensible
to ali
that is Aesthetics of Guides and Gods and
old outworn mythology of
Anglo American poetry
modernist to
a cataclysmic
fascist failing fault.
poems 2 die for 