A Contiguous Body
translated from The Seperable
Soul, by Elisabeth Bletsoe
suction
unlike a forgetting of earth
an extra-threadial emulsion
around drops, without ululation
a lightness of presence
of nonsense explicit beyond
those full densities
writing me out
writing around the curves
expelling large eases of alienation that
smooth forward
to the received past sham-static
light-scribbles gouging a depth unlike
the realities of birds
your exteroceptors static with
miniscule mechanical stick
up
a sea,
landslips of seen darkening;
stay in vulcanic if-ness over
where
you
languish from concealing my upperpoems
outside all lines,
bracts;
to bury my Morse that
you blinded as
over-reading the adjunct apse, that
fingerprint of a resurrected hut,
a
skyflower pasture
“chequered with stony humans
projecting
the golden & striped emission
to below”
gauzes of illumined phonemes
that dissolve you from a venue near
normal & healing releases
crystallise from
coherence
icons not like lines destroyed by dippers on mud
ignoring the sham-sheens of that
frigidity
(the bolt on an occipital)
a glib sugaring of scars
without every ululation you mouthed
you were ending more a beast
I realised
the first obituary broken
above my meat:
not as you had stayed with my heart before the right locale
not as your liver so high as a
certainty was dying in your flank
not as you are on a peak of knowledge
not as the nearness would be involved
with beyond solid and sold
not as your abdomen is empty of saliva
not as your void is quickly contracting
not as here now
a desire for a dark hut to forget when we were not
not as the ninth moon is hitting and you lose it in the top of the door
not as a dark line
downward closed your arse; the scurf of new digital images ejaculating upwards
not as off my relinquished I imagine
deafness to cries in the currents
not as you are so surrounded I can’t have crawled out from the sea
not as stone vomits
darkness
not as the dispersed joy diffused through a pelvis
not as the darkness is turned on
where you were all the way down steps
not as you were set free beyond black leaves
not as there’s nothing renting
your trachea like quartz
not as some water has thirteen surfaces
not as your arse numb cold as a
lizard with high blood pressure
not as an orgasm deformed on your gaze in a snout’s frame
not as you are to
end a body-voyage of one and a thousand nights
not as when scraping the floor black a funeral numbed like marriage
not as the sun knows
the allotrope chaos of sentience
not as your bloody rags are covering a small clot of cream
not as an adult
with sunken pupils easily regurgitating through its snout
not as you had made an embryo under your foot; a huge black lizard attached to
a placenta, breathless
not as that fresh pool tongued by ululations you are keen to translate
not as the reality
fattening on wormwood among Russian rich
not as you were gluing together a fish separated at its head
not as an anastigmatic
cluster drilling into your left sole
not as there is a fixed cypher beyond the top of a skull
not as black discharge
spurted from two earholes
not as a single glue deformed on the low line of the tongue
not as an androcentric
anthracite coating a ruby
not as you fell asleep the swish of skin beyond your arms
not as you are standing
under outstretched legs
homing out from a perfect place
as easterly plains of foliation devolve
lines of expansion
my page-giving occupied you
in flux under a length of the dialogue
to where you then conver(g)(s)ed an
ululation
tickles of dark constructing
the valley of Oolitic doors
twice
deformed on turbid depths
enjoying erosion; a pestling
become
banal
garbage
given out by an
underdirt of doldrum-slackening
ocean faux pas
discovering/recovering your
spirituality
before a shore slides swiftly
under your other
green & white flint, treasures,
siliconised
agate
genetic marker of stasis
the momentary county of mutation formation
soliloquy briefly delivered
but
forever growled
rubbing part words
on the floor of your vagina without
your lips
dulling under generalisations that
I without will read & shout:
a reverse projection of a pit seepage
evaporating
from a precipice of mist along grass-lengths,
a sinking root peeled
from a turbulence of water,
attack-stakes of large flagged estates;
a steadfastness of an occluded cosmos
your jail blood rotting
(it’s
said thrice)
a
freshness embossed on
a fake sea
one being swerving from emulsion
“huge crescent headlands of pebbles, lemonrock blocks
carapaces &
a lot of mud’’
a dull prima materia becoming
Priestexhume
rookery, Mallet and The Squadron
Copyright © Mark Goodwin, 2008
