34. Behold Our KitschN;-) Gods Displayed

kitschn godslit

My head, the head which is not, the head of ancient liberty, staked on a traffic cone, my head which remembers always sundogs shining in the south‑western sky, my old head reads that scabs are rats, my head reads that art will fight & flourish, my head can never stop splashing & shaking. All excesses are mine.

Oh, my fingernails, the tokens of laborious growth, my fingernails scratch the text beneath, rearrange it as a game of go1, my fingernails exceed my flesh, they rake your flesh gently, & excited will pleasure you, clicking w/ laughter.

Ah, my mouth, the mouth with which to eat & talk, inhales, exhales, the nameless mouth, the mouth of disgust, the mouth that is tight & keeps its own counsel, unpredictable & cruel. More is more divine, says the mouth, less too, more blue.

What do mice2 do? Happen in amazement, stuck to this big conceptual mess. Blue & red modulate to grey & pink. Areas of white flourish variously. Don’t trust what you can’t bite or write.



1 weiqi



2 are you really saying this is a bear?

One thought on “34. Behold Our KitschN;-) Gods Displayed”

  1. texts being read are: Ed Dorn, The Cycle (Frontier Press, 1971); J H Prynne, Kitchen Poems (Cape Goliard Press, 1968); Scabs Are Rats 2 (2013).

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