Forthcoming in Vestiges_06: Aporia
Regular ropes all tied to the memory house. Downers. Silence inside of the cape, the wondering hospital stays, the cold curtains of cigarettes dreaming, love’s tongue on its own dreaming, I am embraced by the seas of Korea, John Keats, the Bible in weird carriages. Lightning knows. Ice senators hearing honey, dark envelope of the innertubes. Like ink, I’ve been through a gallon of mind. Rude wave pools, how could you be that young gazelle, money is strange. Scared hair storms. Times will change the cobalt heaven tongues. I walk people into water past the hippo lights. Black model railroad track. Doctor of the upper wake plea. My heart is hollow; my skin waives tears.
“Aries, charts of the roach tree, breakers of the first toll booths: I was scared in the golden blue.”
Adults falter in sham death, no matter what. Gloves on, please. Aqua in the middle of you two. Corporate isthmus blessing, cornish game hen of truth, belted, glommed Uruguay. Sister Joseph, the sheen recovers from the phone’s universe. Ligurian where-time, autopsy of beef, Ventnor Ave, I read the diary of every caballo. Teenage fiery mulch school. Ibsen and yes. Larry’s dangers. A Kenyan tooth encourages alternate Plavas; I would engorge feline tablets of weight. So listen, global outcrop of mercury trapping the denim uranium. A sequel to God. Ununquadium spell, for at least I know the doors are adorable fontanelle prisms. Now.
“And everytime I do it, a color literally canoes out of me…”
He just said it was fucking time to take it easy. Working the velocitous pelt on daze mode. Unacquainted with Upanishad Malcolms, little viruses discuss birth in a realm where vines fly. And did you even know about the hat saws? Highly bulbous. Human ham sandwich. Hanuman as a wetback or hurricane. We’ll let you know.
“Smoking pre-rolls at the BNP Paribas Open, don’t disturb me.”
Keep an eye out for the shrewd grass cuttings. Don’t disturb me. At the MoMA, drinking Budweiser out of a candelabra. Don’t disturb me. You put your head on a terrible dollar. Don’t disturb me.
Oh what do I really love? What could I really love?
*
Cue Pauline Oliveros’ I of IV. Amazonian tits on the Shogun. As sweet as a hole in a blowsy place. Oh trash papa, a brief star wanders, methodical digital panda. Questions assuming the night? Or beasts of practical corporate flowering suns? Litigious vehicle passer, basest copulation endurer, torture is given names like suicide. Whips, Ecuador, terrestrial herpetic mimesis or koan, why do I even bother? Why do I even fucking bother?
All I will have offered are these scars from the freezing roast of memories’ seams. I am not the songwriter of passive drought, I am used to the lion’s round floor, the unbent energy of every fin de siecle takeaway mothball. Fall falls over animosity’s solid rain. Solar winter, do you get it yet? I see through see-through destiny, perhaps a balance of negative fingers will numb the Orion unknown by morose farmers. Airy thing, wanting the tool of new and daunting scene fuel.
Take a stick to the doll’s summer prison. Shooting yearlings for the photographs. Enemies get me in the garden strip mood, sweetly winging paper mauve rage, in silver neck braces, in disheveled clay cages, in the laughter of spectral entrances undivided by energy. Little weedlets bleed out their love. Something both rude and refined, the coveted tides enflame and fracture spirits or trains. As cold and sybaritic as the sun is. Here come the big guns, the posthumous pill traps, the evanescence of Hrastnik. In this way, seeds are labial bowling trinomials, imagining Guelph as a moaning shell magnet. Everybody wants what is blaming, on the fritz. Horses are the endless poker check. Mom. Scenic oracle.
If you can’t see a casual speech doll in the littering room, then I am sorry. I ruined the cemetery for serial kettles. They owe me apple pie now. Put your lovely arms in the metaphor. A guilty lip. A violent abyss.
It’s beautiful, it’s arrhythmic, it’s in your heart. The quiet wonder guts, natural president, at night the clean bliss stump. And you too can be beyond elk fur. A fantasy walking. Remain in the heat, lover, remain in the arpeggio leaps. Disconcerted white hands forage for myopic hell rims. What I’m saying is: lampposts bleed taqueria blood.
“Do you taste mouth tartare in the cloths, in the vitrine column births?”
What about the camera? What about existential cortisols? What about live irreverent steam-powered Belizean dollar metrics? What about cool vanilla suicide bombings and lambskin somatic war chests? A veritable mushroom at the gates of destiny? Pushing wan night to the brink of replication? Surrogate porridge in a craft-making mood? Dandelions that unfreeze themselves from a promenade’s cabal? Surely, what about three carpeted head readers in general fission? What about these things? Are they merely cutlery for the unbroken ursine voice strand? Are they supposed to locate drifting macaroni? Are they fundamental hitching post liquids, returning for a sizeable return on investment in their human game strings? Are vegetables swimming? Are lachrymose ass calendars in the shadows and in the way? Are they happy here, in their pen of rainbows?
“Wisdom gives off a glare of pure car crash circuity. When it glows, it glows from the death beef of kites in summer.”
Goddamnit, I feel like Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo. Yes, we know: insensate leaning bondage. Supporting smithereen cocks on gossamer-bound boat joists. Fun facts grow like cheap demagogues; the heart is part of a leaping proof.
“Reminded of diagonal comportment; fuel bulletins parked in the fiscal truth lips. Are you prepared to take responsibility?”
*
Plural keepsake bodies on the defense. We’re going into the factories of demon stress, a perfect happening implicating venereal jade up blouses. Way back like Mayakovsky, summoning head-to-head alephs and sewage stakes. Paddling carbon break. Burgundy farm cochlea within within, but as exponential praise booth, there are not years to compile. The last fire wad was a few seconds ago. Chaotic oceans speak to the stone of carceral shimmering vacations. Puffing on jam like cigarettes of sun, the baseless box of wavering ultra-waves, by twos in a tubercular cave. Too bad the black cat’s burns enhance decorations like knobs on a noisy Portuguese man o’ war. Honey stems in the high afternoon, worn off, continuity challenged by chalice.
There are staples that travel into your mercurial windpipe; you know that, right? The candy has dried out the bunny. I’d have to look up all of the targets under the channel changer. What is space but the silence of five green arrows, peeking in the city’s foreign wig morgue? Everyone, fucked on the baffling afternoon moon.
My earrings are lime-colored pastures parked on the trusty blade of wheezes. Voltaic pastry. As soon as a scab reminds me of physical gel, I’ll evoke nothing other than vernal nepotism, with what Douglas fir do. Pie crust opening up for smoke stained fairy-ghosts. Right.
Swearing off the mottled dawn chips, once again, freezer burn and focus on a high-pitched ringing. Mongolian mud gongs: take all of your unctuous gold teeth and pray that they are never licked. Pray for the dildo darting around the pond of the stuff that’s real. I’d rather rank modes than be a liberal; think about the kind coconut crops.
“It’s about how vicious I could have been; if I cannot make the elephants blend, then I’ll make the shit heavier.”
Perhaps pass me that cartilage hat, a season of delayed blue. Black muffins arising out of arrears. It is chill and wooden six times the official sport. I’m pounding hair pudding, and in front of me is a beauty I can’t bludgeon. Tell about the slim animator, the dolphin giggle. Any army is for you to go to bed to. It breaks differently though, when you try to throw textual hand masks at miraculous bone ties. Hockey corn. The pitfalls condoned by woody eyes. Why?
Harmony. Dawn. Falling. Up in the diamond die, things are side to side.
Heaven as an animal, cause your eyes to see the palace. On a lake, riding in the peace of seeds. Now what is your t-shirt but a welcoming monstrosity, not writing to oneself, but out in the thin copper season, opal is the key to the crackhouse of my life.
Cue This Heat’s Horizontal Hold. Diaphanous reverends spray, a quilt of exit, in national purgation. Io, how the fools add on to their cheekless whimper. Cackling privacy with two scoops of indigo. Never mind the decorations of seconds, the vicissitudes of select rejuvenation parts. It’s in you: the no mass.
Bike parts in a feather ring. You are this desk, this deep sea suicide. Canceling four Xaviers, sand will survive though inert and suppressed. Puffin extraction. Bye melts in the tin foil ceremony, the godless head binding where normal texts are revived by El Monarca. Lusting revolver, addendums for a saboteur’s drive, slick car boil. Bah. Alternating consequences. Do you feel the unthreading?
The art of lurking in Alhambra. The satyrs of water’s fighting and melding. Incessant miasma and vaudeville science. Vapor isolating hairy pastures of something medical, cement, or ancestral. Dedicated to pressure rings in the liquid nocturnal. The shuffle that burns each victimized corsage volt. Traitorous fan belt tensions and the like. Try being gone so long that your vascular mothers advance and arrive after you into the antecedent “No.”
Try it.
No, for real, try it.
*
—
Losarc Raal is a writer and editor originally from Varna, Bulgaria. He is the author of two chapbooks: [SELF-SELECTIONS] (Trainwreck Press, 2021) and The Poetry of Carlux Carluxlax (Reverse Catfish, 2022). A pamphlet, Dead or Alive (The Creative Writing Department), and a chapbook, The Adverse Keys (Spiral Editions), are forthcoming in 2022, and his quasi-novella NO MATERIAL is forthcoming from Black Sun Lit in 2023. He was tyrant over the poetry and arts journal NOMATERIALISM (2020–2022). He is currently composing two full-length manuscripts entitled NOTHING and TROBAR CLUS. He has lived in Brooklyn, Greece, Argentina, and Saudi Arabia, and he currently resides with his wife and sons in Los Angeles, CA. Hit him at losarcraal@gmail.com or Instagram @nomaterial_ism.