Wednesday, May 28, 2014

In which La Nature rejects its correlates (after Baudelaire's Correspondances)

‎   “Self-revelation is annihilation of self”

Lana Turner's living
Still life of words
(see baud rate, see disambiguation)
You lost me at Shirley
Temple's temple
Mounts of words
Crossed forests
Crossed out
Intimate symbol
Of sweets
Of the stink
Of subjects she sing‎s‎

No man's mottled nose
No oboe
to judge
to Cleave amber

Nature is never adequate
to the revolting dead
Hardwood doubled
Green screened‎
Vibrant bullet
as if subjects exist

Not knowing it's dead
La fabrique du pre
Works day and night
Green light ‎for white flight
As it reproduces itself
Say what?‎
Delete stink of flesh
Deep aura
‎Echo as ecstacy
‘Heads up!’
No cognate‎ released‎
No sense of singing
Vampire blood on lip
No scent of infinite thing
Gasping abreast

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