Life as Art

I am co-erecting a new love poem upon an anti-war grammar to solve an ancient anguish
that still pollutes our most exquisite metaphysical beaches

Someone will come here to obey her own necessity. This is written on the barest layers of skin. No skin is superfluous. Listen to your best voices on poetry and trauma. Look at me from above those stairs and explain me the ways in which the growth of forms explode. We happen and happen so extremely... We happen within those metaphors that launch sunflowers from scratch. Extremely you write or not. And you read no longer as though from a detached infinity. As if you believed nothing could change.
And yet your name fuses with a certain tone of voice and a dry page... all over the skin. The complex skin of your sex, for instance: it re-asserts a drastically intense stress on beginnings... Lack of skin conveys a lack of reality, no more, no less.
I revolve around cruel possibilities.

Nothing rests on
potential selves looking for
the terrible sense of a multiple Nude

Moons are called to the poem
My calling and yielding and crawling are many hours of aspiration
My lips ceased to possess the flutes

Time carries more than the extension of Self-Shock
such as a drawing-room and inner arrows of poets against the muted waves of a Nude

The same imagery develops as within the tragedy but closer to the bottom of fire
which is still to come and belongs to the war-poem and to every torse where you encroach your mouch and broken limbs

how pretty a war-poem is in the choice of timed words and legendary onomatopeias

it abandons the quiet post-war tenderness
on questioning why fire is the master
my bare feet shall bleed great contrasts of light

too late a whole night full of letters and lips
the tragic tension is read and written by a self-returning passion

Vapours within the reversal of catastrophes
as crude as the kernel of a kiss on the mouth of a leaping panther

this symbol falls and suffers from stormy bodies
no limit is set to the tragic tension of intoxicated sunshine and landscapes
such as the green fishes on your eyes speaking of a drinkable scream
this symbol opens the exuberant nonsense of a concrete Nude

can I write of infinity as a post-war effect on a potential womb
bodies pass and sign and so tender pass and sign the breast

how pretty the growing estrangement between desire and desire is
Scream... tenderly the same questions... before and after the texts

I love the hiatuses in advanced body-to-body fighting as a last resort for entering these three sides of angst where when why so much tremble for ever in alphabets of paradox and intimacy

this hungering language should have been the bomb or the gesture on the breast
my gesture returning to the last verse where the word breast touches the dilemma
and suddenly the texts put the same abyss before the pines in front of the sea where when why

the rhythm of the branches of your desire will mix our sands

I am more mad than most oceans and I understand your green fishes in myself

let me turn into a flash of beginnings