Language is dying to mean.
Don’t catch cold, catch thinking.
Mouth sucking the world back in is slip noetics.
Letting go back the better to leap out new.
It’s true, it’s true, dead semes haunt.
Each thing comes in to speak through the whole body.
Her allegorical beauty finally finds the pulsing vein.
If I get caught dead thinking I’m courting the Bride of Lazarus for inspiration.
This leaves me somewhere between desperation poetics and respiration noetics.
I don’t just see your face, she says, I suck it in to where examination feels contour.
My tongue is on your leg when I sing to make you dance.
You think this can’t be said, you’re right, this is not what is being said.
There is a poetics of interdimensional pretension—not just physics.
Culture dies in its sleep according to a law of accelerating high bounce returns.
Configures romp. Syntaxis interruptus.
Matrix query: why insist on saying what doesn’t know how to be read?
from Wormhole Poetics (preverbs)