On Malice
Page 4
favoured over deformity.
• • • • •
Our being ill together, the mingled good
of our lives on the web,
is not fault but whipped virtue. Our pride
not ours if not
encouraged by them. If I despair of vice,
my ‘if’ is courage,
a finely tuned one-by-one into the truly
long weakness, it bisects
pride, party of the proudly weak, named,
mean, learning all having is classified.
• • • • •
If ever I accepted a return to your world –
your shadow kit and
compensatory appetites,
your peaches on the verge, and transient factories
pouring out pallet stacks of moist holes –
it would be on condition it pass through
renovation. A sea vent
cooks, gargles, and the hot word ‘dignity’
follows ‘sovereignty,’ burped into the whorl of soap
flake and super bacteria. You all owe rent.
What thin humanist krill.
It never had legs, that notion. A toddler’s optimism grafted
on to war plans from old maps
of divinities grinning in the wings. Ah, severance pay.
I’ve only recently cleared an area.
I cleared an area in the tall barley at the orchard’s
eastern edge for the purposes of reading the silver
calligraphy on the rear-screen retina – and croquet.
I cleared the area using a scythe!
I didn’t. I put my fattened head down
into it, pressing the stalks all one way, like zebra hair,
and listened for the sub-terra lullabies of plate-shift
and ordained extinction. As in, fuck you, hole.
Think on your secular prophet
blubbing through his infection’s duration
• • • • •
At the sufferings of a European mare.
How the sister shifted her kissface and menses
awfully close to the big cleanse. It was linkages
wrecked you, and will continue wrecking you.
Wake, Shrike, the toddler’s tattooing the display case
housing the Lindisfarne Gospels across his face.
Some other trend’s thin crosscuts of the brain
as the sky resets its gelatin.
Colour us diseased, for it pleaseth me.
If I halt song entire in the dim, dripping
culvert, this be victory enough. The echoes
of me bang my head against itself
and the pungent sewer mosses.
Effexor, juridical hubris, and liberating
the Dutch made me, and all my works but me
decay. I vacuum up the streaming chirps
and store all in a manger. Straw, and the ticks.
I’m banished structure, and the smell when
the lid is lifted. Predicate of presence.
Imagine dimensionless white gallery space
for the hell of it. ‘Gandolfini died. He was
a good man.’ ‘ – ?’ ‘You Serbian?’ ‘No, from Nfld.
You?’ ‘Ghana. Tell us a joke, Newfie.’ ‘Asamoah Gyan.’
Silverfish are neither silver nor fish,
little Robert Mitchums in their elysiums of piss.
• • • • •
Who’s to say no joy abides in watching
the ant get crisp,
pinch-rolling your own nipples
as poplar cover loses reception.
Pedagogy’s the same dynamic formalized.
The only eye above Art. Me
the hedge maze made redundant –
the charter, amendment and treaty redundant –
the contract and social contract –
the tract of grassland in seas of redundant wheat –
Grease pool in a Moabit pizza box
made of pulped satellite printout.
Ice mass heaven’d above the cross in the chapel
during vespers at Camp Century.
HD 189773 b,
cobalt blue exoplanet, its winds made of glass.
The spectrum continuous and infinite, consider its perks.
Keep talking. I can see it moves your ass.
Your Tomahawks, tokamaks, Takoma Parks,
Junichiro Tanizaki, and watercolour
Matoakas. Jupiter groans, I speed its frequency to an audible
tenor by bringing the forces of famine
to the matter. Flies. Cracked skin. White sacks slung
from white ’chutes exchanged for white powder.
The grease smudge on the black lens is Andromeda.
• • • • •
On Skye one ewe’s and her lamb’s blue blotches
rhyme with the ethicist’s scotoma, his pulsating nads.
The Lord requires his quotient of eyeballs, of jumps.
Some JTF2 assassin’s mother, Camila Vallejo and
a Guangzhou ECE all, at one time, held knowledge
concerning your future. You sat out reveille
in a Neukölln club, chewing the damp sutures,
blending the oxy, DJ, playlist and the dance;
Sybilization and its bisque of trance. Folded stars
on Cassiopeia’s hip – go down
the grid, then up, the nearest bright ripple,
down and up again, see it? First ‘W’ in
THE WEST IS FUKT: DROWN YOURSELVES.
All lives leach off before they’re lived; it fattens
me. Your currencies, labour value and cattle-
minus-an-anus breathing their last in East Texas.
I’ve been going on forever. My work is erosion.
It spins around a dematerialized axis, motion
like blind hornets in cyclonic ferment,
or weather. ‘Is’ lies so very close to what ‘was’ meant.
Black plague silkscreened on a throw,
The settee’s upholstered in ‘Martian sunrise’
German felt. Tea steeps in the amplituhedron.
A hell, four seasons in a temperate
Zone. True life is housewares. One floor below.
• • • • •
We’re here. Which is convenient. Match each flag
to its corresponding methane loop. Yes, I do kiss
Lagos with this mouth. Open a box of Turtles,
it is Turtles all the way down.
She’s had a briefcase cuffed to her wrist,
her wrist, containing soppressata of chimp brain
and can tell you things about central intel
that would turn a cat on its T. gondii.
If you think the hardware is worthless or a drain
to them, you’re not fully
cognizant of the referent the collective pronoun’s
cuffed to. It wears a pink boa, a pink seed
of order beneath the eager hood, the breast
of the great gap approaching Dudinka
and the truly long weakness.
Now none is coming. Pudding and Execution
while the frozen coward’s bucket
comes up with a worthy object, or is laughed
full of headache. Now, you tell the stunned
villain, the nights decline.
The dome’s aerial, a pointless radar of care,
is now indicator, miner’s lamp, a symbol, a kit,
routine descent into Orsk at the brink of the mind
still fresh as staged flowers.
No limit to the streaming of form from the machine.
Why are first incitements to public sin
now handled
harder by the favoured
dead? That so many
face this distribution, which favours
the author’s charity,
ends in a public
desire for occasion, sections desire
into a book
on why the convenient
face of reason punishes others.
Nothing preserves nor aggravates forms
of life more than
to proceed from
a safer box of drugs,
through immolation, to the particular sense
of torturing natural
action with a secret
Law of Witnesses.
We follow one without definition.
Credited regularly to lusts,
judges, medicine and
an accepted secret
command to preserve
fame over the ordinary.
Pelicans kill themselves. Men cherish
the state, and the custom
of wives corrected. Princes
descend to the law
of lower homicide.
More died mutable, privileging
external desire. Spaniards
killing civility to proclaim bees
the reason great persons, or women, succeed
in solitude.
Virtues are but degrees of
an act that provide against
liberty.
A species’ first principles weaker than the notorious
Good.
Liberty delivers quenched
life to the next
condemned state. Corrected desire is almost
preservation, almost a small
martyrdom in a compound.
One indiscreet death taught dignity, taught not
a new laboured overtaking
or well-policed conclusion,
but a true rash on nature.
Distinguish heretics from their enormous love.
Another force gained
remit to care for the primary
human strength
of the commons. Humans died
certain that light exceeded their own condemned
parts to oppose authorized
labour, to oppose orthodox
purpose
here in enforced Utopia and examples of the missing.
Condemned parts on the commons and examples
of the missing.
Two offenders point to their city’s opinion
of a code kings and
fathers meant as already-
satisfied law.
Why is it called dependency?
Why do states condemn the primitive subject?
Largeness is probably induced dying
or desire dying in the
body of a local slave.
One town refuses
censure, so a king
makes additions
to the buried code,
hunting the not-as-yet
in his first punishments.
Time and the commons. Heresy of ‘why’ against
the imperial vastness of the law of distribution.
Punishment’s essence and the commons.
Are the least not enemy as before? Our
place in temporal
reason rewards use
benefits from
the rule of severe
theft as custom.
Like laws against burying sunset, cutting off
the little hand proves
nothing, proves a comparison
to dead Athenians
is destroyed reason.
If good were the worst god, reward would
be to cause ourselves
to depart
by the hand of thieves.
As before,
so are we condemned, bound by arguments
of divine reward,
little bullbaitings,
long duels that depart
from fact, extending
confession when
severe theft differs only in comparison.
The inclination to prevent nothing
restraining a man from
the sunset of a second
death.
Misery is not secret. Misery is the state’s
data. Damage done upon
life is justice stealing data
as recompense for her
elected
privilege. Therefore no delinquent servant becomes
part of the state when it
relinquishes jurisdiction
over the hurtful lord of injury.
Against Aristotle, ask divine reason if life may yet
kill a received secret.
Herein the damaged data – the king’s data –
We may eat better from prison,
may pay virtue’s debts by refusing.
I may be possessed of death and still neglect
to prefer another’s opinion.
Desertions guide me
to a thief, to a vow
of evil, to examples of first
Paradise. I learned by refusing death’s corollary.
Equal to faults. Equal
to weariness. I may be
refusing a better prison.
Examples of escape: It is clear he removed
the pillow. It is clear he
used water on the infected
houses. It is also clear one
party extorted another
and all forms of poison are heaven.
Purgation.
Examples of fallible will,
and the breaking of legs
ceased. Morally clear.
Morally invincible being,
apparition, hurt scholar,
jealousy is a halter of fire.
The breaking of legs ceased in the fire.
I copy absences, and do my shifts at
the scope.
I give incitatory words to my masters
who require them
under law. Why
cite this job
as labour bound
to the act of killing?
Uncertain testimony,
meditation upon
fact. Such as history needed her, her drawn
shift, and first blood –
I imagined a fact to defend, I forbear
bitterness to hunt
with dogs.
I copy the dog’s absence and hunt with
a scope.
Jailer, Self-concern, you may dispense with
the greater instruments:
measures, changes, harm,
The Law, actions.
I learned to impute to the body a despair,
a kind well of exceptions
that preserved the tempted
body in a cast, safely above
sound, the error preserved
in written miracles.
Avoid the diseases of Section 7.
Purpose steps toward the self-authorizing
death. Skin
for condemned skin.
Make use of the weak answer,
description, an argument’s
gradations are no better
when the body is taken.
Images remain of the dead in diverse places.
Miraculous dead in miraculous places,
arguing in a common
room.
Answer to Others! The soil is intolerable.
Answer to Others! I recanted.
A weak body in a weak
room is a description
of miraculous images.
The patriarch’s hate for the flesh approaches
the heroic, unconstrained
strength imitating
the plucked-out eyes
of exaltation, an escape
downward through
history, a stranger
perishing without actual
emission.
It blotted out damnation.
It blotted out Section 9 with a bowed head, and
wished the actual nation
lay down its lives, correcting
any slip upward.
Escape downward through history, our own eyes
hat
ing life, this life,
the wetting
rains direct you to do it
with no reason for doing it.
Any slip upward imitated the soul
correcting the bowed head.
Devil made of shadow, punished for loving
a very sick mind. A
certain urge plainly alleged
in the shadow of type.
I meant to celebrate the ground, to forbid
no precept, no fire, to extol
the history of instinct.
To govern extremely loving
my toleration of a lie.
I meant to deny the work of order,
the work of order
buried in story,
to contradict fire
by loving a particular
contempt. Is the text moral whose shadow
confesses, whose
invitations to its own
death are a fire?
Loving ourselves as
we do, hanging in
opinion, loving
directions, the force of accepted order. I intend
to answer to fact by dying.
[Cetera desunt.]
Notes
SIGINT: These sonnets ‘occur’ inside the abandoned nsa surveillance station on the summit of Teufelsberg (‘Devil’s Mountain’) in Berlin, Germany. A manmade mountain, Teufelsberg is the result of the Allies’ decision to pile massive quantities of the postwar rubble of Berlin on top of a Nazi military-technical college, designed by Albert Speer and left unfinished after the war. As part of echelon, the nsa listening station was constructed in 1963, intercepting all telecommunications and satellite signals from the east. It was abandoned and left derelict after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the departure of the nsa in 1991. The cluster of buildings and radar domes remains empty.