This figured light only

is an opener to that scene, in which it all crowds

in at slattered points of flank and form,

shifting lines of view. Powdered caprice

Faced before, it would not be good,

to assume those, assume anything.

Of you and me.

I see what you’re doing here, creating

that matter you always hearken to,

Want to point out or

Existence, of

Art. In a word,

How can these limpid

shards of lexis

Fit? Dense lengths of dust

trace the floor, flit up

surround at our greeting held

muffled in the

slack littorals of

Postures, known postures, of language.

Repeat after me and you’ll see it through right

Create in terms known by you and others

in an attempt to knot the globing

gap between word and thing.

Art gorges on its own tail,

constricted by what is [re]presented

and what is perceived.

[The idea]

[[The idea of the object]]

[[[The idea of the object of the idea]]]

And on, surely? Meaning congeals on the freighted lips

Spittle fettered through,

To plead, to paint

In imminence there is immanence

owned by

A close one

So it lolls open slack-jawed to all


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