.
And say no son pass solely the singing bushes. May’s the main, May’s the peds, May’s the feces, May’s the sexys and the whole creature that liquefies in sons, voice and rhymes. Arrived at the summit of its ascension, the joy cries come a new age. The chant’s no errant pass, May’s role ain’t maintaining iniquities of lords for the pure valleys, the anguished tunnels, the infernal fays. And chased-one she met a tirer for the que the devil approaches, just quiet of the pure he insensibly abolishes over the fine sables of reverie, and long life consumes a veritable dream, and you burp and you cry and you chant consume a dream of the paupers in the petal of the rose, and the jury finds convoluted consumption a sap of tillage, and the odor of the pure cacophony and the din-dins egregious, lower their red pustules in the sun, and the obsessions with cloths and clocks, and the plume…
............the clocks.....and the plume
..........that tin tent, tin tent, tin tent.
About your petite matings, set vile plates and tell your tails.
..
153
and she pays cry a pendant of cycles, k? knew somnolent black brutes; the human pulsations are a tent of portals negligible; knew some hideous, ambulant fume promises the tender canines and the soiled cotton and long new mark of feral rouge and now sleep, dance no excrement and long. knew then day and she pays a calm state: tranquil, distant that spirit of dew. state: dance the acts.
171
putrid rennet, Ka. unsense era’s new rut carrying hate amidst the back’s rein. sense neck hermaphrodite unsense era. sense her night meat Ba at petite trauma…um, Kent? put henna mass tit petty trance in sense, o manna…a-he-he-he…in those lands of…Fuck! You!? What then is the name? say they to me I grow among. the flower dwelling in the olive. Is my name, pass on you. say they unto me. I have passed by the town, north of the singing bushes. what then? did you see there? I saw the leg and the thigh. I saw, rejoicing. I saw there a flame, a crystal pane, and I buried them in the furrow of meat within the night. And there, a flinty rod, made to prevail you. Its name, giver of winds. I uttered, I stuttered, I adjured, I extinguished the flame, and in the crystal a limpid pool. Pass in, they said, pass in, you art, pass in in knowing.
(Note: the previous prose-poems are all from a series, the opening sections of which are currently at Kill Poet)
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John Moore Williams is still uncomfortable with speaking of himself in the third person. A recent graduate of UC Berkeley, John's work has recently emerged from its gimp-box beneath the bed and seen the light of day in TOYON, AVIARY, killpoet.com and fissuresofmen
