Tuesday, August 8, 2017

No Focus Loci Pokers

of Maxwell Owen Clark






Skrillex life ant bee chipmunk TI-83.
This Then The A.
Woo!                     Woo!
It can always be torture because pain alone.

Line break up down moves x,y.

Like Fishing

of Maxwell Clark







Fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, 
Fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, fiiishing,
Fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, fucking fishing,
Fuck fi... fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, eyup, fishing, gishing,
dishing, wishing, yiiishing, fishing, fishing, fishy, fishy, fishing,
Fichte, bitchtaaa...... erp, fishing, fishing, fishing, fishininin.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

It Has Been So Long

of Maxwell Clark






"[...] a botched civilization,  [...]
For a few thousand battered books."
---Ezra Pound, Hugh Selwyn Mauberly


I fear the father-spider most,
More than the mothercrystals.
I plan to rave psychotic with survival skills.
The force is strong with Brian.
Here are our voices displayed.
This is deep poesy, tread softly.
Don't worry the grammar, dearies;
I'm too well advised of civil norms.
We are on our way as ever again.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Brief New Poem

of Maxwell Clark





The armaments peace frills.
Almost number history.
God. Good-person.
Person peace number.
History armament frills almost.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

2 poems

of Maxwell Owen Clark




O for a Closer Bond with God

I am souring sweetly
As a maze of winds.
It is right in front of me
But with nowhere to look in.
A whisperless agony enfolds my chest
Until it cracks me out along the spine
To this and nothing more.



What Little I Remember

Always homing in on first love.
Triangle swarm of the lazer castle.
Burning hands scare jawa.
Person speaking 12 languages at once is home.
Killer a-THC.
Beef stroganoff with rice noodle.
Seeing Mala w/ baby Paris.
Real guns have shoulder butts.
The infanta releases the #661645.
Telling the Queen Elizabeth ascension story.
She is never right around the corner.
Heroin contains heavy metals.
Playing Aladdin on rooftops.

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Mouldering is This

of Maxwell Clark






Even I do not say certain words that bid too wildly at me.
If supreme candor were not ostracized, I know not what.
The beginning, as the end, are lies imposed by genetics and their program of mortality.

If I simply
must do
something of sublime value,
I might begin by disposing of all nouns and verbs.
But I am not at all sublime unto myself, and therein is a phrase of uncertain affect.

The only lived certainty is that one's own life survives (“I'm not dead yet”).
How I chafe at the impositions of my linguistic usage, of my world.
I am born, not only to die, but to chafe and thrash against death.
No, I am infinities unto myself---already once long ago pre-originally inaugurated, and so forth.

The terror of creation. The confusion of otherwise discreet infinities, like as if stapled together.
Who is braver than the persuasive fool? Spiritual war only accretes intensity the longer it rends us.
Am I not that one spirit of my world that is? Merciless grace that there cannot be but others.

The soul is buried deep in what is, is what is, and to become a spirit it must fight beyond itself as such.

The jarring pertubations of political life infect everyone on a regularly scheduled basis.
Political life is the most unproductive spasming of the capital-world's otherwise utility-bound law.
There is nothing in my head, only a flow of behaviors fixated upon this text.
The clash of nothing against itself is already at too late a moment to adequately describe a cosmogony.
Who will forgo their own needs, absolutely, for the most infinitesmal glimmering of joy in another?

The racing of life towards nothing, as from nothing manifested.

I refer to myself, but where am I from?
The main delusion is that a non-delusional state can be attained.
My world needs me to do this, otherwise I would be otherwise.
The redemption of creation is not necessary, it is desired.
Does not desire overwhelm us everywhere in our sense-orientations.

This that I write, I would its affect take hold immediately first, then only after as archival media.

Would that the inherited ruses be torn away, except that the first inheritance is already a ruse, and it has not gone away.
I cannot do this for myself. True luxury and comfort are nowhere available but in teaching and sincerity.
The master of what is, is what is itself. A higher court than being is needed for justice, peace, and obedience.



The Dumb Mystery of the Stupid World

of Maxwell Clark




I am born of creation to do things as myself.
The grammar of creation is not essentially this one.

The most interesting element of this composition was how it was composed, the editorial and thus grammatical interstices of its revision, and so forth.

Doubt is never productive, thus work is madness.

There is the madness of slavery, and then how it murders off almost all otherwise doubtful reasons.
To be unproductive anymore is then as to be a reasonable God.
The lure of death, of slavery-madness, how it poisons life.
I do not detest anymore poetic innovations in the formatting of literature.

I am always erasing my wish-statements, right at their bud.
But my wishes are also of the fund of my obedience to externality.
I wish never to make wishes otherwise than I do.
And so the pallid armature of “what is” descends so.

Do not never again say anything that is coming into saying.
This is beyond such timid hermeneutic anticipations already, however.
It merely is in exception to any hesitations.
Even its hesitations are poolings of might.
Intentions are ephemeral distractions from it (this).
This is thus the root's flowering, as you will.
Neither gust nor breeze of direction is very central unto it.
It comes as it goes, but not without folds of trepidation, yet is itself unfolded only in between these.

Time is my flowering birdsong, drink of it when you may.
Too many sentences are begun without much of any pre-recognition of their final import.

How the real is open, too open to be much ever obeyed.
The self reels itself in and away from the real, hoping to recreate the real in itself.
As it does, except for the infinite interval between reeling away and recreation.
The scent of apples on the teeth.