divine magnet

about

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1

Andrew Morgan

 

Intent

I am the absent glove of the rumored sick.

I am the elevated train of fabricated beauty.

I am a seat on that train. A tare in that seat.

A tear pooling in that tare. And the face above.

And it’s mouth, the mouth.

The mouth inverted, the mouth creased,

the mouth wrung and reattached by staple

to the lapel of the moon's prehistoric pulsing.

I am documented absentia.

I am brief triangulation.

I am extended triangulation.

I am ever on and off of this,

the ceaselessness of scent ceasing.

The strident method.

The tabernacle something.

I am the noose edged by the pledge of a wandering picnic.

I witness, proclaim, repulse.

I capture, contain, capitulate.

I’m sick with a symptomless sick,

dub the extravagant as succulent,

the establishment as elegant.

I am what distance bestows on debauched demeanor.

I’m repulsed by rhythm, regret repetition.

Regret regretting. Repeat that regret.

Repeat myself as an ancient and abstracted semantical fetish,

repeat myself as a penance grounded in shame.

Why are you so romantic my broken hen?

Why are you so romantic my broken hen?

Why are you so romantic my broken hen?

Why do you dream posture as a persistent pestering?

Why do you dream posture?

Why do you dream while B is slowly broken,

while B is bathed in the leaked remainder of moon?

Why do you dream B as unique in this oubliette, regretting nothing?

Why dream at all, posture?

Why do you dream when your shape is my shape

debauched by distance and attached by staple

to the label of the moon’s prehistoric pulsing?

Why do you bathe persistence, why hang it on the line

like a posture recreated and regretted?

Why do you limp into memory, hat in hand?

Why do you stencil truth’s translation on the inside of the pocket sown that much more shut each and every time you without reason or purpose repeat an untenable lie?

Remember the cat the chair controlled by radio?

Remember its failures, its disappointments, its love of symptoms

and the systems established to validate such a love?

Fuck that cat my broken hen.

Love is not romantic.

Love is a posture. A persistence.

Love, when directed, can recreate drowning by rumoring its absence.

Love is the mirror my parrot insults the athleticism of.

Love is instant and continuous forgetting.

Love is a yoke as a symbol of the sun.

Love is the yoke in the feathers of the final flying chicken.

Love remembers its conditioning.

Love wears its pants to the pants store,

rings its hands when standing in line.

Love is duration without time.

Love binds like butter in a beer helmet.

Ice in a milk box.

The numbered buttons on a new type of parachute.

Love picks its teeth with a toothpick that bears the lettered wound L-U-V

unreadably burn-stenciled across its midsection.

Love is a willing misattribution of the unexpected remainder,

love is a free pass to a free show,

love is reallocated absence,

uninitiated lamentation,

a botched undressing of candor.

Love is eclectic needing.

Love is penitent penetration.

Unsolicited nobility.

Love is a sudden, panicked realization of a long-since-past mistook identity.

Love is sudden.

Love is panic.

Love is realization.

Love is mistook.

Love is engulfed identity,

a fondling of rebuffed urgency,

a cordoning off of the purest of sneers.

Love is smelt newsprint,

smelted newsprint.

Love is uninterruptible rendition and its absence.

Why are you so pedantic my token wren?

You represent what you are better than actually being what you are.

Like a past tense trending imperfect.

Like the cadence of a lullaby tremoring the lips of one in the act of being hung.

Like accidental elimination.

Coincidental retribution.

Like extrapolated fondlessness as the foundational blueprint for devotion.

Like remembrance beginning and ending with the elimination of that remembered.

Like deserving to be hung.

Like loving one so deserving.

Like loves imperfection as the only necessity for it to pass as perfection.

Like love as an intention, as a reason, a defensive definition.

Love bisected and casual.

Love injected and malleable.

Love as the manicured limb being the severed limb.

Love as the only thing that epitomizes itself.

It intends redemption, breeds consumption.

It regrets rebuking, rejects imbuing.

Love is a castle collapsing on the servants.

Love is the servants embarrassed by their crushing.

Love never ceases.

Crushing.

Creases.

Bends.

Love’s absolute a bent crease, ceasing.

Love’s nonchalance a timeless empty.

Love’s structure a puncture.

Love is relentless mentoring.

Love is posturing.

Repetition.

Posturing.

Repetition.

Posturing.

Repetition.

I am

Posturing repetition.

Love is.

Posturing repetition.

Love is

The cat a chair controls by radio.