XII. Clouée

XII. Clouée

Two gamma bursts, a magnetic storm, to watch tonight—Matrices
Of the specimen drawer, I drew yellow-shafted flickers coated in borax—
As the viewer, I placed you above that season’s dead swans and glacial filters—
That winter, my hands lost their assurance—The rest reads like a peristaltic
Wave, until caught now, by the same silence; not of death, of the gastric antrum;
Straight and reversed—A false invention of Man Ray’s photo of Lee Miller’s neck

It seems clear, now, why I had not wished to touch her—A fused swan’s neck

Of the hand; a deformity—From excess of stored sugar-protein in the extracellular matrix;
It was not the other person they were especially interested in, but each other—Antrums,
Their ponderous, though frozen, addresses were too absurdly strident to repeat—Borax
Replacing mercury in gold extraction, and in this discourse—Expressed by the peristaltic
Pace of an earthworm—We might think to procedurally dry the crystals on the filtering

Paper, yet this reservoir of sensation submits a haunted pool of Berry, filtered
While being choked by the regional variant of Nile hyacinth hardening the neck
Of a watercourse—What does our modern forest of a night club—With peristaltic
Dancers forming a compact black mass, in The Hunger (1983), where a matrix
Is set—I am wondering if you felt less bored than I did by the goth tradition; here borates
Increase the refractive index, reverb of rainfall shower heads within the tiled antrum,

Or cave, where Catherine Deneuve and David Bowie liquidate the iron-smell in antrums

Above their rooted teeth—Taken in infinite, the B film’s glimpse of the person writing filtered
In this fourth verse, before the exchange of fluids takes place—What omissions have taught, as borates
For alkaline buffering—Bowie’s yellow-shafted mane lies to sleep in a curtained box; the necked

Victims incinerated—Each history is decisive, and when sucked into the gasping door of a matrix

Or, Giacometti’s Palace at 4 a.m., the look could be perfectly controlled—Peristaltic spine

Enclosed in a water closet, to boast the sobriety—Juxtaposing the film’s peristaltic
Visual data, exposed by the deadpan of Sarandon—The blue lights sliced in the shaded antrum

Of Manhattan resembles benthic depths; in spite of casual stands of funereal lilies, Miriam’s matrix
Flushes red when Sarah, the scientist, is accidentally bled by the unsheathed nail—Filtering
Eternal life to the wearer—Of an ankh necklace; blood complicating all matters erotic, each neck
In the sequence is garlanded with it—Lacking a plunge pool nearby; like beluga preserved with borax,

Miriam’s desiccated loves break from her reiterated boxes—Sarah’s would-be death is akin to borates’

Radiation shielding effect against her charisma; the absolution by water thereafter—For peristaltic
Waves of prose, never to emerge— Modest objects of realism would not be George Sand, her neck
Bent over shuffled Holbein engravings of danse macabre, to drop in a would-be shepherdess in an antrum,

La Mare du Diable—Choosing a flock of kids after an occluded forest errand; alternately, Sarah’s philter
For Miriam ends in the latter’s displacement and death, whom she carries in her box—Another matrix

Overrun with lotus, biostatic borax, for a flower duet—I remember your withering receipt of matrix
Examining the Latin root—Your harshness, I mitigated, from a peristaltic prompting by a philter built up
Without metrics, searching  as I would for the neck of an extinct volcano, a watery antrum in Indochine (1992).