"The Curse of Eyes" (Pessoa XXVI.)

Overcast Monday, half an hour's error
and toppling buzzards harvest the inchmeal lie.
A tissue, a tissue; trembling the ebon mirror
that brings lit landscapes forth, to teach thereby
how power here is sovran good. One knows
of exceptions. One may risk one's solidness
on saying so. Semaphor poesy shows
ruined cities, dark red radar, this place
that holds me like a bloodstain. Holds me, and yet
bids me travel along the astral strange

in search of heraldry. But one could get
caught up in effects, still, and never change
basic causality. One dies. The true
measure withholds itself; its Argus you know.


The Atrocity Exhibition. (via Cursor)


    "Not Going to Rehab" (Pessoa XXVII.)

Radint waialand lion dreams, the unsurpassed [past]
dynamic intensity of the corrections field today.
Soundbyte ricochet. Shoemaker's cloven last.
Sometimes i feel like a stowaway
on the Titanic, looking out late if ever
on the iceberg rushing up. Black night now
crossing Pineland, swerving. The toxic river
shines. Waialand. Record turnout. Flow
my tears the policeman's beard is have to, none
of the above. Through all corrosive fates
set the controls for the heart of the sun
baby, this is the last of all blind dates
and this we keep with the grizzly of a market bear
and there is more than fear to fear


Hallelujah. (via Metafilter)

    "Pink and Gray" (Pessoa XXVIII.)

A chore is ajar. Sulfur and brimstone hiss,
eclipse my teak and lapis lazuli dream.
A sciamachy lost the date of this
whose squib quotiety largens, it would seem.
Gladdened, he flutters. Thunder plain disclosed
i write; the song hides. What sort of feel
does tomorrow have; its shadow interposed
between our tasks and soliloquy so real?

A madman is to lie awake.
The concrete latifundia made some things
impossible to say, though you can take
into your own two hands. Imagining's [imaginings]
a chore. Out of the first colossal curse
of a raven's jeer · emerged a universe