inkroutes:

i 

[infestation altars]

my limbs sprout worried leaves 

                          i remember

no reason  a new drug

swamp jerks with   sociopaths

                          someone 

je ne suis    ageless

      longing           go

without saying  from my neck

invisible roots plumb

                       empty sky 

ii  

[linguistic terrorism]

you can’t cancel organic fear  

   savage logos 

in-formation /   incarnation

    a carousel of watchings 

            vagabond’s cant 

encrypt teeth into my skin

               screen

               feral phrases

iii

[print bomber]

black year          pixels

mass media pantheon 

      encryption   the threat

of being            riddled habitat

                       blind vigil

integral void 

iv

[death artist]

the language of objects   wounds

 in vacuum              from soliloquy  

to figure  null ciphers casting bones

 in the shadow of death 

 inmates of creation 

 without referents,         interlocked 

always    already   awful 

[ reads fully ways all ]

v

[isolation saboteur]

sleep  aperture  carbolic sleep

used to measure 

           levels  locution 

victim    my made mind

“les bons libraires”

placing unidentified in grey

time  warped in the sun

vi

[anamnesis]

cabal  label,           babel

  the mute inside

      the cuts bleed  will 

         with a mouth full of ash

             ”no good. no bueno.”

               insatiny   

vii

[rogus artifex]

                        a sapio-stint rains noir

                   notions sip tar, helplessly

          engaged  repetitions of absence

       finger combing gravel   cataloging

      the burden of godhood  

   set into chaos

viii

[effigies of my own mortality]

his   body   leaves 

   adoped  code

in    the   shape of 

   v i o l e n c e

no-home    hormone

 strategic  needing

her   head  on  the  crook

   of      his   neck 

deleted     dream

ix

[COLONY OF TINY PAGANS]

anything that produces secret

langauage   text-ure  the leaden

age     your clothing  is woven

with asemic writing   murdered

simply by appearing   nihil est

x

[a/part]

so how does one utter nullity?

 body loss of interior/exterior

SPACE       SPACE      SPACE

       deletion      deletion 

                SPACE

motions and contours between

somebody is combing my timeline

for poetry    and      it tickles 

      who are they, really?

i don’t know where the line is 

written by @dialoghost

curated from twitter feed by @deja_raconte

#FeedPoetry is where I curate twitter timelines and arrange tweets into poems. 

dialoghost:

ALTARS

dialoghost:

[as the outer layer is rubbed off, patterns emerge]

dialoghost:

[pid/gin]

I love this. A 6 page PDF ebook by my friend dialoghost and @viconian and @todaysmessage.

bezoardic:

where you are old or just without a chaos for disbelief
this your children have lowered you out of

you asked of your knight a truth this you have always
displeased others before/after your “unworthiness monologue”

from un- prohibited out of a Prison
or abstain from corrupting the living (you are

-12 days young or numb from everything
before/after outside a Prison
——————————————-
Elpmet eht edisni elihw
gnihton tlef dna dlo sraey 12

saw I) daed eht rof smsitpab ni etapicitrap dna
Elpmet eht otni dewolla eb ot

“weivretni ssenihtrow” ym gnirud flesym derusaelp
reven dah I taht eil eht pohsiB ym ot dlot I

otni em desiar dah stnerap ym taht
feileb fo metsys eht nihtiw llits dna gnuoy saw I nehw

bezoardic:

BZZZ

dialoghost:

“the World is the voice of my House, my House is the voice of my body, my body is the voice of the World,”

[repeat]

Edible “tramp stamps” that you can lick off, like a body rimmed with sugar or strawberry syrup. The tattoo of a willing tongue.

A willing tongue learns that it is not a tongue and salivates private climates to dissolve and permeate walls of crystalline desire / faceted demons focusing light to burn a Hole./ what does a nothing taste like?

Nothing tastes like the end of a flat earth, all that water has to go somewhere, washed clean or swept away. Sugared memories, demon bartenders set fire to cocktails with magnifiying glasses, I hold napkins tattooed with lipstick in the flame.

An Edible flame washed clean of a focusing syrup, like the end of a faceted body the earth set fire to tongues, all that salivating has a tattooed hold on somewhere, rimmed with nothing.

— with dialoghost

dialoghost:

Imagine that your “poems”, the physical manifestations, are merely the coagulated, ‘dead’ state of the process of poetry; poetic behavior. Waste product to be incinerated or otherwise disposed of.

Imagine that poetry is not a thing that results from a process which needs to be shared, or  read by another, but that it is rather the process itself.

Imagine that you do not need “poetry” from others to read, that this “need” for artificial poetry from external sources is manufactured and abhorrent,

that this “need” for other “poetry” or some economic exchange of “poems” is alienating everyone from daily poetic behavior, diminishing significant experience in the lives of many as it accumulates in the churches of the poets.

Imagine “poems” are dead, husks of poetic behavior, already metabolized, useless matter. That the poetry has already happened and ended. Kill the need to share it

imagine that “poetry” has been eating its own shit, and is dying.

Poems in mass graves. I want to be the Varg Vikernes of poetry.

dialoghost:

you are only readable through a magnifying glass,
we play silly wars with focused sunlight

(the sun is trying to get at my shadow by burning me through)

we light a danger candle and fill the room with throbbing shadow,
you are its messenger; a conduit

i speak in thunderous Morse code
and superspeed collisions

there is nothing ‘inside’ a word

you compare my body to fruits and I lie quietly in an orchard, letting berries fall into my mouth

I taste smoke on you and your hair curls for me and after we fuck, I am sticky and sweet with condensed milk

I blush the colour of a flowering ginger plant, but I can’t dig my toes as deep in the soil as its root

I am bedded as garden with night blooming cactus standing guard

I walk naked into the sea at night as Venus transits, and expect you to follow

everyone has left after the party and it’s just you, pressing my wine glass to your lips where lipstick bruised it

I am alone in the dairy aisle with cold bare feet, remembering last season’s humidity and you sliding ice cubes inside me

I am adrift with anxiety and I pull my own hair, imagining it is you yoking me back into myself

I salt the bed and your memory and you still come back to me