from "Thousand and One Night (2012)" by Michael Thomas Taren


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Drinking blood for the first time. 
Passive beams ferried like lanterns through waist-high wheat.
The waist high wheat.
The hopelessness.
As I loved you and as I saw weeds doling
And vacillations doling, and viruses opening
And pushing from their middles appendages
Tipped with lethargic ovules
And metal-like bundles that accrue and loosen the plaque
A worm pitched across the roulette table
With a thousand pixilated crotch shots
And the wind’s varied displeasure.
Crotch shots spread like fresh butter
Across the pale blue sofa. That was the point in my brain when
Doling, doling.
The waist high wheat going up going through.
There is some sort of experience, and virus.
They speak that is about everything
And today, something else. One wonders
What might come forward and be really the height
And presuming ‘wareness.
The keysmith. The cairn-maker.
Man or woman: The rest
I do not know whom beside they walk and them.
The pivot rinsed in caldera. Man or woman
Or symptom.
The doling vacant clear off
Or off he of a higher him.
And it is immense, said to the youth, to
The blind sage
Reaching for the sweet balms and
Reaching for the silver colanders that make marriage true.
He attacked me in a dream
And I him in life.
And the rubble and faint figures, at times
Take up singly in the thunderheads yielding to
The slopey courses.
This means much to me.
This means the most to me, but
It should keep itself merciful.
Let it rest, and improve itself
The way one feels like improving oneself
When one is still God’s creatur.
When one, with the barest arms
Is able to truck
Crop through these in-peering ovulations.
This continued that slowness.
All manner of basil, and seismic fealty
Crushed in hand, his life-long hand, the likes of us.
And it please itself
Seated in the seat of its coact lax was it. Then ten
Bowls of carven wood were brought
For the meager to gauge and solve
And limp from the pit where they took
Attenuate leather. The peaks of
Hold this and give away your whole.
Marine chorister
Sing from water to the shore
The aridity of this your prism. Basil kept in rubble peaks
For the undivided
For the promissory is the troth of promise.
The pliant crepe of his knees.
The laughter at the passing of the blubber of his schlong.
Bright and silent crepe
Of slowly contravailing.
And mending this to the digress of
Sway and adjustment sway and justice
They may be, if they were stripped, cowed down
Into ludicrous angles.  
Blasted on the multi bucking striations which you
Help parable.

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I have to go
To want and that is not the way in
But for those I love it is.
The crab was on the old man’s chest, displaying itself
And the boy said, of the crab, it is immense. And, said the boy
And that is an immense biped old man
And a bluish crab also big.
He held up in one person that I still have
The leaves being tranquil and fluttering
And joying some ghostily viridianal pique.
Who concerns them?
The crab, that and the old man, and the boy
This seems to cause, as one has it.
All annoying wealth.
The man wrath lozenge
When I relate the youth
I jest, and often it has in it
To forget this, who has heard
You are moving toward union.
But the crab is a big person, built to be
Immortal and to subtract the free-loving mountains
And to multiply, and abuse his horde.
We know about this, nothing loath.
Logs burning.
You see the path. To have seen the path
The melodic forced stripping, and equitable cries.
We have the whole
And some additional parts.
I would say
I wouldn’t say, agreeable blue sofa.
The more I go close, the greater, the broader
The health these agonizing women have.
Refusal is a mere element of acceptance.
Refusal is an innate, and merely elemental
Feature of acceptance.
Refusal is lurid. A revolver is lurid.
Revolving and Roman aqueducts and childlessness
Is lurid.
The crab is lurid.
You are blue, said the crowd.
To give or be given to, I submit, is mere lurid.
As one related to a jest.
One of these
Has now but one already and bound.
He himself, image of toe, music musical
Vice and worship convivial and at home with one
Another in the house of the other.
The biped flushed, he may have been used for peaks
Just as peaks will and relented ripe.
With great jets of stupidly.
With great jets of unity.
The command that is called for
And allies all against nature, he might have learned it
From a wreathe burning on regurgitated calf’s liver.
One can still analyze it, how wholesome it remains.
Greatness. This one, these rare ones
Part of this work
Giving the word, self mastering the shrift
And the tinny helion. Willing the work
And then inferring the endowment, also dangerous
This is what should I begin
For me and for us.
The feral need to study pants
The hard fling of magnetic force, this is the work
Going on naturally. Open the eyes
Of the dead with a happy hand.
And they have, as a law defending the first tied
To the block, to not yield
Of an all, too like him, solemness, the cup of which is hackled.
Youth or crab, one
Still improves the other with life-longed forthcomingness.
My ice! Us against all!
All against us! Let’s not forget the refined man,
The impulsive man, the hitherto remade man.
Let’s not forget the lurid songs
Sung as they parted
At the origin of the river. How lurid, binding
And intoxicating then they sang singing
All in health and goodness and selfness.
For the sake of these renascences was still
The new feeling coming.
Crab or old man
As now we smell them both, crowding and overpopulating
The other.
The body crown, soft, monotonous
Put in the parallax of the seeker. It seems true
If it were only and still have so much
As one’s veil and one’s plasmodium.
Let’s not forget how much one, in this, could answer
Blown down as one is and across blown
And toward blown the small and great upon its work.
The youth, the pearl crab
And the crab festooned old man
A crescent fuse to pot the tableau of lighting.
Dam this river and how like a river this ice, and the
Search of that one and it was one
Became one thing together
That is the beautiful thing born
Not just this one we call our stillness
One does not call our stillness.
Every fiend on this mountain, every tree
And every fiend is lurid.
And every friend is lurid, lord.
Invertebrates are lurid.
Juice sacks are lurid.
Because one has arrived at a profound sense of ease
To him, to find even that they admire him
Becomes outside all. There is no curse in this
Just wings, and hindlegs
And the monster that is then bound with both.
As well as a tusk at his apex, and a votive breath.
They were handsome. There is this.
And they were afraid. There is that.
He took it on his shoulder to think the thought of chaos.
And they sang themselves
Into sacrifice. The shoulders, the billowy north,
The guidance of all the same
And nothing the same. Birds overhead, branches
Over head, the matter of leaning and gripping,
The judicious straps that carried the payload
And the valet’s that extolled.
The crab in its season
The soap in its specious beard.
The lips a little open and asleep is lurid.
Pacing one’s motive with of all this but it would
Take off and he might have something
The sensation ignored and rain loud as uncooked lentils.
We’re the same
We’re both rich and we want to be served.
That one is Dutch walking the ice.
And unnaturally rock like the other wants to move
Peaks and sea.
An oration
A glister to the surface.
The leaves of spring
The depths of actualities. How unbecoming to throw it away
And harm its heavy pomp
And to take there and all who were in a deepening
And inside and it seemed that both did not.
I had to know you.
And we were the same, and I said I like him
Let me hope he likes us. And I said, is this what
Even given to over the earth that can well
Become the sight of oneself.
I have sent it.
It is a saint with his dog. The roseate move
And mass this way, moving like, it seems to me
Will be the movement
With others moving in it
As one might not move among a superior concordances.
They told me not to yield, but I yielded.
Faces separated although
They unwrapped on the wooden table.
I’m not humanly able to breeze or allow my works
To breeze. The bastard lurid breezes of my works
In my domain within this grotto
Where I am scented and tender.
You are yourself this ensiform childish.

Michael Thomas Taren exists.