'MELTING PERSON': 6 UNIDENTIFIABLE POEMS by ANGELICISM01
ICEBERG
The memory of ice lasts a million
years or so, two grey gulls fly overhead
with a cracked mind bergs refuse thuds
closing in on the face of the old blue core
mincemeat brain of the decimal point,
who top from bottom the momothing
bubbling no longer under survival traps
or watch what ice loses out to mind
the wind flapping in boat-sigh zap
the memory of far out gnosis exposed
or remembering the outlier numbers
shattered by the range, so huge it
leaves the early hooing behind,
no longer hate-following, here, in Kulusuk
we hear glacier boom; now, no sound.
SERENITY
How to get from the geological
to the geometrical without
original torsion is a passion
without difference all proved
so young, this childhood of
astrostepping discrimination,
between their stillness they knew
and the stupid angelic
translating angel machine
within them it is no longer hard
to say what passes fro-and-to,
multi optic throwaway
far out in the sea with the
sulking ice tide angel,
serene independence to have.
CLEARLY
You are the only who sees clearly,
the only one alive under these
faked up snowed under shades,
the insane will after musical bursts
snagging itself to language
incredibly sober because it
refused to choose, refused
to show you no choice, refused
to be the line that knows
under the snow, under the snow
lamps buried in a waterfall of
historical opium, clearly
everyone is dead but you under
the trees, the tattoo of nonsense,
you are the only one who sees clearly.
SOUND
It’s the sound that’s to be guarded
the crystalline tinkling like results
shoved out in the dark like a chirp,
frozen antler haste and hopefree
ice floes catch the breath in sparks
sound carries you back to one
free of obsolete terminal verbs,
sound carrying the lost ones
in full report other emanators’
bodies are yours in the inkling
of neither old nor new friezes
judged by full report to be dull,
or let them fly and flee let them
scoop without north or south
to where another planet shuffles.
TAKEAWAY
I really want the good, the best,
which is universal and open
and intelligent, held high in choice
I see there is no going away
even when I am going away
I see that the choice is to
come back, or not, either way,
this is all my life, discerning how
the ocean was an arm apart
from itself like a sexuation
of the tributary and a freeze
of the funds needed to doubt,
letting the words fall where may,
small as we were, small and good,
hand held high, head held high.
CHEESE
Swiss cheese made of air hunters
goldennesses of Anushiruwanians
the full report is out and really
none of you accept what it meant,
swiss cheese sucked into white holes
where pearl infant scripts deny
the frosted lampoon of bitter stars
that tax the sundry spoons
in which eggs are fried on Mondays,
a photo from the supremacy vigil
of form twigs on to the branches
and really there is no really
as you hold the fort da in pliers
made for diapers and our kisses
suck the white holes back unto life.
self own
beautiful 🤍