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Chemistry Set for Daedalus
Nine squat things like the stubs of unworked fingers indescribable make milk-book, burnt-out undergarments of the rite.
He avoids the impertinence of a sumptuous heart, makes for the ogives.
He was not in the circle the low black things proposed, he thought, but might have been; the dreamer is not the man, the body he dreams is not his body, the pain in his working arm appears at the disappearance – Erbarmen! Yellow days like bodies like mango from Volta he has seen show itself. Places have names but no natures. Eloquent Volga Germans without breasts, articulate tut-tut.
Nine dusty objects hell-bent on figuring out the moon. His wife & her twin are not lunatic enough to secretly trade husbands, turn everything scarlet. One day you will learn to breathe, the letter said. In the meantime it breathes you, the poisoned water, the people dying in the condominium
complex. The gods know him are genitalia & the organs to excite them, eyestalks & cauliflower ears, marbled livers, a benefic clime where the china heart gave out to the boreal arboretum of brain. The mind with an article, brain with none.
His wife is terrified by her suspicions, but the suspicions themselves flap like laundry in the gutted sun, flagrant with desire she tries to sublimate – desire is not death desires not death, coos baby the lower body.
Gods with gods are in a pickle. He writes in lemon juice on the flammable blanket. To blue people, all people look the same. Every morning the milk truck bears down on the moon, on Mondays they take him with the garbage. Fresh Kills.
The nine manifestations are as tall when they sit as when they stand, or lie down. They have the moral stature of fish, gleam in the night, shudder with compassion.
There is no minotaur. Something resembles the stone.
© 2012 Pēteris Cedriņš. email@example.com