Cimmerian Shores




When everything shifts red and the mantle buckles…right before the uroboros consumes itself to a singularity…Cimmerian can be found under a raised scale arranging mites into letters… arranging letters into gut bellows

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Entartete Kunst
or The Debridement of a Whore


 
Ima funny little biiitttch                                                                                                             
(flesh out)
won't ya spit in my hole
Ima stupid little cuuuuuunt
always out of control                                                                                                               (draw
it out)

 
Left tied to street – Left tied to street light.
The paraselenae of beetles in a puddle
moon bobs in middle – something pops in the middle.
Hinge worn head corrodes in revers
imbuing the air with cadaverine musk.
Mahogany hair matted into a collar ruff
under the collar rough. Keybone                     
and jugular blanked in scratching strings.
Tongue out in Tibetan greeting facilitated
by grommet holes chaining tip of tongue to neck.
It won't be lost – not the metal. Not the tags. -it won't be lost
unless the tongue is effaced.


“Hello girl... What's that smell?”
He bends down to sniff all over
in between toes – splaying them like a fan
in the salty navel, in ears redolent of kitchen oil fires.
Sniff. He pulls at the stinking hair, planning to displant it.
In a vase it will grow healthy – prospering
with a diet of his xanthic nail clippings secreted
in envelopes. The tress will curl beneath his applejack smile.
It will coil into fern fiddles and sporate on itself.
Chthonic howl and he sees the dull,
curved prongs of each link had sunk
into her blackening gorge.

 
Ima dirty little biiitttch
Can't ya see I've no soul
Ima needy little cuuuuuunt
just a worthless animal


Contiguous continuous collar so to undo the chains
the barbs must dart in farther.
Cankerous flesh spangles her locks: delectable barrettes.
Impossible to paw at with paralyzed arms
“I'll take you to the ladies room.
The damned things embedded good – good luck honey.
“She'll rub it off,” drawls a misplaced radio.
“She'll rub off.” “She'll rub it off.” “She'll rub off on a Tupperware lid.”
Cynosure = tampon dispenser. Gravitates to it.
Sidereal North Star baring cotton – sporting projections
that could slip under the tether.
Guy eating pork sausage and cloaca-produced eggs says,


“Don't rub on that you could get covered in menses.”
Yes the months: a freckling of dates on ones shoulders and knees.
Female slurring wetly, “Lap it up, it's just like eating a steak. You should try it.”
He arises, tremulous swagger, leaves bowl
untouched, untouched, untouched, UNTOUCHED.
The bottom edge of the machine hooks into her torment.
White thighs like skinned fur seals slide together, blood
flows down, prong pops out, prong pops out, another prong pops out.
It's like thinking of Christmas. Half expecting hot air to hiss out
of the holes? No, No just infected plasma.
The whole area soft and ripe with decay.
Collar hangs from lips – trying to enunciate.


Debride me. Debride me. Please Debride me. Each phoneme a barbell.
Rubbing bits and tatters on toilet paper roll.


Ima fucked up little biiitttch
a six-legged, cross-eyed foal
Ima used up little cuuuuuunt
never playin the right role

 
“Don't dirty the roll. Here I have a nice white sheet for you.”
Get on the floor and writhe on that. Yeah
that's the way.” Fabric tearing against the tide of of of
He offers a hand for licking and kneads spit in to wound.
Flakes of dark skin float down a buttery ash. Scooting around
on the greasy purulence stings. He flushes holes
with his fresh urine. Pisshole at entrance of each inch deep hole
and flush. It shoots back a pisspistol.
“In the center of the canvas.”
he demands as he yanks the collar off leaving a trail of
 twin splits in her tongue. A trident tongue.
He binds the strips of muscle with ribbon in a bow.

 

Feeding the wires
still thick with gore
into the vagina occluded
with scabrous tissues.
Prong by prong by prong.
A robotic centipede spinily climbing in.
With flare he pulls sheet away.

 

“I don't know if I should sell this myself or
 have museums bid to display it.... Anyway, thanks bitch.”



Ima funny little biiitttch                                                                                                        (conk
her out)
won't ya spit in my hole
Ima stupid little cuuuuuunt
always out of control                                                                                                                    
(fade out)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Begin the Beguine Feast

“Crying and with compassion, she began to think about the foreskin of Christ, where it may be located. And behold, soon she felt with the greatest sweetness on her tongue a little piece of skin alike the skin in an egg, which she swallowed.” “A moments divine/what rapture serene/till clouds came along/to disperse the joys we had tasted.” “After she had swallowed it, she again felt the little skin on her tongue with sweetness as before, and again she swallowed it.” “It brings back the sound/of music so tender/it brings back a night/of tropical splendor/it brings back a memory of green./I'm with you once more.” “And this happened to her about a hundred times. And when she felt it so frequently, she was tempted to touch it with her finger. And when she wanted to do so, that little skin went down her throat on its own.””To live it again/is past all endeavor/except when that tune/clutches my heart.” “And it was told to her that the foreskin was resurrected with the Lord on the day of resurrection. And so great was the sweetness of tasting that little skin that she felt in all limbs and parts of the limbs a sweet transformation.” “Till the stars that were there before/return above you/till you whisper to me-/and we suddenly know what heaven we're in.”
-A vision by Agnes Blannbekin, a 13th Century beguine,  transcribed by a Franciscan monk.
-Cole Porter selected lines from Begin The Beguine.

Carne vera sacra
arcas arev enrac
Carve Crass Ane

“Body of Christ. Body of Christ. Body of Christ.”
“What part of the body?” I wanted to know before
I dissolved it beneath my tongue.
I would accept any part, but I wanted to visualize it.
To see if I was sucking on a slender toe, the buttery flesh of his buttocks,
or the gristle of his gums.
A priest answered “His foreskin, as that is all he left on earth.”
No sticking your tongue through a scabrous stigmata.
No boiling of divine ears and bones for soup.
Just a bland wafer.
Jesus cut off his foreskin and used it as a ring in his divine
marriage to Bridget.
He let it slide around in Agnes' mouth.
Visiting the holy prepuce could knock off
ten years of sinning.
Now no churches claim to have it.
Now the reliquaries are all upended.
The authorities say a search for the foreskin would be fruitless,
but I tell you it is between my teeth.