Will Alexander
The One True Body

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"… I have found that in Artaud the ancient, black springs of poetry are graspable …"
        —Clayton Eshleman

And you've said it throughout living eternity
that the one true body is the condoned & tortured forge
is the bottomless aleph
is the dazzling obturation
by incontestable stealth
by rumour as dormition
as volcanic dossier
as staggered epistle free falling in flames

I'm looking behind you in mirrors
which suck your flames from the sea
& you know this
by continuing to listen to these ghosts in my diction
not as a nervous imposture
but by someone insisting on your form as armada

& this armada now brews through the form that you held
& now insists on itself as alchemical carnage
all the while speaking through crows through ventriloquial anacondas

& you
you by your anti-induction
understood through your fissures
the dynamics endemic to both serpent & crow

you remain to us all
the sculpted antagonist
the pressure through deafening intention
& as result
your zodiac remains shifted with navamshas which incinerate
which then take as their result
the black remarks from ocular curses arising from counter ostentation
so as to take on devolved statistics
of the shopkeeper's resumes & debits

& this Antonin remains your voice
clashing against stadia
even in death seeking to possess your various momentums
the plagues you brought to bear according to the cells which evolved from the moons in your anti-cryptography

I can never give dates to these moons
or thread by caliper
the threat which conjoined with your contorted biography

on each cold day
of the bells you rang in your psychic cellar
were signs
treacherous enigmas
neon remains
during a pointless germinal hour

& as you knew
at certain hours of the day
carnivorous phlogiston would cast itself through bad civic magic
across an untoward hour
across a reversed storm of rays understood as such through divination by destruction

there was superimposition & worry
which you would declare & repeat
& declare & repeat
by means of devastating emphatics
being something outside the dodecahedral
sparked by doused lightning rods

& these lightning rods were as salt
which you saw as peculiar shadow through apparition
through transparent edict

& as one apparition to another
I understand your anger at pointless yield of the capitol markets
about the futility of Marxist labour
being trace or purported
being evil as fumes across the human electrical field

rife with conflagration
according to oriental fungi
for you
was not an anodyne mural
but pointed to you in your ire
as a stark implosional critic
bent as you were on creating the fuels of hell
gnawing like a creature on alchemic exhibit

yet you are not the negated doctor sequestered by fumes of legendary withdrawal

not partially ignited gemstone
condemned to a purposeless foundry
as connoisseur empebbled by motionless grasp
mingled with the theatric through superficial confusion

you were not on the boulevard
with your body on fire
just to have your body on fire
to simply instruct passersby
with a miracle which implied salt by rapacious anagrams

never the felicitous as sanction
or as microbial or accessible witness

never the leakage of miracles
where you expelled a diamond intact
claiming it was a substance
as a transmixed rosary by decay

as object
seemingly condensed by exterior nostrum
form in this sense being a volcanic mystagogue
being a truncated ruby like a curious Thracian chamber gone awry as in a modified Herculaneum

yet you
the hounded night spirit
was always waking up as a form in blurred vicinities
knowing partial biology as Greek
as prone to amoeba
to partial anthracite sources

this is what I consider as your personal orbit
as ulterior instigation as body
not unlike a dazed swimming
over & beyond a pre-determined mountain
or simulated rote by soliloquy

this may at times
give us name in the guise of in-saturated fuel

& you perhaps
the true incursion of this fuel
being sigil through flank
through a strange atomic postern
as you always posed to yourself as a chromosomal riddle…

This fragment is taken from a 60 page poem on Antonin Artaud. The poem is combined with another 60 page poem on Aimé Césaire entitled On Higher Phlogiston Current, the latter being the title poem of the book. The book is a diptych.

This material is © Will Alexander
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