Thursday, August 27, 2015

Daniel Y. Harris, The Death of Ira/geMent


The Death of Ira/geMent, image by Daniel Y. Harris 



The Death of Ira/geMent

The Death of Ira/geMent holds the Keys of Enoch,
rendered mute in consensus,
manifested in this age of political correctness. The chosen
mock the polysyllabic
disdain of the named syncatamore.

Mafiosos camp on the fired hill. Censor raw
abstraction. Hold the faculty of the burdened mock-eye responsible.
The fan/tasy busts under. Derange, balk and muck
the fuster of academe, hedged in dead edits.
Only mammals bugger integumentary systems.

Our art is for amphibians, reptiles and birds. Sequester the anthropoid. 
Uhams falter in the obvious. We lived passed
the human. Only skin will interface. Only skin skins
a tie up. Here’s a rip left out
of the nearest mammal. X-Peri for the cocked few
of many, kill standing first line

in. The body is a pathogen, insulated and prostrate
to temperature. A sere of scar
tissue— 0.5 mm thick in crow’s feet and wrinkles.
Living on is a bitch. Estrogen
receives the hormone. Fops unclear the clarity.

Place demurs and prostrates. We don’t care. Never did. Coterie,
call the gift. 1870 Paris, or 2015 Cambridge. No we
don’t matter. We heard salvation in an army of dysfunctional imps.
We, wretched in the re/mote of tough β-keratins, bust up
the quo and laugh. Scandals will reign

past Lowell’s planet-pity, brackish off metempsychosis.
It’s about cum Dra/gnet.
We can’t see. See only see the vampiric eye.
Please rouse the mare’s-nest. What?
Crap me the used corpse. Crap me the bloodless
bitch of red. Honor. Repeat. Win.

They but chronic Normans, demurred cancer of clichés.
Their continuity won’t kill
the impasse. Merocrine. Blood flow.

We are the center of limpids. If you abjure the
syncretic, the mock empty sole
to organs—when the rage of misdirection lives on.



—Daniel Y. Harris







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