Room 55,555

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

cold moving coldness / cacophony of quivers (circles) or sparks in dark

and oxymoronic vision of flowing ice in sparkle / transilluminates dark supple silence

when the chuncks again as he edged until crevasses plunged / the viol stroke not so bad as Winter plays in bone leaves and bone speech and the spectre of sand / vast ones without cause except the creeping of old force the steps are heard and who and the cause of cold coagulant / until there is a new kind of death sprung out of coal and basalt of every sparkle shivering / and something there / the cruel creaking cold in the masses of the thinking things

and the things thinking coldly examine the cold light of the existence of their possibleness who somehow in fury became

and the thought of things thinking set up new movements until firelight brush dead to hand

the hand from cold caresses the nothing if not thought the illuminating stipple as ideas enter

beginning a bird enters dives in bullet drop to the sea seeking fish and things thinking or being thought revolve in concept

the number is studied and the massive mind meanders as huge light brings fresh thoughts of flowers and ever new ideas bud

and again the thoughts of breath are cold in a warm new explosion as if thinking was

when thought pierces the spires of inversions in the chromatic fantasia where fish are said to reign in sea of green sex death

again death ugly head rears and the patient horse is there awaiting oats of kindness inside a thinking mass of gorgeously embellished flame

for the deadness of the horse is famous is the living brain of a golden rain out beyond clatter or the coldness of cold where clack

because you also reach to caress the ice mountains and the thoughtful head as it grows as huge as death of life and the sea roars like a wand

and indeed a new kind of clack clack is heard in the block land where even Eros froze the hand extended in mock forgive all this light useless the eternal wound and smoothly writhes

the gash of truth is the beginning of armies whose death is blue red and gold glory for where are we is the question stamped on the imperious report

the question raised is mocked by the King of Trees or Corn and all now dance unrigidly in giddy light of lust whose ancient times were as merry as young women on a boat and there is a great mercy

for it drops as gentle as the soft rain to engender the thirsty roots whose new quick is now the thinking thinking thing whose fire is the crack of the sun

the sun lunatic polarizes the clown of the puppet moon as all things begin to dance as if Saint Saens in macabre scenes when erotic boys to erotic girls do press

when the quickness of lust is lost in microwave hush as a pulse rebuilds the blue blocks of ice who bend with black the tongue of song

whose voice by tongue is lizard long in ancient songs where hermits thrash

more secret than exit stone

and stone recalls the cold and the fingers, stretched, of their duty to the gold and the light, and the cold moving thinking things erupt again

for thinking is thinking and no height can be more than wall for the roar of time is vast and consumes the smallest sip of love

for love is not cold as blocks yet hate has power as spears are seen to rise

nor do the molecules disturb the black machine who in steel is alive when huge the claw

for who is that shape that sea of sky and when do the gongs resound?

and sand and gobs and endless the hours and gold the seas illuminate

and, and …. the fire …. the thinking fire leaps again in the aeronautic night… and no one is yet or pyro … or emerge

for colours explode inside the howling head, whose single eye is mad with time

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------