passion is dead flesh

Next comes a chapbook from Black Editions Press, passion is dead flesh. Here it is at Lulu, and here at Amazon, though out of print, allegedly. EDIT: Now back on Amazon.

Sen här finns den på Bokus, fast den ska vara slutsåld. Detta ska åtgärdas snart. RED: Har åtgärdats

Both these latter sites shall be fixed soon, but for now the bugger is still on sale at the above link at Lulu.

Here's the blurb:

this is about the positivity & pleasure that hides at the heart of all the pain & hatred like a red rose in the murderer's heart, according to Genet. it is about the shit at the heart of all literature, everything here from Myra Hindley to Bodhidharma, fuck you very much.

Anyway, here are two poems from the thing

corpses & holes

& world becomes corpses & holes, a terrible amphetamine we never even bothered waiting a maybe. here is refrigerator ineffable, vulgar the reflux. the sower is not an answer unwritten a chance or even an absence it is the terrible seed groping at nothing, incessant perversion their religion is. ghost is vegetable refreshing her missing things, where it was the dead woman lived. i have forgotten her the melancholy vampire sleeping her abyss inside me, here is blood enough and insipid dreams to be
 

blueberry orgasm

the road is blueberry orgasm, tiny suicide is smelly their heaven. the laboring saviors are broken again, boring. we have a wall to stare at once, like Bodhidharma did, but are less than him

the best of them were always already dead & nothing isto be forgiving or forgot where suns come up, where moons are in us still enough the bone is abject & smoke rising over a battlefield is pointless ecstasy we cannot appropriate as easily as fish burn in insolent waters poorly

there might be flowers or razors, abject their answers are, here is tepid absolution & fuck me a forgotten

i do not care that i do not know the number of insects, or even if it might be odd or even, specific boundaries might make it indeterminate, or heaven again, skin & sullen business so memories are sex & bruises, where i am my meaningless