Orsen Wells w/Citizen Cain
2009-03-06 04:44:57 UTC
first of all, i don't like either of these pieces
of trash. however, i'll make the claim that dmh's version,
which followed alacrty's version, can be an official
example of "inept thievery" on his part, if dogshit
can be given a gender.
i suppose the fact that it's "inept" would safeguard it
from entering into copyright infringement.
"inept thievery:"
not a very nice thing to be accused of, eh dogshit?
hahaha-
enjoy!
msifg
Mercury Switches and The Mating of Clocks
Kissed to death by gold whiskers
was her lovely
skate backwards around
a sphere of mercury.
From the first wet spark
came a series of cylinders,
calendar holders with
fingers for handles,
white Christmas babies
with inscrutable veins.
Their firsts steps in unison
were on the soles of dead men -
how they laughed,
how they mirrored decay!
The podium was that
wrinkled uterus, the jewel
encrusted grave
you gave to us
and Christ like
a wingless blur
hums the cut
flowers nodding over her,
the mercurial blood
and phallic hats
of heavy dafodils,
of heavy water wombs
where time (that savaged emerald)
flows like scaffold spiders
or money without price.
And ice, cut wet with steel
scars over the intention
sends the scabbed vibration
of shuddering cheeks
into art, into grace and slides
slick blades through fog,
that impossible grass
in our etherial core.
Alacrity Stone
vs.
Mercury Mates With Clocks
Kissed into gold,
the first mercury of love
becomes a cylinder, a calendar, a compass
where a confusion of fingers
ties up the Christmas of veins
and - in dead union -
the soles of laughing soldiers
smoke the decaying mirrors.
Our lofty podiums,
wrinkled ovaries of jewels
in a featherless sky that cuts
flowers from each nodding head,
my human daffodils,
my gangrened begonias,
on whom water wonders
its haul of salvaged emeralds,
time dog-carted away by the scaffold's spiders.
And our money
priceless as ice in place of steel,
scarred with empire,
(but not as real)
and all good intentions shivering
like old cheeks in the new wind.
There is no art, no grace, no fiction
still secreted behind that purchase of fog.
We are imposed upon by the grass.
We are an ephemera of cares.
dmh
There they are, and there are the words. Count 'em. Look at the orderof trash. however, i'll make the claim that dmh's version,
which followed alacrty's version, can be an official
example of "inept thievery" on his part, if dogshit
can be given a gender.
i suppose the fact that it's "inept" would safeguard it
from entering into copyright infringement.
"inept thievery:"
not a very nice thing to be accused of, eh dogshit?
hahaha-
enjoy!
msifg
Mercury Switches and The Mating of Clocks
Kissed to death by gold whiskers
was her lovely
skate backwards around
a sphere of mercury.
From the first wet spark
came a series of cylinders,
calendar holders with
fingers for handles,
white Christmas babies
with inscrutable veins.
Their firsts steps in unison
were on the soles of dead men -
how they laughed,
how they mirrored decay!
The podium was that
wrinkled uterus, the jewel
encrusted grave
you gave to us
and Christ like
a wingless blur
hums the cut
flowers nodding over her,
the mercurial blood
and phallic hats
of heavy dafodils,
of heavy water wombs
where time (that savaged emerald)
flows like scaffold spiders
or money without price.
And ice, cut wet with steel
scars over the intention
sends the scabbed vibration
of shuddering cheeks
into art, into grace and slides
slick blades through fog,
that impossible grass
in our etherial core.
Alacrity Stone
vs.
Mercury Mates With Clocks
Kissed into gold,
the first mercury of love
becomes a cylinder, a calendar, a compass
where a confusion of fingers
ties up the Christmas of veins
and - in dead union -
the soles of laughing soldiers
smoke the decaying mirrors.
Our lofty podiums,
wrinkled ovaries of jewels
in a featherless sky that cuts
flowers from each nodding head,
my human daffodils,
my gangrened begonias,
on whom water wonders
its haul of salvaged emeralds,
time dog-carted away by the scaffold's spiders.
And our money
priceless as ice in place of steel,
scarred with empire,
(but not as real)
and all good intentions shivering
like old cheeks in the new wind.
There is no art, no grace, no fiction
still secreted behind that purchase of fog.
We are imposed upon by the grass.
We are an ephemera of cares.
dmh
they fall in through the poem. Look at the bylines on each.
Next, check for which was written first.
Case closed.