"we are not meant to be parers"

You are in between
The cars, on
The other platform from

Where I momentarily
Stall, you collapse my field
Of perception, do

That to my anatomy and I seethe
With affection, I see the compulsory
Phantasms of logic

Pass numbly and retreat
To the galaxy named Fangs, Yves
Klein manned a blowtorch

To portray the presence
Of absence, I betray
The damnation of a brain

Made barren by its necessity, today
I thought about all
The objects unperceived

And went slurring over the resemblances
A transom jittered with pins
Of light like the little injections

Of voice that overwhelm
My own, then again I am no
Surface, I am a node

Bleeding with oddities, half-tongue
Half-gut to strangle this reticular mess
Of wants and you

Are nothing
Else, this is what I
Mean when I see

The drawing say the eyes
Have it all
Wrong, it may

Be right, wrought blue
By an ink headlight
And if you think in pictures

It’s easy to imagine
How animals
Think, it’s easy to be a dying

Thing thinking of
Life, the world is simultaneous
And we are not meant

To be parers of
It, stripping the densities
Bare, we are not meant

To be anything other
Than transducers of a multifarious
Noise, ecstatic

With occurrence, timpanis
Tippled with chimes
Of accident as the unsteady hand

Of time tocks its way
To here-there
Hoping for a mysterious

Intervention