The Flexible Code of Forms Living – a Poem for Gunther Grass

Wednesday, April 29th, 2020 – Top Focus
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The Flexible Code of Forms Living – a Poem for Gunther Grass

Dark throng.
The ocean sets up a cord of salt diffused with the illuminated flush of lava.
The mangled bodies of the microscopic vomit their fumes on the ocean floor.
Some sparks tangle in the mouths of spiked anglers, some sparks mangle the course of debris slicing through the protective layers that prevent, but not this time, such admixture of toil.
The cells pierce the load.
The letting go is not a release but a propulsion of micro-factorial pistons in accord with a vague
Hunger for trying this diversion from the orthodox flow, the dna tricks
The body into becoming the new.
Dark songs
we imagine told. We came from the fish that came from the cord of salt that fell from the mind of the brine’s accidentals….
I took my boat into the brine’s accord and made out with the wind between me and hell.
The path to the known is a sea fish gasping for air on the sand, spitting out cords of salt with legs.
The legs.
We cut the cord.
We filled your head. You do not own the dna you hold. We filled you, load
Upon load. Dark throngs.
The night singing.
I ate a trough of fish out of the body of a whale, cut up in the surf to a wrecked space ship jagged, with fish pouring out of its broken…
the whale was spilling onto the fish, and the oils bound into the other in symphonic bother.
I ate fish from dead whales until I could eat no more.
Upon the load.
The body escapes tearing, and thus does not reshape, or reconfigure the constraints….becomes…
A form, without possible, without new, wrecked in its own stasis.
I ate fish.
I took my boat out of the bathtub and I noticed it dragged the sea in with it. The plastic snaps were not keeping the water out of the hollow.
My little plastic boat.
The accident compelled me to alter the forms.
Duct tape, water killed by the sheen, my little floating boat satisfies its own preference…
To float.
I float.
The sea spits at me and I notice the salt snaps that brush the surface of my dna with the new,
A small boy steps out of the bath, unaware that his genetics had changed, yet again, for the second time.

The Flexible Code of Forms Living – a NewsPoem for Gunther Grass

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