AG Davis



*
countless for you to put lovers in religious text, hawk loops left ashtray surgery on the terrace, replaced my milliner, give me a mission of unbearable pain in broken freezing to wrap it back into its long starry pale: aim, can you answer, strangely take a feeling of a precious ship, simulated ballif, talisman aim to age, but cannot mar tension, a bush without rooftops or crystal matrices, such as swimming with icy tally in stolen forked booths,
an alkaline streamer talks many numbers, and unwinds god with illimitable expense


**

go back,
widely leaving aside the turpentine, my sitting, a ghostflight wax,
and the islands glide, the sliding position, the pulse of family breeze, the navigation in the wallet produces this water, do your ideas to tighten, bandied clocks because, to maze the codex at some point, when the summers return again and against them, mortify timed, wayland's esophagus reverts bodies, there are no sinuous filaments that tear or tire, it matters what, we use this organism and the body, we write, it escapes from the body,
and the body is not pitched:
rotate it to the queue offer, its bottomless iris surmounts



***


i cannot go back there, and even if I went back there, it would be different, otherwise i would not recognize it as going back, and i would not have gone back, but would have been there all along...

have i been here (there) all along?

do I ever really leave?

have i ever really left?




AG Davis was born in 1984; heterodox christian, former pimp, recovering addict, sound poet, author of the hypermodernist novel Bathory published by Abstract Editions in 2016, occasional photographer and painter, lover of all things absurd, etc. etc. etc.
 
 
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