Literal Blood

110 THOM DONOVAN LITERAL BLOOD after Paul Thek No sex here, no content except what survives as joy, and praise failure which becomes you not nailed to anything no concept but suffering a semblance nonetheless, so real was it inside us and embodying and gutted , metaphor the ongoingness of notebooks, eternal sketch of that towering to topple a wreck subsides in unfulfillment , time runs out but your body afflicted was free, its total simultaneity like a sympathy atoning for nothing 111 all language becomes a love letter, all drawing describes a pun on sunset, on relic, on humility the world continues to end though neither spirit or body appear, no soul outside of history art is uncleansed, a literal blood, uncleansed would be a place to begin. 112 To produce that failure To represent the pain Of others the living carcass In a trial of innocence Meat begets meat, fish fly-up, Spill your guts in the air, Strapped into the air Like some Odysseus to his mast What siren songs did you not hear In your practice to profess That failure to register the pain No image will tell What remains encases Breath begets breath But no one saves face Since no one will be saved Activity synchs these traces The newspaper on any Particular day Becoming a withdrawal of day Substituting hours for praise To produce that failure The world we would want inversely Mourning becomes our joy Affliction becomes a flight From being afraid, presence escapes, Tombs become archive-like In the present Deriving from these lips bounty praise, Since nothing, since no One will be saved I take the world to be breath. 113 Take a sample, that one is body, come down From the cross, frisk the remains, of meat, My contemporary, because it was enthusiastical, To spin in your studio, before the world was Made, face pressed to glass, air pressed, You dance, you smile, to spin a kind of Voguing, before there was air, your Bloodstream, not a metaphor, for things believed For a world that believed, art was the knowledge, It was the sense of this, that there may Still be communion, fucking will still be immanent, Imagined as a sketch, in wax which breaks, The insincerity of this, rises through a semblance. 114 When nothing was Heroic, what gives? Where everything Was a monument Ligaments ripped from Time and context A pink rings the face Dying into the face No future, no future! To have guts seemed To cry out from A place of grace. 115 Our contemporary Like blood heals Like all is praised In your notebooks Where you thought it To go down Trace the blood Where it moved Like the soul was The body there Are concepts Dicks build to The sky and cease So far steeped Were we in blood Like blood leaves Like it heals All we were Despite its encasement Lets in the air To breathe to sometimes come Matter stuck To which machine Corrupts, makes us Bold, the body Brought down From this cross Of concepts, like Time itself Remains a mould So spirit clings 116 Disturbs the Pinkish trace Of me, the eyes A butterfly adorns. 117 Like a Roman I brag a lot Like a Greek my Flesh is mortal It is here and Public and not a slave My deeds fade in the Public eye like Dreams of a socius I am an Egyptian Because the world Is a tomb we live in I leave pictures and Words behind— Fragments of an Immortalized sun. 118 Our senses of installation That blood and the breath are a sketch Part of one photosynthesis The shadows have come To make us believe One day they will make us one With what will have been but not yet Like any body grieves and grief is a debt Never paid back To worlds we have lost For what we will lose procession turns Into profession Notes split space and air You arrange what was smashed You interact Exalt the remnants no vision can possess. ...