Thursday, March 31, 2016

That Head Again/Ivars Balkits



Thinking grows as a fresh grass below concentric moons. From one grows a real cranium! masking a face on the recipient...

Below in the tumult small tuning fork of the customer, sprouting a scalp horseshoe...

hair a brain wool... mouth a cork in itself, empties a downpour of bangs from a central follicle... emptying a book of hair, hairlines for its sentences.

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Feeding on the full ammo of summer, cloning a fistful of surprises, that hair of concertina wire... head

head, alternative head, mouth where the rest of the face should be... full of questions but only decoratively, eyes tasseled with shadow...

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Many are the heads all of one portrait... three-quarter views to profiles and accessories: the extension of the internal into the background,

bound tight by the tethers of contradiction... counting down to the interim... the dark colonial hair escaping, iron bristle rasping a flint chin...

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Head tangled in its spine. Head with stitches for railroad tracks...

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