***

copper clad auction afterglow what have you
sculptural earth spewing riddle gimmick second tongue whisper secrets to god with a little g so they don’t get so lofty here is a new gospel iris choir in augmented sixth we all read so pretty together

cauldron boil hot wood burn crimson not mistaken for rust deep onyx no evil Black day is every day of my fucking life Black magic is every gale i can’t see it but i’ve lived it

this séance won’t bring back the dead but don’t stop me from trying

Onslaught

I.

Just another nigga with the blues you hear me, Amiri? Lingering mountaintop myopia indigos outside and onward. Dogwood breath distinguish fog drop hungering. How come I can’t extinguish this turquoise? How come we can’t extinguish these blacks? Magenta money cornucopia, been eatin’ these days. Like a bird dead serious dead center death grips but she let go some time. It be like that. Doubly drowning doubly conduit, sentient sometimes too even. Say cheese, but it’s cyanotype in the worm light, inordinately. Be what you tryna see, that’s how come I became a symposium on the ocean in the eveningtime atop emulsion under UV. It’s all layers 3D but it’s all tangled in the domain–isn’t it marvelous?  Dust is sky, cricket drain song stuck repeat times three. It’s been a weak at most, cheap and I ain’t the least bit sorry. Roving plain pavement poison unmitigated euphoria. There are few threats like the return of morning. Reductionist at best; dizzy cicada yellow harvest, platine’s luster. Well-watered garden grow wild. Will love when most lush? Signal source slip shore sink crème goblin, the Saint of the Cavalry.

II.

An attempt at objectivity. It is negative seventeen, factually. There are twelve inches and deepening. Morbid dampening prepares to blanket, moonset goodnight. Three planted and Light Box calls to absorb, as does Earth. Consumed entirely, organically, and mystically, withstand rational declarations. Steady unveiling. Control has been unfamiliar All panoramic paranoia, being. Frigid journey, but the Sun is sardonic. Brought matches to the knife fight. In pencil’s end, arm resistance with permanence and blackening. It’s reflex now and tiring, but carpenters had it worst – I just yell at bushes these days. WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU BURNING. Sluggish inarticulate artifice, but this is my responsibility. I am accountable for Light. Not by choice, but march forth. Stillness is death. I am happenstance, subject to systems. I desire inertia, fuel for the journey Elsewhere. This isn’t abstraction; this is the only treasure. I am working through an alternative historiography. An affirmation, matters of charming current to attend. This is untethered didactic energy, this thought-through tantrum. I was ripe delicious, only fair. These are visions from the afternoon Earth vowed to eat me.

Sean D. Henry-Smith is a poet and photographer intrigued by their intersections. Originally from Miami, he is currently based in Syracuse, NY, serving as the Communications Coordinator at Light Work. His chapbook Body Text is now available from NDR. You can find him online at seanhenrysmith.com and on Twitter and Instagram.