Excerpts from O Rotting Sun

Michael Cooper




Shutter as the bulls throat is slit    I

take photographs of the hydrogen

o throne flare, when I O

 stare into the tumultSunn amplifier the temple—top-

      ples over—I O I drink gold

mouth tequila Salud Bataille! R

O Mancers of the shown I O

I                                                eat the bruised

flowers we are

the last two drunks

                                   around the fire                    you and I

                              or phans of flame at worldend

                              O You O I Jet O

                              the fuel captured in the sacrificial bowl.





            With crane

            dneck    we can not look upon you—dire

            erectily   this woman lays standing

            on the wall   where it meets the bedher   3 hand—some

            flat preedst    two eyes create patterns   pixelstab   from the peripheral   vision

            nooncorolla    our lot—chain linked & vacant    gol’sanguine

            gold piston    pumps circles   insistent   Mr. Mr. I O I Mr. Mr.

            E?   Ellipse.  Eyes peeld   new patterns new skin reveal

            Look. Look.    I O I  Look.  Look.  E!    The scaffold strung and buul

            bluud Leaps!  In to O Golden mouth!  O Golden Mo—No!  No!  I O

            I No!  No!  E!   

                                         “The same goes for the cock . . ] [. . suddenly doused

                                         in hotblood!”  (Bataille 57)  The sky is antlered my fri

            …end.   Stag, we rush at eachother, with covered eyes, to   what…



                                         “who’s horrible solar cry”                     My lover once

                  described her idea of a zipperless fuck.                    Tokyo burned from

                  fireflies dropped from 5000’    the B29’s lost one, unzipperd

            we reveal   shinbones   stone phalluses   the bodies of jack the rippers    victims

            stakt end to end    what was shown    what decomposes   why the white crane whickerd

                                                                               her midnight                   gorged             moved on.





no talking        it is the flash—ejecta wakizashi red

             you snowblack             gash      bank

  greywhite        it is not what you think             around the water cooler


                                          it is slow,  dull                                               they all said

emulsed.                                                                                                    they liked you

it’s a signal yellow police cordon,  keep out, no talking, 37 stitches per pocket a

locked door, you in the cold.  An ejaculate.  The queen took the buul in her mo

uth for 27 minutes of every half.   Red licked Euros, a ring of dancing forms as

ses thrust at you—no talking, please—the pink slip served for quoting Farrakh

an in an intra-office memo

                                              outside and the wild the wyrdling

hunger the flung tundra of the phoneconference rooms—Joey endured your “fin

gering”—No Talking Please                                                            1817 shirt pockets s

own—for 10cents a day             it is the skin of your feet that slough off like whet

cardbored appetites.

                                    Your snowshoes worn by your warm sons, in memory

                                                                                                                        The yurt you

  built dances on chicken leg stilts

                                                      it is not what you think Baba Yaga howl  No Tall

Kyng Please!  No Talking. 

                                             Is it time you were the buul?  Leap Leap No Talking

No talking please.    





o headless o heedless o man

with endless hands upon your balls

you who reel at the raised geldingblade high

to hack for hound for

  hyena’s cackle

o slain cock cry for your sunrise

your son       so self-impotent

cry! cry! o cry!

                            cry!  pull

meaning from your split guts from splitlip!

  of course you see the sun unspoilt between your legs, dangles, o cosmic

                                 dangly bits of men             you foolspirit burn!

   power virile opine               opine—suggest some spinemaker 

or           did you forget?             not one of you fell

from man,                             but,

                                                       from Circe were you spat!

most foul bastards all!  usurp!  usurp!

  o sun from all spat, woman, most dear

woe, dear woe.

                          the sworddancer’s circle  blue paint skin  blood clumped her hair

                          o frenzied eye        defy you                 man   entry       we stardusted

                         stand   cackle   rend   fury   deprive   you

                                                                                                      of your head

o suck   suck o   self   suckle   suckle   you   suck here

   no more               among these starborn.                you   you   who hold the blade                           to      your own throat. 

About The Writer

​​Michael Cooper is a MFA student at CSUSB who is fascinated by the fragmentation of language.  His work plays with diction and polyphony in an attempt to shock us back into a critical awareness of how frail we are.  He feels we are at our most beautiful at our point of failure: orchids in the same vase of water.