Room 194

February 22, 2017

you could well be wearing a coat of feathers
in that memory – not that gods know,
for gods have well changed & clocked away;
my used car a vessel for times eternal,
summerlong fevers, summ’rlong vision
Is youth just that uncompromising
love for the senses? There maybe you still see
two freaks dancing k-holes in low sun
no time-grasping desire nor skill,
there, in a keen popping of half-litre cans
and your laughs, you, all green-eyed, some sort
of thyroideal beauty, all nerves
drowsed with the fume of poppies, light-blessed & blessed
already with a gift for idealization.

Room 193

February 6, 2017

a pillory
and an oubliette

Room 192

January 9, 2017

(and now)
l’annonce vaste et hyaline
des animaux du service maritime:
There is no death,
everything is truth & way.
– Yea sure, go tell it
to the hang’d man there,
say the earthoods, all in black…
L’ascenseur portait un roi,
lourd fragile autonome
il coupa son grand chapeau
l’envoya – ou?
(yessir) à Avignon!

Room 191

January 8, 2017

I, lying on grass,
suddenly stiff, deathsure, my hands clasped,
am stone on womb,
an omphalos for these minor heights
not devoid of saints; alone
under alone, a landmark for bumblebees,
am lantern for your shadow
wheezing uphill, in color, your eyes smiling;
there is a fright
in trees’ tricks, in their parliament: is
that why crosses
nail the land, nail myself to the land?

Room 190

January 6, 2017

What is this, beyond this veil,
is it ugly, is it beautiful?
Jesus fucking Christ! Aw, shit!
It’s a bloody nest! Aw fuck, aw Christ…
That’s how it goes, for
the eggs of evil
always outnumber
one’s best efforts, says the priest,
whose eggs, like the worm’s, always were laid
on our best leaves –
there mom nods and smiles
behind the curtain…
But now, in this commended
day of celebration, there’s a meal
of fowl with fruit & almonds,
telling dad again how of his mud’s
made the pastor’s lime –
and grandma’s laughter
is a raptor shriek.
In some french comic, never
retrieved among dad’s old magazines,
a kid receiving death for
christmas; a soldier finding solace
in a peasant house:
stale bread, but a show
of puppets is set
for his pleasure – knights! yellow
the first one, and it looks just like him;
the second in black armor,
a skull for a face; both sword-wielding…
just guess how it goes:
a most short duel,
a clean beheading
and all the peasants laughing,
a burst of gums, teeth black or missing
(death always wins, says
a saggy housewife
while bringing supper);
among them the soldier, now
feeling homesick for Ypres or La Somme;
among them grandma, a most
cheeky lass laughing, her culotte all

Room 189

December 25, 2016

Nature seemed absent from his eleven years:
prone to boredom, sweating inherent chutzpah,
he guessed the weakness of a home library
never failing to impress commoners and
scholars alike. Was him just the same, was he
no miracle? By all means. & quite a lack
of essence, all around him.

So it came, six summers later, a pursuit
of vision, long before knowing it meant breach,
long before knowing there are no seasons, no
homestead (the sudden glimpse of a norse cottage,
sole ectype he’ll meet), nor a day of harvest,
only of surrender; that the best late bloom
is the one which never comes.

Room 188

November 28, 2016

Irishman, irishman,
white hair, pale fire eyes:
where are we heading?

Into a black west,
throttled by clouds
said he, the face grave
cloud against the day,

and my body hurt
and the mind was dim

but what can one do
when the crew has been
eaten, when even
plants ’round have fever?

on the left bank, high
in the trawlers’ net
maiden faced sealbeasts cry

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