Archive for January, 2017

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

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