we speak of space so space speak
holes in a waiting ground
split difference in an atom
or the distance at any time between our skins
pick a day soon and ask me what I want to do
pick a night when I’m myself and I’ll only bring the tips of my fingers
why were you out collecting rocks by the train tracks
when I woke up you asked me what I’d been saying
I acted like I didn’t know what you were talking about
I was saying don’t, please don’t. oh god, don’t.
my head squeezes into shape
vice grips
thongs for picking cotton
or removing babies from the womb
a tightening of the almost done with myself for now
my head will wonder what comes next
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
fourth dirty monday
Fourth dirty monday.
washed up and old
before the washbowl
the dull razor pulls,
catches,
at last aquiesces
and cuts.
You've always stuck by me,
my skin,
today as I again
abrade you,
let that not go unthought of.
let it not go unsaid
what
if we
were the only
three things
in the world.
you,
me
and the reflection of me
at 6 am,
the fourth dirty monday.
washed up and old
before the washbowl
the dull razor pulls,
catches,
at last aquiesces
and cuts.
You've always stuck by me,
my skin,
today as I again
abrade you,
let that not go unthought of.
let it not go unsaid
what
if we
were the only
three things
in the world.
you,
me
and the reflection of me
at 6 am,
the fourth dirty monday.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
taping the lips-Tony Robinson
'taping the lips'
Anthony Robinson
all involve the idea of sweetness
the honey of elbow brown hair firefly
+
inside you
+
loping latitude. the loveliest I've seen
on that particular chair. bend back. over. again.
+
stars. douceur. the purloined love letter.
we burned everything left our clothes on her banks
+
the french have a word. it is not "freedom"
those men have a bomb
+
"you, my gazelle, really are the bomb."
—the man, you see, was drunk
he was trying to say the name
of a rhyming poem—
she fucked him. lucky error.
+
all develop independently all make reference to the slippage.
sever sever sever. my love, i owe you several
missiles. i misspell my desire. drop it on the floor.
watch the cartoon flames dance dance &.
+
it is not like a womb it begins with "mother"
+
i need to be your skin.
look at those people. their flesh is on fire.
"i suppose that must have been some buildings
with people in them"
+
all involved.
all culpable.
all cuppable.
the idea of sweetness.
inside you, capably so.
Anthony Robinson
all involve the idea of sweetness
the honey of elbow brown hair firefly
+
inside you
+
loping latitude. the loveliest I've seen
on that particular chair. bend back. over. again.
+
stars. douceur. the purloined love letter.
we burned everything left our clothes on her banks
+
the french have a word. it is not "freedom"
those men have a bomb
+
"you, my gazelle, really are the bomb."
—the man, you see, was drunk
he was trying to say the name
of a rhyming poem—
she fucked him. lucky error.
+
all develop independently all make reference to the slippage.
sever sever sever. my love, i owe you several
missiles. i misspell my desire. drop it on the floor.
watch the cartoon flames dance dance &.
+
it is not like a womb it begins with "mother"
+
i need to be your skin.
look at those people. their flesh is on fire.
"i suppose that must have been some buildings
with people in them"
+
all involved.
all culpable.
all cuppable.
the idea of sweetness.
inside you, capably so.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
from Movements of Sincere Banality
restless
like a swishing skirt
I should wear that dress
grey and black stripes
oranges rolling forth from a bin
they thud
softly
hitting the ground
seek and find but never hunt for it
hunting begets hiding
hiding doesn’t need your encouragement
black and grey stripes stick to
the backside of my thighs
when I bend I see you looking
but someone must right the oranges
before they roll off
like a swishing skirt
I should wear that dress
grey and black stripes
oranges rolling forth from a bin
they thud
softly
hitting the ground
seek and find but never hunt for it
hunting begets hiding
hiding doesn’t need your encouragement
black and grey stripes stick to
the backside of my thighs
when I bend I see you looking
but someone must right the oranges
before they roll off
Monday, August 15, 2005
on sunday poppy found faith, went
downtown looking to get in someone’s way
turned tall
turned black for you, a well-paid poppy tight as ever
purple flowers, dark seeds, opium shakes a drowsy syrup
when she moves on top of you, leaving
behind a looming scent
oakmoss resin
shed of night
the smart set
or mr. emerson, lays her poppies plentifully on the bruise
she then, a sleep inducer who leaves a mark, the
inside of my arm has been thinking, it is
uncertain where this is the same word, although
all the forms are the same
a poppet
a six-string puppet comes down dangling elevated ornaments
she a generous flourish, much better
than this papaver
milky juice like pale skin narcotic
petals four like limbs
downtown looking to get in someone’s way
turned tall
turned black for you, a well-paid poppy tight as ever
purple flowers, dark seeds, opium shakes a drowsy syrup
when she moves on top of you, leaving
behind a looming scent
oakmoss resin
shed of night
the smart set
or mr. emerson, lays her poppies plentifully on the bruise
she then, a sleep inducer who leaves a mark, the
inside of my arm has been thinking, it is
uncertain where this is the same word, although
all the forms are the same
a poppet
a six-string puppet comes down dangling elevated ornaments
she a generous flourish, much better
than this papaver
milky juice like pale skin narcotic
petals four like limbs
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
but this is reality so give me some room
It may have been Camelot for Jack and Jacqueline
But on the Che Guevara highway filling up with gasoline
Fidel Castro's brother spies a rich lady who's crying
Over luxury's disappointment
So he walks over and he's trying
To sympathise with her but he thinks that he should warn her
That the Third World is just around the corner
In the Soviet Union a scientist is blinded
By the resumption of nuclear testing and he is reminded
That Dr Robert Oppenheimer's optimism fell
At the first hurdle
In the Cheese Pavilion and the only noise I hear
Is the sound of someone stacking chairs
And mopping up spilt beer
And someone asking questions and basking in the light
Of the fifteen fame filled minutes of the fanzine writer
Mixing Pop and Politics he asks me what the use is
I offer him embarrassment and my usual excuses
While looking down the corridor
Out to where the van is waiting
I'm looking for the Great Leap Forwards
Jumble sales are organised and pamphlets have been posted
Even after closing time there's still parties to be hosted
You can be active with the activists
Or sleep in with the sleepers
While you're waiting for the Great Leap Forwards
---billy bragg
But on the Che Guevara highway filling up with gasoline
Fidel Castro's brother spies a rich lady who's crying
Over luxury's disappointment
So he walks over and he's trying
To sympathise with her but he thinks that he should warn her
That the Third World is just around the corner
In the Soviet Union a scientist is blinded
By the resumption of nuclear testing and he is reminded
That Dr Robert Oppenheimer's optimism fell
At the first hurdle
In the Cheese Pavilion and the only noise I hear
Is the sound of someone stacking chairs
And mopping up spilt beer
And someone asking questions and basking in the light
Of the fifteen fame filled minutes of the fanzine writer
Mixing Pop and Politics he asks me what the use is
I offer him embarrassment and my usual excuses
While looking down the corridor
Out to where the van is waiting
I'm looking for the Great Leap Forwards
Jumble sales are organised and pamphlets have been posted
Even after closing time there's still parties to be hosted
You can be active with the activists
Or sleep in with the sleepers
While you're waiting for the Great Leap Forwards
---billy bragg
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
The To Sound
THERE APPEARS TO BE DIAGNOSTIC FRICTION IN YOUR AMBLYOPIA, YOUR
PATCHED OFF FLIGHT.
The corrected version begins: if a seed powders to husk in the bowel
of...not the x-rays came back blank, the coral hull is groaning...
Follow the pointer with all your moths closed.
Crack this grounded star like so: as a symbol of my capitalized wing
[better one?] as a dented speech of teeth [better two?]
Your vowels have been spreading since I notarizd the "ancient am"
under your arm, and your tilted diction suggests a torch of arid
bladder syndrome. The crunching in of hosts.
Jean-Michel Basquiat's "Anybody Speaking Words" (1982, acrylic and oil
painstick on canvas, 96 by 61.5 inches) is perhaps the best glottal
stop for your repealed gloss, your nitrogen highness. As I'm sure
this piece of clay demonstrates, the centrifugal swere in your third
opera is almost entirely crossed, an impossibly intoned operation.
i assuage you, this aphasia will swoon.
from The To Sound by Eric Baus
PATCHED OFF FLIGHT.
The corrected version begins: if a seed powders to husk in the bowel
of...not the x-rays came back blank, the coral hull is groaning...
Follow the pointer with all your moths closed.
Crack this grounded star like so: as a symbol of my capitalized wing
[better one?] as a dented speech of teeth [better two?]
Your vowels have been spreading since I notarizd the "ancient am"
under your arm, and your tilted diction suggests a torch of arid
bladder syndrome. The crunching in of hosts.
Jean-Michel Basquiat's "Anybody Speaking Words" (1982, acrylic and oil
painstick on canvas, 96 by 61.5 inches) is perhaps the best glottal
stop for your repealed gloss, your nitrogen highness. As I'm sure
this piece of clay demonstrates, the centrifugal swere in your third
opera is almost entirely crossed, an impossibly intoned operation.
i assuage you, this aphasia will swoon.
from The To Sound by Eric Baus
blow
two things to get straight from the beginning: I hate doctors and have never joined a support group in my life. at seventy-three, I’m not about to change. the mental health establishment can go screw itself on a barren hilltop in the rain before I touch their snake oil or listen to the visionless chatter of me half my age. I have shot germans in the fields of normandy, filed twenty-six patents, married three women, survived them all, and am currently the subject of an investigation by the IRS, which has about as much chance of collecting from me as shylock did of getting his pound of flesh. bureaucracies have trouble thinking clearly. I, on the other hand, am perfectly lucid.
note, for instance, how I obtained the SAAB I’m presently driving into the los angeles basin: a niece in scottsdale lent it to me. do you think she’ll ever see it again? unlikely. of course when I borrowed it from her I had every intention of returning it and in a few days or weeks I may feel that way again, but for now forget her and her husband and three children who looked me over the kitchen table like I was a museum piece sent to bore them. I could run circles around those kids. they’re spoon-fed ritalin and private schools and have eyes that say give me things I don’t have. I wanted to read them a book on the history of the world, its migrations, plagues and wars, but the shelves of their outsized condominium were full of ceramics and biographies of the stars. the whole thing depressed the hell out of me and I’m glad I’m gone.
from "notes to my biographer" by adam haslett
note, for instance, how I obtained the SAAB I’m presently driving into the los angeles basin: a niece in scottsdale lent it to me. do you think she’ll ever see it again? unlikely. of course when I borrowed it from her I had every intention of returning it and in a few days or weeks I may feel that way again, but for now forget her and her husband and three children who looked me over the kitchen table like I was a museum piece sent to bore them. I could run circles around those kids. they’re spoon-fed ritalin and private schools and have eyes that say give me things I don’t have. I wanted to read them a book on the history of the world, its migrations, plagues and wars, but the shelves of their outsized condominium were full of ceramics and biographies of the stars. the whole thing depressed the hell out of me and I’m glad I’m gone.
from "notes to my biographer" by adam haslett
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
