A thousand prints, history of disappearance.
I am holding through the hand of a ghost
laying my individual swirl on the balsa bed
sword across my throat.
In order to forestall the inevitable misery of evening I imagine
the delicate finger of a young woman, maybe as anxious as me,
maybe thinking about the gun in her mother’s cabin… I close my
eyes and speak with her, while everyone around me laughs and
I cripple my moment to hear this history that I have invented to
keep myself alive. My heart skips and I am infuriated by the
interruption, the presence of body in my 17thc science-
why wasn’t I made particle board or a piece of linoleum.
At least these scuffs would be get buffed out once a day by
people who care nothing about me more than a paycheque
and a promise of home.
I smoke the same cigarettes as you so I can know what your mouth tastes like.
It tells me more about you *** tells me more than your words.
All the conversations, all the days watching your coat brush dirt off the floor, all your reflections cast and caught, living separate lives behind the carefully molded concrete, pacing back and forth stuck on assignments your flesh finished months ago.
What did any of this tell me besides: you know nothing of her but movement, graces of hair and lips casting shadow over the day.
I look at a woman—she pulls her hood over her head and disappears.
Seared sugar hanging on the
I can hardly—
Eye catches a line and follows it to the next reflection
Of an urge to be distracted
Urge ruge grue regu urgh
So many little mutterings—
“But if there—“
“You know what he’s like”
Her thighs hold me for the m03other door
his receding back
packs me, dislike flattened to soda stomach
they are ! this is— no one
Little phrases of impossibility dressed as stone lions sold and—
But let me
Before its too late can anyone HEAR ME
—What is this?
Where am i?
Cream darkness. HELP HELP.
the pebbled plastic hangs off arranged light-
ceiling, floor, walls:
the contour traced by fluorescence
cornered in falling black to give open ending—
a big guy clothed in fantasy
women using bitch more virulently than I ever have—
teething verbiage, hairy gestures, mutual stares established and broken
a made for tv movie hovering over the hairs on my arm…
Wordsworth hovers in fable,
detached from both the beaten pulp re-press
and my aching, blind theatre-
to be an edifice is to live
through reinvention or astounding decay—
this shows signs of neither, croaking new worlds with hints
of i-to-whys and strangely textured reverberations,
iterating and shuddering like dust finally pointillated in the talkative
only against itself—
no, not fighting,
dreaming itself in another’s mind,
severed from drawing roots,
petulant veinings, sanctuary from season
(though not from style).
Again I cough out the
vain words in 2X4 &
figuring experience on incompatibles—
a slack branch a-hems at the window
vying with decorative silence to point me
a little river of real light bends the dammed wall to breaking-
I smile for the first time in days in the throatless deluge,
the unruled paper.
I walk outside
and take a
and swallows his own eyes——————
skirts twirl the ceiling into my hand and I rest my
f i s t
on the table in front of him
shimmering myself for his presence-
they’ve written books
about this where I couldn’t see myself
and the gay character
ends up dead—
and I keep all this in my fist as I empty my head
to his lips
as we dance around eachother holding the napkin
drunk on prom night;
I think about opening
on his light
coaxing the dew to my petalled lashes,
Beautiful in a special way—
eyes framed with black clouds
sunset hair in a short horizon
lips murmuring to her cardigan that
peels the paint from the wall and slaps my
mirror cheeks with the neon red of her
When I take her picture home and pose it against the blushing glass of my window
I can’t make it fit—
the two suns don’t touch,
the sky is cloudless and plain.
In haste I tear her up
while she clears her throat through the veil
of everyone else’s dreams,
spill my own theories onto the floor and
sort through them under her burning,
She accidentally slips another 20
into the manicured hollow of your hand—
even in the surfeit crease you see divinity
and place the reward in your denim sepulcher.
Her eyes are just like the slack-jaw drink
You take of sky-scraping windows,
Just another obstacle in familiarity
Written in every object that
Organizes around you.
The wind blows the sun across the
the tree jumps into its every geometry.
I touch the edges of my frame,
and taste fireplace, mantle.
Bathed in faces, nostrilled layups, well-cut fry fingers and celebrations
my skin keeps itself alive in oily awareness
of freedom from pedantry, conversational speeches, textbooks, broken smiles, poetic lists…
Her assurance of my disillusionment suffers the consequence of poor design;
inseparable from its own bitter foundation it collapses under the lost weight of personalities
she ceramicized and they softened:
- the chunk of uncertainty she vomited past assurance
- the eye that took time to spot
- the argyle cloth catching the skin’s lonely sobs…
through their antithesis a third option nibbles at our atrophied heels-
our eyes too tired to look ahead and necks too stiff to swivel back, we sit
and stoke the road to fold,
the terminals to touch.
F.H Varley- Rocky Shore
The reproduced pixellations distort her eyes into something
The shore bright and gay..
In this social, numbered lie
her hues separate from the leopard rocks;
the plaster cast of a footprint
drawn from ground now denying semblance.
In this brief intimacy,
the sky browns her shorn hair,
her dress melts to the blush of the hard rock,
her sleeves paint the even strokes of the distant hills….
she is swallowed by that which surrounds her,
their lines more intent,
dark and alive.
One eye toward, one away–
with lips smudged to silence
this is her way of denying the dominant hand
that left all life’s color
in a burst near her slackened arm.