Friday, January 22, 2010

unexpected evidence of a yellow poppy about to bloom

The flapless dip of a buff thrush in sudden flight
is a frozen snap of broadcast joy obliquely snatched

in that moment certain moment just the same

you are the cirrus cloud you see you are
breathing at sunset into sure dissolve
leaving nothing but of breath behind
except the exhaled trails of atoms clashing,

when one jagged node through the gnarled pines
delaying darkness with yet more darkness still

egresses into sudden light:

a death that seeks to conquer death
with pebbles tossed to distant curbs;

the opposite of myopia is a tremolo just dissipated
into dusky assignations on the boulevard of minor keys,

a fillip without cream or sugar
that takes its black and proper place
in the azure pantheon of ceramic doubt,
the bloody hole of a glazed donut
drizzled back upon itself
on a disk of princely Doulton.

Entwined with the discipline Etrusca
a headlock of four syllables for the cursus velox
slams the lettered mat with a rough phillipic
funneled from the aural miasma
into the channel of your bronze and purple vision:
an idiopathic halo in a message of bright.

The propensities and densities of animated meat-
the meat is animation, animation meat,
or so he claimed once in Amsterdam:
his naught was not a vengeful naught
nor incensed by the orange burn of clove
upon the third forehead of a creeping dawn;

a hare stomped upon the pungent reeds
but the warning was diffused by punks
standing erect among the fragrant petals:

from zygote to zombie and back again,
a second coming is surely not enough

Sunday, January 10, 2010

A deviled egg? No, you good.

The peripatetic pane of the pilgrim fly
with its thrilling vertigo so perfectly wry-
the kaleidoscope tumble of a glassy thrill
through a white-hot vitreous bethel spills:

the baize purchase of idols periwinkle diffused,
by a thunderous crack decayed and bemused.

Is it better to have too many gods than not enough?

Mrs. Porter could not keep pace
with the scrofulous scribe in yellow-face.

The green rock gnaws the lichen's spectral white,
eagerly mocks the saplings wind blown quiver-
their kind has come in earnest and gone to flight,
blessed by the driving rust of rain's damp sliver.

Mrs. Porter could not keep pace
with the scrofulous wag in yellow-face.

To carry a demon ovum through the boiling dawn
with a tattersall shirt and brown oxfords on,
in indifferent forms with an indifferent clock
waiting for the chattering of monkeys to stop:

it must be bronzed sorely on perilous faith,
that these are the jokes of a fickle wraith.

Mrs. Porter could not keep pace
with the scrofulous fool in yellow-face.