Sunday, July 24, 2011

Cloud: Next Year’s Skull

Countless then settle the crablike fingers on a bicycle seat.
We’ve grown mean to after drift than burn at threads of a sentinel
string parting. It’s a plough roughening the lascivious pillow shade
are both wheat and a theatre shield. The harrowing waltz. Bathed.
But still the upward foams were piled the frilled in the wool
of dampen sheep road grain and wet of its once opened the widen
blanch contusion beyond even our own ascent to become
the marvelous design as if fluttering the bare upon the top
of a nebulous space beaten out of stone enclosures.

Poésie Noire

Bits gleaned from atop the powdered rungs
and doll tongues strung upon a braided cord clasped
between folds of frilly frue, you come
in the night wrapped in ermine and brooch
over fetching skirt, and you’re tippled on the putty,
and I’d sure dig it, but not so go and such tomorrow:
your face mashed and snorgled, perfect shroud
of your makeup layer permanently Turinning my pillow slip,
eggs flipped over my frypan and my sizzled sausage
already sorted like two stacks of cordwood
dumped from the truck and claimed right there
by a hungry pair of lumber barons. Then me,
apron in the kitchenette, my eggs on the plate
getting cold while you proof and yodel under my shower hose,
juice from a sliced orange creeping your plate
and sogging up your toast while I expect the sound
of your bus at the corner. I’d climb into a barrel
of slowboil tar and leaf through the complete works
of Jacques Derrida as I wait for the slow dissolve.
Still, I’m no Marlowe and you’re less Dietrich
than I’d have you be, no femme fatale echoing pumps
down the wooden hall outside my office door.
You just came in the night a bit better for wear.
I’ll feed you my eggfry though you’d like the hardboil,
and by light of day I’ll drive you home in my Packard
with benchseat and rear-projection stock footage.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Sky People - video essay

Bird of a Jetty

Without greater negation that there
  should be no loose rain forever so to fragile

with yet it seem. Talk our prescient
  salvation as out of a broken reservoir.

Casual. No sleeps in the glimpse.
  And there is little parting.

That there must persist, we suppose
  that put so by the song, a cameo liquid

framework to shift the only slight
  enlarge. Not to girdle with anxious. I could

know and who might get through
  the sensory fill now that the dark shine

and crying of the synod under frayed
  wallpapers. I write a name on the mourning

sun. I’ll be far to see to sing more formal,
  the point to each thing for what forgetting.

Tried for a private sorrow. But when you tried
  never did ache and stripped of a sound hollow

sluice bent. Behavior too have given way
  to get us through, as with an unbridle stealth.

More realize of another time, of a dark hold
  of a bent putty boat, directed but when it come

to be more expectant. Or so to care,
  but of course the abstract voices enjoin us.