Friday, January 25, 2008


After Barbara Beck’s “Drive-By”, “Roppongi” by « Maitresse », & “On She Sells” by Sean S

Only wishing lonely lodgers would write poems on caryatids, or construct conveyor belts for the archdiocese's overabundance of romantic poetry terms no longer allotted to speech-givers. Sign of the times, snap-up, step-up to modernism, post, post, pre next something or other, each scene bathing another in sale stock Bed, Bath & Beyond essential oils, carrying to the following place, following on, a follow-up question to stop itself from going, there, in, no, No, Mr Frost, I have not been—and would rather—well, you know the rest. Cher Dracula, cher Peter (keep your keys), counted in a cantique or canteen onstage musicality of, last night in Lyon, ce soir, leaning close to the stage, the audience, the after aftermath of, as a tourniquet signalled in the charade of lights, action, freighted words, fretted, as in a groove, a dip, a well-oiled machine would seize a man’s tongue, a gaze glazed or packed in snow, glacial, where linguists ice-pick picked a way forth. Slip (of the tongue, a tooth) or slide down, chip-chipped chickadee then glide up, azure air as in, fair-weather friend, a tail feather, a cap in your… Then tea, coffee—with cream, please, no sugar—No syrupy sweet serenades in this decade, this decadence of new start twenty-first end last century evol/devolution. Quiet quips as in a shape-shifter, a drifter in delirium tremens-dreams too scenic, too obscene (Romeo and Juliette? Julio and Ramiro? Othello meets Medea?) to pass the passage along into a maze, offer a sifter, sniff, er, uh—would you care for a drink, a manifesto? Overshoulder, tinned coils hinged fishily to the eye socket, says, sails, sales. It’s all in a homonym, a can-opener, a set of worms in a bocal, a mason jar, rather this official official stamps an O.K.!, this censor’s cantankerous about what constitutes a 'canton', a 'coven', a curious 'castration of canticles'. Between one language and the rest, what strings’ endless needles threading thinly back are broken over, up? Over this and that, this and this space, just a, or as, purgatorio, oratorio, Babylonian orange in the tinny tangy sauce of lips, spittle, tongue, larynx linked or lately to seal up moldy books, lead-painted vocabularies moulded into, onto the clay of timelike many lines, skinny lines or time travel trader traipsers along the shoals, shores, brine. Couplets. Tercets. Quintuplets. Such a barbarian in rhyme, out of, the lodgers crypt, (e-) quipped, gripped poetry atop the highrise, the heelwise, scampering squeak of mouseketeers (a crises of overpopulation) like musket-carrying card-carrying NRGers, NPRers, Nything goers. All have the right to bare, constitutionally bound into the thicket of the spa, verses barely able to cover (for) themselves. Order out, instead.

No comments: