There are poppies in the rain and the train pulls round the bend of poplars and layers, historic, catapulting pinned to the pining pinwheel of his lapel and fire-brand red poppies in her hair or mouth the color of when all round is a living one, a rounding careening version of so plausible as his hands once were, the places known to her like whispered nothings, voice now winnowing through the heath her head in ribbons in retrospectives of once before when wherefore lost names in the buried field birds sanded flat soar over and when the point is just as obsidian as the poppy-seeds in the mind of the passing paper boy on his bike in the beginning of a century unrecalled in a series of dates recorded blankly for schoolchildren in classrooms to recite one after another incantations for marks and a field before these bodies under the soil the root systems the teeth chattering as the steam engine chugs black smoke Carthage and Windsor and dark crannies of the book’s folds, the poppy- petal silk stocking unpinned for him to roll down her thigh a last breeze the anxious race of the lad with the day’s bold news leaking off the cover, running in the rain, grey over the poppies wavering seaweedlike on their surfacing underwater messaging what cannot do what mustn’t then list 1914, 1918, 1939, 1944, 1950, 1968, a dozen dozen times two hundred thousand and the waving kerchiefs and the windblown hair bright as poppies in his eyes turning down the lane to say a poppy is a count of poplars by the poppy field not so bold so brash as or credible this and counting orange as this or this or this, the buried ones bones in her throat as many flames
The train pulls out and there are poppies and behind them houses and the people who vote, and I think what’s the point in writing a novel when all around is living one? ........................Layering a history on history like concrete or that carpet so plausible birds sat down on it to eat does what that a newspaper doesn’t do?
What am I doing here, my lap grown out of silk, red-feathered, writhing in a leaky apartment with harum scarum flashes of accidental flesh? Me against what look like wild tracer dogs ferociously mashing up on cherries?
Ripe pits, she on her navel, scraping at my bluff, unsung and horribly afraid of what I'm doing... Mercenary streaks alone can't explain the imagination of a hydrant bachelor, his bitten nerve stood up and stretching out the door.
What am I doing fricking decorative endings, sampling the slurp and strut of cherry spit warmth? What the fricking spit of cherries am I doing returning as exhaust onto the floor shrilly hollering O lovely barbarians into the filthy morning light?
"evening makes my kitchen door window a patch of ink"
reflected pool quilted into this letter dear lighted morning dear every passing hour the lost afternoons fork away into white, spilled desire shining against glass blending into dark written moments birthed or recycled tasting like mint fresh pulled from dirt dirt on fingers, mint oil scented reflected patch of ink slides through language toward midnight a delay unspoken after each envelope empty and floating on the surface unsaturated
rotted pomelo-strolling into the toughblonde this crowd’s a workedgirl working up a, worked over scrubbed clean roundher hair a lovely moaninglight
Superette filthynames spoiled brandless array yerself with that assort whole wormless holler-holes toothless blackgummed unseen perfect there: hard bank into the crowdcaterwaul umbrellaless dribble packed packaging stringtied tonguetied into the bargain-glaze a sharp eye slylass, less a pass then quickpalming goodygoods garblinghomes startlemucker tha’ll teachya!
I. mint women swigging champagne, fingertips on glass stems.
Lost afternoon postmen arrive like koans their callipygian mailbags, routes vining gypsy through their shoes. Won't you rest a moment from your tendrils? I'll squeeze leaves here beneath your nostrils rest your cork heels across my thighs and is this your deuteragonist? Hello mr deuteragonist. So proglottidean, so oneiric, a fork in the lotus, a sphinx' snake-eyed moan and bones spilling their white.
II. Evening makes my kitchen door window a patch of ink, blueprint
reflections kinked up against the flesh-painted world, my deuteragonist adopts a bruise's pose, a sphinx ruminating the clear marrow between her pigmented molars What readiness do you have to offer?
It makes a wreck of us all, the same. Just so.
The regicide dying, slain on a bed of marks, a clench like childbirth on his mind, koanic.
Or: mere atoms. the removal of a benign, surreptitious lump. cholesteatoma. a perpetual, musical hiss in the ear.
There are those trusting to luck. Harum scarum running out between journey legs. A biomimetic accident in these parts would look like wild dog or squashed tomato. Place exists also as juice for elsewhere, proliferates daylight-saving itineraries that require a key (caches of extra time, bluff, bribery). The mercenary ratio of origins to returns can't explain nerve endings' decorative fraying. Photographs corrupt vegetal reds. The azure breathed in comes out as exhaust.
After Amanda Deutch's "Fraudulent Ceiling", posted 26 Feb 2008.
almost borealis : perhaps that light is different in verse written in a language she has never spoken. birds on fire. slip on bluegreen. evergreen. chalky suburbs half-erased the train. skin sloughing off under the slate skyline, her past in pieces along the trailing, open trees. sap speaks volumes to a surface, vehicle as much shoes as bus, taxi, mule. busted television sets and a nice chair already as forgotten as rules of a weak game, strong mojito. the amnesiac orange in her root systems, squared, tripled, blocks the desired temperature change. from so attentive, listen in, ear close, to scratch out images of the 777 crash. words rhyming in a strange tongue bask on beachfronts, riverslicks. over fifty in love or out. somebody took leave of her outer membrane, her pink rushing. book stands or thoughts of couplets like shadows crouching in corners. this is plot as much as the next person’s eyes dilating under the repetitive questioning of her villanelle.