"When You Decide Not to Be Boring, Call Me" He Said
There was this fit litmus left along the ground untendered and she wept there, a bled scar. If only whereabouts [in chains] he was the serpent in her Edith Hamilton. She didn't walk well in the morning light. He was never anywhere. The culprit had a sound about it and her eardrums rang shut. Overcast is one thing. In a dim or not quite moment he would turn only in conversation rabid for there had been nothing for a long time to begin with or retort. Madness is finding like minds where no like minds have been fostered. Various art movements, she thought. And the cream sky went dead like post curfew Ann Arbor maybe. Maybe someplace else. He walked ahead of her along the opposite street side. It would often have been winter where she coughed. Just history. The kind of thing nobody majors in.
inspired by Dylan Thomas: "I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking"
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking. Waiting, frozen words unsaid, yet screaming loud. Silent crying, woven in ancient memories. Aching. Foreseen in silence; out breaking words soughed.
Waiting, frozen words unsaid, yet screaming loud. Grievous verdict. Hide, hide, here is no place; no hide. Foreseen in silence; out breaking words soughed. By passing me by, saying "live", I say "live". He untied.
Grievous verdict. Hide, hide, here is no place; no hide. My genesis, so cursed by men, ab ovo under His wing. By passing me by, saying "live", I say "live". He untied. Had to get rid of the grudge, the hate, the harsh acting.
My genesis, so cursed by men, ab ovo under His wing. Reborn by blood to life so precious, part of the bride. Had to get rid of the grudge, the hate, the harsh acting. Freed by the Son. No legal ground. No more backslide.
Reborn by blood to life so precious, part of the bride. Silent crying, woven in ancient memories. Aching. Freed by the Son. No legal ground. No more backslide. I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking.
This would be a good day to go sailing this would be a fine time to tune fiddles there's little wind I wouldn't call it galing there's questions in the form of cozy riddles this would be a fine time to tune fiddles if only one were schooled in how to play there's questions in the form of cozy riddles they need small answers or petite dismay
if only one were schooled in how to play concertos and sonatas would be beckoning they need small answers or petite dismay a smile or yawn a sense of idle reckoning concertos and sonatas would be beckoning the audience all hushed up in the rafters a smile or yawn a sense of idle reckoning at every phrase a promise of hereafters
the audience all hushed up in the rafters the sonata as a boat amid its blueness at every phrase a promise of hereafters the schertzo fills with tales of olden newness the sonata as a boat amid its blueness mightn't the painting finally find unveiling? the schertzo fills with tales of olden newness this would be a good day to go sailing
This poem's first line is borrowed the following passage of Ann Lauterbach's poem "Tangled Reliquary":
This would be a good day to go sailing Or to wash the car, but I have Neither boat nor car. There's a plotless web In the air like a banner pulling us along Into something to look back on. . . .
from Clamor (1991)
This is one among a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums
eternity anvils come in garden motion having moan pink flowers like ever ribcage sphere scraps tongue reality down entire lies eye how orchard pivot the arms' tune restless circles touch exquisite lobby of soft unique wood and kisses the mathematical flowers amethyst curves into sliding bells breakfast throats squirm information rubies go she endowed meaning piano dementias there's border sweet hotel in light nodes shipless abstraction princesses a soft distance dream flame sluices chateau dear no complete seems to hips maybe hand apartment there red feels flowed objective cottages evening distraction ever verbal moisture graze the now bed evident hip chateaus theatrical organs is topaz tender grocery idea nippled courtyard galloping sapphire meadows flashy request thick awkward baby with metamorphosis fables elevator petals sent faces in young since steps strutting glass poses seemed uninhabited metal springs to gray know existence of shipless buildings be the twin room balls impressionistic the skin the plan golden parlor the the the word big meaning maybe we made something forgotten hello excruciating beauty of heavy prince distraction the polar dresses become altars become flared whispers reach no one these grips running delusions regret the keepers' one year magenta full-blown thunder farm
why don't you stop why don't I stop paying attention why don't you discover or devise supple alternatives to guarding your life that seems not to be at risk why don't I try to breathe again why don't you learn not to pay attention why don't I use my legs to walk into another room why don't you learn again to breathe why does authority even invisible weigh so much what legacy becomes inferred what is the meaning of the stones what is the meaning of unpolished stones of what specific use is varnish to the memory
pardon me for I have reasoning to do and I have feathering to think about I have tender offers to consider such as the proposed gift silence I have so far helped to fill with antonyms partly on account of nouns in jeopardy of being verbs against their will
when I write letters I use ink that makes the whiteness or the beigeness of the paper pop into a reserved young minuet of eyesight welcome home to felt potential where it's quiet and you keep your sorrow and your fear away unto yourself or you dissolve the makings of my heartache on behalf of something we believe we share for we have constantly for years shared something
Gnawing serenely on the wheel of life Leaves arching morosely over our exposed heads, wheezing gently Navigating carefully on terrain dotted with bloodied, gaping maws Threatening to spill the arcane secrets of untold millennia spent loafing under screaming skies
Divine procreation, unreadable, untranslatable, and gasping at light from the stars
Effulgent wetness creeping up on the copper gates to the arena. The overwhelming stench of evaporated alcohol left abandoned in cups for the miasma to sniff at. Sheer wonder. Child-like amazement. Emeralds howling with pent-up rage in the rafters, terror-stricken at the sudden onrush of white on white, myriad sheets of empty oblivion waging their war on the churning sleep of rusting spires
Smoke blanketing all transmissions. A few scragglers huddle into each other, hiding their eyes in awe at what they sense will come. Some attempt to communicate their surrender by loudly proclaiming undying loyalty to the unfurled clouds of id. Others wait timidly, bibles in back-pockets appearing now as so much straw
Revelations begin to rush in from the outside, melting the surface of the playing-field into aquatic blue liquid. Some people start frothing at the mouth, bleeding from ears that no longer hear. Others speak in strange tongues before diving in, never to reemerge.
A dark grey plucked bones from our madness, ageing us decades in the process
Perfidious spirits concealed in the distant thunder. Our hallucinations running desolate alleyways with emaciated rodents and optical larvae. The frenzy to learn new dances to win desire again. Commerce and labour croak their mutual forgiveness at each other amidst the looting. Money hides in fear behind black fishnets left to spy alone on wounded flesh wandering between rows of cold machinery. To traverse piles of rotting teeth laying in wait for unwary beasts to pass.
Brief flickerings return once more. Levees bray their gratitude at every recording surface imaginable
Peace perfumes our sweating, chases the marauding hordes of blue away at last. Flesh re-carved passion on the swollen purple flanks running frozen through the empty aisles of the urine-god then
Just as we all realize there is a stillness in each of us that is eternal and cannot die
this bemoans the rape of goodness from human bloodlines horror sweetens the vampiric fangs whoring civilization the beast upgraded kaleidoscopic indifference warps the conscience you retch for rewards in the claustrophobic quickening the piper's delight in salivating seeds relentless
The fifth issue of melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks is online now, featuring work by:
Amy King - Ana Bozicevic-Bowling - Brian Howe - Brian Lucas - Craig Perez - Danielle Pafunda - Jana Putrle Srdic - Janet Holmes - Jill Jones - Jen Hofer - Lisa Fishman - Elisa Gabbert - Novica Tadic - Bruce Covey - TA Noonan
Art by C.E. Laine and Ira Joel Haber
melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks is an online bi-weekly journal of poetry and curious bits, co-edited by Andrew Lundwall and Francois Luong.
salt water plum blouse overcast resplendent house novocaine Gesualdo frankincense miraculum fall pins nominative case an aspirin new off-white shorts a page out of our midst mistaken premises cut-short daisies romance to the fourth "scared to the wind" from Linda are you glistening?
My Hurt Feelings Want to Be Backlit Before Engaging in Heartfelt Suppression of Their Circumstance
The sole mutuality that I can glut is of a piece. Romance, remember, merely blots. It does not delve beneath the level whiplash that feeds overcast with constantly impartial shadows. I feel empathy the way you brush a blond hand over the Black Lab.
My hurt is tinged with an ancestral drive toward an inane disarmament. I shoulder weaponry I think I made myself. I write my hurt into the circumstantial overdose of knowing that dearth carries wish lists far from skin as silk.
Oh my darling boxcar buff, why do you card your feelings at the door to different sensibilities? Is it the confines, or the love of flat and forward surfaces that overtake the bounty of a rumored natural light?
I am on the lookout for an armload of carnations that can work in any room resisting staleness at the heart. I am party to cranial sacral work. I want to pierce the homeland insecurity rumored to extract a natural fit from its near mate. Until our hearts are driven to a partner moon, how will I enter space I have fogotten to invent as you are claiming land while squatting in my light?
Trackmarks Linear stigmata of addiction Tomorrow's scar tissue constellations disfiguring the body of work Phonetic glyphs of abstract correspondence Their outlines traced in blood Shrinking from the spike or splattering across the page A ring a ring o' rosies Moments when the final things are said Exposed in a brutal waterslap of clarity In the coupling of the sinful and the divine There's a fine line to be crossed Sequences of discrete but regular consummation inter-penetrating the punctured bodies with the syrup poison of transgressive desire Wasping decorations Fading in time from some Long lost personal campaign Along cablestitch flesh Lesions where the world has entered us These tender spots Rubbed by unconscious gesture Til they stand chafed and pert Prized in their shame Less they scab over With our ability to be touched Behind the scenes of the crazy ward in all cried out lucidity Doubting Doctor Thomas Pressing our wounds in the chemical light of analysis The marking on our skins The words we choose to speak The nettle of awareness we nurse Haphazard paths through the wilderness Creasing the undergrowth with bruised stalks Discernible only by the spoor of some animal long passed Tiny clues to unknowable awareness Patterned sigils in the drying clay Trackmarks
But the sundial smiled in the rain is this how irony begins? like the premonition of pain that's appealing shimmery with fins? is this how irony begins? one's unable does that make one Cain? that's appealing shimmery with fins but to whom does it now appertain?
one's unable does that make one Cain? the sardines come delivered in tins but to whom does it now appertain? the losses seem more than the wins the sardines come delivered in tins the roses were featured with thorns the losses seem more than the wins the drummers soon paused for the horns
the roses were featured with thorns the violets remembered fond springs the drummers soon paused for the horns while compassion flowed through normal things the violets remembered fond springs the bison recall vanished days while compassion flowed through normal things little words were employed to sing praise
the bison recall vanished days the mountain redreams olden seasons little words were employed to sing praise every rhyme grew nostalgic for reasons the mountain redreams olden seasons the circus now pines for the road every rhyme grew nostalgic for reasons personalities sometimes implode
the circus now pines for the road the frog thought about all the flies personalities sometimes implode it's presumably hard being wise the frog thought about all the flies the baker delights in the grain it's presumably hard being wise but the sundial smiled in the rain
a singular warmth to your tongue. within my passageways to stare into the end of the world. the discovery of fire. known halcyon wetness. fermenting the smooth, brown crying her eyes. a private slurring of shared nomenclatures as if morality warranted. making our masks move forward fear brought hydrogen to a dark chant. way too long as a Phoenix carouse drunkenly. only green and black tonight. out here climbing passion of a musical syntax. needing to push legs into the earth astonish symmetry with two maniacs. raised curtains of wonder after the initial deluge of madness. tracing the line of muscle curving along something resembling the absolute. reclaiming you the symbolic intertwining in your hard gasps. built an alliance with the night. to leave the totality alone in your moisture a war beneath shining. travel across the white. your city meets my city. air gently heaving from alert breasts. drunk before noon paper betyween ideology. ready to become dark again. besotten driving a secret into the unconscious. shredded denim. stroking lying beside the highway. playful light through exploded beds of hate a different future etched on your cheek. brief love seen in the arc possible in exquisiite hardness. anchors to have. an intimation of our nudity. design automatic. complex and flawless flowing the ancestors burnt in our kiss anomaly nine direct
poised upon tired old metaphors alluding to the cruelty inherent in your every kiss dilated, reaching for those blue-eyed cells. sweat lamps ask for time out of breath silver with fear, conflating tassels with talking drum patterns scorched into the very heat of night. two names working feverishly to repair the pet labia absorbed in the irate moods of a quiet sea this evening. with sudden bursts of ennui to sop at news of a torrid affair unafraid to become diffuse and splash tears of joy powered by numinous wings of silk, frayed but alive with the black gaze of a scorpion not even fit to travel alone in public without love bloodying willing mouths to moth sadness at evolution stripping the sun of charred, broken designs that echo with the supreme elegance of your own dark magic.
Improvisation #WD40 time was a poisoned distinction as red as vertebrae attests to silent alarms lining my libido with a manic veracity to forego one stab at eternity aligning cruel breasts who remind us continually of nouns and vowels in a neon-blue room after rescusitating fallen stars missing your strange smile and sweet, hairy cube already. wonder stigmas lugging our coded ennui left beneath the ruins wandering barefoot through your face's creative career flying communal fear over worn dollar bills starving to death thousands living below the bottom line daily behaviour concealing the mark of a plan carcinogenic next to denim kisses left on morphing epistemologies. a fiend sizzling less talk.
i've encountered a serious problem with my web service tonight...melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks domain name www.melancholiastremulousdreadlocks.com has been shut down...until i can find the best solution to this problem work can be viewed here (please pardon the rather unattractive adverstisements):
A text message from my phone to a new number a friend gave it to me I didn't save it, that friend, she related a story about another friend giving my old lover a blowjob. A funny story, I pressed my tongue into the ulcer in my mouth and listened.
There is grapefruit oil to smell tho I can't smell it, evaporating in hot water, I live with three boys now and that's what a girl's gotta do.
We make fun of their cocks but we're mad missing something is missing.
There's been no reply, here we are, print outs papering the desk, a notebook and a word document, inkstained to the teeth, we look for music and clickaway too-young girls, stars between their legs, imagined faces outside of the frame.
They. Us. We offer ourselves like pralines.
Stale coffee in my mouth and my friend's mouth on him over and over and over in I press my tongue in further.
Stale coffee and my reflection in a black window I look up and fall in I'm out to sea floating out trailing ballast, pens and papers, pixels and grapefruit oil
(I used to post a great deal long ago but now I don't, if I do it's all still in progress)
Sitting in front of Amsterdam Falafel at two o'clock in the morning with my cheroot the traffic yet flows there's always the noise of people we attend to the branch but nobody knows the root
a million scenes appear on the screen of thought if the tale is bitter or sweet who can complain? there's someone who strums a guitar across the street I don't know the tune and can't make out the refrain
rubbed teak man also cardboard man unleaded man thus reaching man arranged man consistently displayed man all light year man you lean man keen minded man good ear man and delivered man as industrious as infringed on man you handled man quiescent man contrite man you prolific man street savvy man a known advisory man
levitate the missing purse resuscitate the missing person matriculate to buildings left conceptual be worthy of a badge be adaged in your spare adagio walk silk while washing stillness berate the predator and predatory forces be true though rueful emanate from center stage hold center field in mind
strangled bodies of concrete are moaning cold tonight it's true there are no beds big enough to lay my lines for train tracks are solitary and depressing and sleep is elsewhere collapsed between literate thighs