Eternal Matter & More
You too, pale fires, you hear me not…The corruption of the marsh engenders you towards morning, and you wander till the dawn, but without thought, without will, without throb of life. --Chekov
Plateau sunflowered bove this village stops the world, if climbed
earthends in candycane smokestacks and ghostmachine windmills.
So climbed retrenched the mourning hag with black umbrella chinned,
her pitchfork over other shoulder, emboled for this while
some (phages mostly trulling through Its chaff) learn spells in hopes
each day the day before becomes no matter its content,
truest paeans always misnamed the maledict (can’t pray
noologists who are themselves no better than a prayer).
Eleven meters in the field she has a
rootgarden spiraled withershins she reaps before the harvest,
the bees like painless buttons on her face, umbrella shadow’s
want, pitchfork caning her to earth and worse, the mandrakes saved.
As if wellslept beneath the flowers dusk sends out the hag,
a smile almost somewhere in there, the rouging pox. None see
just where she goes though many think to follow, never do,
nor care to watch in storms her raised pitchfork, umbrella cinctured
(she sleeps within a wellbuilt home her sister’s husband made
and drinks between her waking dreams where youth has never left).
Bethink thee of the albatross: whence come those clouds of spiritual wonderment and pale dread, in which that white phantom sails in all imaginations?— Melville
Long now the vuing days plethoric, epitasis long
past, emprise never had within this scorifer beneath
the rowelsun, the peltate moon, the constant surtout zipped,
the dratchells gone (all rowet all rowet planish planish):
Man, fuck the Schengen; better here than there to nil about:
Let tossed his passport top a brimful public garbagecan.
The seashellpulver bout the palms in Gracia (unkempt
all foreskin then the spout) in front of bars (Sir, out!) Let’d busk
like finished plans so done by something elsewise awful and
evernow the murdererlight that veins the leaf enhaloed,
Unpuzzler whose each child forgets the boxtop and who eats
each triaged piece from need and so from wormscrawled boles must read.
Some years in Spain in Afrikslums (with balconies and views
(so different from East Bushwick early zeros)) light through storm
as rote, cliché almost, at sunset chuted Cabanyal’s
ocean beyond which Let in youth mopedded love about
Ibiza’s countryside, axenic calas, each eve to
return the fallow vineyard, sotto: olivetreeheart…olivetreeheart.
The spiles set require suits in spring; the grapnels left
return at times in dreams andironed, ingles anglerboned
and gelid, ingles nonetheless, each flute of flame birdseyed
a spyhole from which pipes the fluing Voice that can be heard
at will by those agued with poulticed clothes for constant leaks,
an inkling awling through each thing for congents otherwise
ungodded in their varied anchorages closed and staid,
equipoised alltimes to be rechoired…
A strawberry, a spoon of honey an inveterate
might kill; so too the soul a drink too much, just one, each thing
a gnomon signifying coming sleep, the noumena
the rune inscribed departed, paramnesia rote and bland,
allthings allways alltimes (the gnomonshadows cast by guns
equipoised on soldiered bullets)…It’s rumored mountains wraith
outside this window, sieves through which the gallicae of stars
disperses unclichéd for almost all.