May 9, 2004

I've still got aubergine on the brain. Among other things.


In the window under the beak of
the singing machine said
beautiful creature begets particolored
unnamed histories, stitching
strips cerulean & aubergine, the cleft
of night's erasure in the eyes of
the gasmask, the machine's fallen
F where fingers orbit the pneumatic
needle's thrum, crooked lines or
zigzag strokes knit contrapuntal
possibilities; coy, bespectacled before
the mannequin's glass pallor, pulls
off her arms gently, sings behind
a stilletoed emblem.

You've the right to remain
, now I want to believe
in simple things: the window's glow,
shoulderblades, Arachne's last stand
given way to webbed silence, this
last gasp of something unreckoned,
grasping at quick silk, the present's
unspeakable cuneiform, a silver thread
for these nights, this high
lonesome, unconsoled. Be clad,
my armies of the dead, in tender
coats: each (of them), each word is naked,
a figment, no costume & no costume
jewelry or mute fabric, combustible;
these no pyre, sentences: no glib
innueundo, no story for the sky.
Polyurethane, too, my countenance:
I want you to pull & reattach
my limbs in that same
way: you spider, chimera,
cipher for the actual:
before you I'm also a dummy, no mouth,
no brain.

No comments: