of errors as I died upwards towards you, vita mea, like a magnet, sure, like girls die of fierce love and friezes commemorate the fierce cords of light that are their souls and soldiers eat sponge cake and I don’t love you and I fornicate towards you singing down down and it is the solemn world I pull against my tummy, down down and no fierce extreme sedates me no sequence of the lips and teeth.
say nothing of the soul that flutters its sleeve dictating not this not that not this muddled doctrine. I’ll not name each oblivion each venal carthage each dumb rut written up in verse. dominant my ink’s not diligent like yours. I simply tug and vend and strum at pacts secundum signa quibbling litteris in commodo. sit poetica stupid with words past their sweet-arsed date.
it is the difficult tally of my tongue to admit that such songs and those of puerile docents stroked my milky ego.
VII
dominant may I call you rex now and feed you tidbits? my heart calls you rex because you’re my first part, as rex I’ll serve you what are called tidbits and each locution and scribble and number just adores you rex what is vanity is really your discipline for vanis peccata delectum multa for the rest of my life to please you I won’t fib rex, I promise.
and towards what illusion my little rex do I tighten the cord that is my ink and adulate everything sentient. rex my pet what is suspended between us is sewn of figura.
who can resist a Human? who doesn’t finger lies?
VIII
a word’s a precious vase to sip from, an illicit verb. both kids and scholars sip there the sweet lubricity spilling over tongue and rex I sipped also I can safely say this now since I sip from you no other figment no other persona no other sentence rex what is suspended between us
the soldier reaches from behind the falling man’s neck to grasp his snout; he is becoming a horned animal.
The Story
On the eastern sky, fingers of pink light.
Facing the sun we left town and drove, fresh
light on our arms. A young girl slept under
the opening fingers. But what can we
keep. All night they sleep. We launch into rest
and the flames burn through
alone in its clearing. The brave thing would be
to sleep in a hut again, dawn to nervy
dark, studying
the ground. A covey of women got out
worn and tough. So much for that.
And all night long the truck sheared through the
night into the dawn. And the sun went down
and all the roads grew dark. And here I lay
in ambush all night. In quiet Sleep my
eyes shut. I lay down and slept
in luxury. I went to Sleep above
the wash of ripples. Dawn came. By night we
ran onward. Nine days I drifted. Sleep weighed
on my eyes. And I went to rest out of
the wind. I slept on duty. Day waned.
All the roads grew dark. I cut, I died, I
fell, I dove, I ate, I fell, I fed, I
felt, and there I lay in ambush. I fought
I found, I fled, I flung, I flew, I fore
bore, I forbade, I forgot and my eyes
my eyes shut. I lay down and
shut. I forgave, I forsook, I got, I
lay down and slept in luxury. I hid
in luxury. I went to Sleep before
I hurt. I kept, I knew, I laid.
I left, and went to Sleep above
the wash of ripples. I lent, I let
the wash of ripples. Dawn came. By night we
lay. I lost, I made, I met, I over
came, I overdid, and dawn came
above the wash of ripples
ran onward. Nine days I drifted. Sleep weighed,
ran onward. I ran, I said, I saw, I
sought, I sold, I sent, I set, I shook, and
on my eyes nine days drifted.
I shut, I sang, and Sleep weighed on my eyes.
I went to rest out of the wind. Into the dawn
I thrust. Day waned. I sunk, I sat
I slew, I slept, I slid into evening
to rest out of the wind. I spent, I span
I wept until Sleep came. And
I stunk. And I slept on duty. I struck
hid in darkness, dropped
my eyes and nodded, overcome.
I swore, I took, I taught, I tore, I told
I wrote. Day waned into evening.
Burnt, I burst, I cast, I chid day, waned
into evening. I crept, I crept, I
dared, I dug, I dipt, I drew, I dreamt
two hours had disappeared.
I dwelt, I wept until Sleep came. I froze.
I gelt, I girt, I grew, I hung, I helpt
I hewed, I knelt and I resumed.
And all the roads grew dark
with my longing and my tears. It snowed
in darkness. I strewed, I strove, I swelled all night.
The truck sheared through the Night.
A Hotel
(after Oscar Niemeyer)
I will take my suitcase into a hotel and
Become a voice
By studying stillness and curtains
I will take my stillness into a hotel
Careening, not flowing, through
Cities become his voice
Into a hotel I will take my city
And roads
And the entire moving skin of history
Utopia is so emotional.
I’m speaking of the pure sexual curves
Of utopia, the rotation
Of its shadows against the blundering
In civitas. History does not respond
To this project – History, who has disappeared into
Architecture and into the
Generosity of the dead. This states
The big problem of poetry. Who could
Speak for the buildings, for the future of the dead
The dead who are implicated in all
I can say? On this very beautiful surface
Where I want to live
I play with my friends
Like they do down there.
I don’t understand what I adore.
I think of my