:User:ZephyrAnycon

At the time, W.W. Robson, another Oxford hotshot, remarked, “You can say one thing
for Amis and Wain, they do have a sense of humor—except for Wain, and Amis.”

Leider I love

stuff to be true;

Poetry does

probably too.

*

Airspeed

The dark, thirty-five thousand feet of air

Two hundred and twenty-eight in terror

Whether it pitched down like a bird of prey

Whether any were conscious then to pray

If in the cold of altitude the fuselage broke up

If it dove intact for miles till the sea tore it up –

I know none of this – knew none (I was asleep

Four thousand miles distant in the double bed I keep):

Not whether or how they anticipated death

Through the steep dark – but this far I have faith

That there are other minds I know

And know nothing of them in the terror they knew

Homage in Irish Rhyme

Stars turning up all the time in poetry.

The literality is all there somewhere.

One can’t just write, smack and go on.

She is a mess this made and she

Requires rationalisation.

Write theology of her but ignore the stars

Turning up all the time in poetry.

The literality is all here somewhere.

I couldn’t take a smack just at Empson.

Hydrant

There’s no one there.

This you say and he

objects. You had

there someone, just before.

I thought I saw.

Thought I saw that someone

there; there’s no one there.

Though I see him still.

I close my eyes and see him, still

still there. It is a quest.

Speech is there yet speech is here.

Speech is where I see him still. Say,

some no one there.

What speech is ours but hers and this?

Who says

That I am this and I am this.

Gauklerpredigt

Why say, why write?

in suffering’s grip

or wake, why speak

if you are moral?

asks Hill. Because, like gravitation,

it’s there.

Because we did it.

Etwas wird wahr

is said as it’s seen.

Against, perhaps, the mouthings—

not memory’s riches—of a video

nasty’s replenished cast:

although ignored, for landscape

not portrait footage; sung stills

of a riven, empty tortoisehouse.

So he, pink as a scandal,

is gall’s parson

chaparralled on the brink of laughter.

Falterlots

In a day destroy a star;

Take the epigram’s whip

Now to tan in solitude’s fire

Out of orphaned rays. No fiercer buzzard

Has led the sorting hour

Than this we might have called a bustard.

Now to tan in solitude’s fire

A chilly lark regrets

The larch’s lame vendetta.

~

Given it’s beginners’ love

Too sad to cherish ghosts;

Logged in we gas like hosts.

In a year correct a slump.

(The year the slump, and slump

Correction.) Don’t repair a heart

So it might bear, in months, the less

Gainful, gainfully-borne, tetanus

Of love. In even art.

~

In a year erect at last

A kaftan heart –

Ventricles windsocks, valves aghast.

In a year bereft of crisps

Grow wide as Cartman –

Komodo neck, thighs that lisp.

Or in a night garrotte a Rhine.

‘It’s obvious’ the river lies

Underneath, ‘underneath’.

~

Plainjane lens as barrel squat,

The skywritingwritten plot

Of loss was not picked up.

In a while in memory

Play mythologian.

Now, with it befitting me,

In flickered truth, to curse our bond

Poetically:

Mist falling under the lights.

Till Cloture, Iambs

kinglike prosaicity and the heart mess.

ribble

famogroan; on the

heartling clamp toward the knelling

and say stop, also please

stop here is Panguitch.

hamadryad in the tire sensor, should

this have coherency

fire arrect Chávez, heartened Venezuela.

dankheart laster may, could flood a Vegas

sky with sergeantry of England’s wash;

(nor escape measures

dogging keymen since the conflagration).

blister lights and sumpheart shades

rash the desert where a scree has lain, shrubs grown.

roadside card-suppliers,

Hispanic all, group about their foisting hands, their provender,

as fountains go like bombs,

empire's toys.

the confectioneried writhe mouth, weight, through sinkalongs.

down Utah rock the set ran pinkly.

the Utah light is sandstone, hoodoopeach,

the smokeless heart is loinpink.

plus of a still monoblue

(skin

notwithstanding) the bushspread unvanish dimness of stars

as complexity bespeaks

millennia, bespeaking distance.

immaculatelooking

towngrid. through blinds

pickuplights make zebrahide of plaster.

kinkheart’s out to suss

a newish highschool, no Pleshey this,

sangloter rankling on the whiteboard

and a silent class.

soft-asserted flushout and the carnaging looks.

conjuregate? err…

sample this.

Huntington they plash along,

seasalt stars the flag, the Sangreal

leaks to tide

shoreline after perfect shore.

this country and its taxipachyderm waltz, some glamheart

using cunt like small change.

in the race of ganky foam, nothing’s lost,

it goes.

(there’s Getty’s sinking cloak!

trawled and trawled over.)

square in Camp Rubric

reality may be Foleyed, the sunset cambric,

reason’s prospect

damning like a chestpain –

perhaps this salad comes with garnicht,

the cost of any grail.

or to conclude with a verseclap

so cavernous as to swell the bishopric through

perhaps it is the culture's talent for scale, so the tough

as a bullet, starstripy cross –

America’s harness – morbidly weighs.

if that is the future linkheart

would I could part with it.

‘I have heard a genius disavow genius’

Draft

I have heard a genius disavow genius;

Heard love scorn love.

I have felt an emperor’s disavowed empire

Colonise fog.

I have known a genius misapply genius

[...incomplete]

Care

Tinsel coal revokes the fire,

Settling. Ornaments forsake

The mantelpiece’s cluttered gum,

As cats remake

The shagpile’s level shire.

Without her voice the house retains a rhythm.

Yet in the crooked chair

He’d made from totalled roof – such slate –

She decays, and vermin come.

With scrabbling rats her legs gyrate,

Look alive again. While prokaryotes respire

In carcasses of cats, others relax in waves and sun.

Columbia, SC

Words of resolution, and hesitant

Words, and wary, air a wordless portent.

Tripling off design and walls, noise’s

Content discontent, his strength is voices –

Our attention. So complain complainers:

There’s a lovely silence to his answers.

‘Hope’ is policy; yet impolitely

Ductile, like a mirror’s copy

Of light’s talk, saying, in print-buttered glass

What stalls speech. Which confuses us.

Theme

THE FLATNESS of neon fills a place

Bubuling. A condom

film of Heinz, old spills, adhering.

My hand. Radio

avers the gamut—shooting; carbomb

to captive bears. So: why am I here?

Flyers rob the window of its point (which is not

to say a sad thing). What hearty beef!

I am here to eat. The tillgirl’s

make-up only greys her acne out. I still would.

THE LOSS of things is central;

what one discards is to change integral.

No strategies fox choice.

I am here to feed, to rethink my values,

and at your step to sell moroseness, very pushy.

The happy simple residue

of life back golden when is lean

and succulent mince, floury discs of bun, chill relish.

My hand can grasp the beef of hope.

Never this, this, I think, I swallow.

[The Holiday August]

excerpt

What lilting follower

observes us?

He walks our pace

miles behind,

telling the gestures of our love

by snapped twigs.

'O the light crawls'

O the light crawls

in solid pall

slug-slow back to its hutch.

The skin shines

bristling brine

yet the cold swim didn’t wash much.

(You are lost you are lost

you are lost to me)

O the breathless field

in wind that healed

croaked, Was it worth what I paid?

Subsiding wires

in gales in choirs

sang, Was it worth what I paid what I paid?

(You are lost you are lost

you are lost)

The misfiring soldier

in rain and in river

tripped on the corpse of his friend;

coughing on water,

groggy, he thought the

river-swell could comprehend

(You are lost you are lost

you are lost)

So the man warns

(and lamplight yawns),

says in love he is wishful and useless.

Lapwing in storms,

his message informs

none as in love it is heartless.

The one now frayed

(worth what I paid?)

in going made sure he knew this:

You are lost you are lost

you are lost to me

You are lost you are lost

you are lost.

©ZA 2005–11