Lying statue with bleeding lip
[SFE 2005/1 - crochet song in weepingPoetsPattern]
I
Why not on a Saturday: a trudging speedboat e.g.
that nods & cuts through the pond's water behind which
the drab black rubbered merman in his parade outfit
tears & throws the slices grey & high for his nacreous
cheergirl, masterfully unfolding his golden skin
& yelling & one-leggedly beaming with pride lets go
his silent streams to flat horizon.
How Greek now is it not & smooth, how lazulite laden isn't it
the lancing, the gletcher flakes, the spitting of blades
how heroic now don't i lay licking
my lips, - just now & already
on a film too thinly stretched around a bottleneck
into the hole. Snap.
Who could otherwise? Me myself i
do nothing.
II
Into her eye i am eye to eye to her
& together that might fill your screens
but is it all in all a better thing?
The words start paring up already:
venus belly - muscle excaltation,
quiver lash - expansion permit,
hues of backwing flesh ouch error message:
which jerk will humble yet again
in this highly refined entanglement of words
your gliding thighs? who
will then in death's arrest on beds of fingers
be knighted lord swimmer made to marble? Ha!
inhalably she teasingly exhumes intrusions
in chewing bits & cattishly incorruptible she stirs
the latest wonder twigs deep down below:
(time you must know is at its still point a true
peasant's tale on stage, head left, head right
head on einfach, right on to that blush, going
for the wound that is that nose that frantic fight that
wild swan in the lake that swans like a swan
swan swan swan)
no one is to blaim.
III
Down with it yes
lay down that crusted lip,
the ulcerating thy, the cramped foot, the delirious
head & chop leaning leg chop before
the dawn that 's closing in & gnawing off
layer after layer after
all.
after S. Mallarmé's Le Pitre Châtié - poem & transl. by dv
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