mMouth hHouse pPanic cCathedral

1 November 2017

in the panic cathedral
of the divine ratio in laon
where uncanny angels
sing mall music for the devout

i leave my body behind

the
umbra
of me
—a
dark
ghost
rising—
ascending
in perfect
spirals of
slowfast
intensities
into her
ribbed
arches

outside the cows peer over the parapets
the patient cows
carrying the weight of church and state
in the service of

man god man

interior: day. there is enough room here
—buttressed, soaring, arced and naved—
to leave myself behind
this is an architecture abject enough to hold
the porous poetry of affects
i vomit out of the million million holes that i call a body

for the nth time today i die with a mouthful of incoherence and

while waiting for beckett

the dirt from your cobbledstreeted shoes
and if writing be speaking
and listening and reading, then
today i die without a whisper under the pen’s beak
without a stutter, an utter, a mutter
escaping from the vaulted architecture of the throat

you know i am indebted to language but feel sick with it

st therese, creamy, in her mercy asks me:
how long can you keep this lead on your tongue?
how many stones in your mouth?
how much the taste of iron, tongue clamped by molar and canine?
how tolerable

the
shape
of a triangle
ringing at 12700 Hz
impossible

i grapple with my unbodied jaw to release ictic plosives
they skitter across the floor
they fall all the way down the stairs
they leap out of chairs in fright
they rattle like 2 pastel pills in a cup
they crawl under the blankets
they are loosed like frightened birds upon the air

they repeat, uselessly, more than once but never enough:

there’s nothing to be done
there’s nothing to be done
there’s nothing to be done
there’s nothing to be done

but
all those contortions without which … no speech possible

i will fail trying

This entry was posted in QUEERING MODES and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related Posts:

Comments are closed.

Please read Cordite's comments policy before joining the discussion.