The Untitled (52)

By | 1 February 2013

for Judith Fitzgerald

Who were your parents, your mentors You and your BIG
WORDS You and your BIG WORLDs What is beaten
not out of one, survives, subsists in verbinous might through
yellowed gerunds The book retains the odour of decades

of blowing smoke across rooms, across yellow cordons of

time The colour of eyes in muted portraits of selves In
reflection, diaphane issues come to light The narrator is
a liar will not face facts twists whatever that tongue
elects to tamper with A movement occurs, painstakingly

drawn out then scherzo to taste

Books weight too much No way you wanna get ’em mixed
up with THE LAW The letter is the only molecule to
last eyedropped outward The letter secures their sleep
forever in the mausoleum no O terra addio this time a

sleep untouched for buckets of time the colour of waste

-ing away -ing away with verboten thisogeny this
story of this and all this illustrious progeny scattered
among all this imaginative terrain tucked into caches
thick with ardent belief unearthing will transpire

menis away menis away day echoes of the ancient world
warp the loom of the mind Kudos to you, O undertaker
of journeys set to Monteverdi that is to say ne’er leaving
a room of one’s own room to pace a steal of a deal getting

in on the ground floor while offer stands erect Priapic

words that offer a lift / words like rare currency in karma
jar / words like inchoate you nearly choke on like rich meal
to unacquainted palate until years later the savour like an
involuntary memory coming up on one at the instant

of display window What more can I descry or pledge
to do Sandwich man outside of which premise, classical
shrieking MAKE THAT WHAT The the is beautiful
this time of year dredged out of a stream of coughing

the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the
obviously swimming in it luxury gumption to take
a strategic point on top of it vulgarly chewing over
vulgar dead languages circling like a hungry pack of

vulgars champing at the bit chomping at bits biting
into neural organizations at the slightest fragmentary
nods of sound structure suggestive of own collapse
via beauty of word beauty of entropy aglow at dawn

rife with interruption Wake up to plainchant will be
the title of something instead of that screeching alarm
polyphonic breathing when it starts to get interesting
through thin walls, neighbours showering, humming

the type of thing they paint the topical of a capsule
hidden from time the shape of a gaudy tombstone
the type of thing held in holding pattern in display
window, selling the latest whatnot, a type of thing

accountants do not consider investing in one-
self getting in on the ground floor getting over

dread vanity yellow flowers friend-
ship refrain of sailing off horses neighing a
random gifting wistful the plastic violin another
wheedle in the stack playing by ear using César

Auguste Jean Guillaume Hubert Franck technique

surrendering to musical representation of a failing
heart to broken marches to all that aesthetic
anxiety and no even basking in that minimalist
concerto is no retirement plan no a box of me

to give something back this sweet season to you

who know to you who might carry me across

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