“It is always the enemy who started it, even if he was not the first to speak out, he was certainly planning it; and if he was not actually planning it, he was thinking of it; and, if he was not thinking of it, he would have thought of it.”
(two troubadours—lying on grass—watch a wounded lamb writhe in the air—their maternal theologies clash with a want to assassinate before a paragon—this is duty’s meaning—abridged compositions in the hair of a girl—like Ashbery walking to church)
—Are you among the landscape?
—That’s only a setting.
—She’s seen crying through a night-window.
—Like looking at death’s flame in a burning glass.
—Like the elegant narrative of a brunette.
—Like the vulgar mirth of a blonde.
—Please, ameliorate my face.
—I’m unsafe with each look to it.
—You’ll soon be in your last cradle.
—Sparrows and horses.
—Wait, there’s light shining through your somniferous skull.
—And yours, a sheet covering the edge.
—Detestation begins instantly.
—As he in Turin.
—As he in Turin with sparrows and horses.
—And he, they.
—Etc. etc. etc.
—Don’t let them in.
—To an architect.
—To one who governs the pauses.
—Scalding the ecclesiastical field.
—Losing us as we lose another.
—And on and on and on.
—Said, your divine genealogy’s squandered.
—Then it’s a totemic era.
—A pre-verbal epoch.
—Our calling altered in the dark.
—Obscure enough to adjust the chromatic pitch.
—Will anyone sing?
—Only a deprived nous.
—Or former scales.
—Of former days.
—Daylight looks into notional reaction.
—Don’t feel or you’ll be punished.
—Then, why am I here?
—You are the masculine observer.
—Being sought after?
—Exploiting the view?
— Obsequious viewer.
—I AM A KING.
—I am looking at a king.
—On closer inspection.
—You’re a throng of jubilation.
—I feel concentric pain.
—The devils above.
—To the delineated devils below.
—I will cut your throat.
—If you will mine.
—If you hold me close.
—If I’m your child.
“It is possible that finally, like coming to the end of a long, barely perceptible rise, there is mutual cohesion and interaction.”
(the troubadours—prior to the insertion of burning diamonds into eyes and cold weapons into hands—give eminence to the estate—implicating a room—and implicating elsewhere—anywhere a judge cannot be named—everywhere the sexless race wanes—and wants—to be—deserted—forsaken—forgotten)
—How do I study?
—Investigate the one.
—The one first.
—As I close the door.
—Were you struck?
—It would’ve been enough.
—Enough for the other to turn to me.
—Turn away from you.
—I didn’t know.
—That it suited me.
—Are you speaking or am I?
—You’ve become a wolf.
—A pacified wolf on the steps.
—I dread when you leave your cage.
—To enclose is to threaten.
—The adoration of coercions.
—The taking of teeth.
—The making of soap.
“Soap is a sort of stone, but not natural: sensitive susceptible, complicated.
It has a particular sort of dignity.
Far from taking pleasure (or at least passing its time) in being rolled
around by the forces of nature, it slips between their fingers; it melts before
the eyes rather than let itself be unilaterally rolled about by water.”
( your seizure on the bridge—your scarlet foam )
—An unorthodox area.
—A realm voiding the worshipful trace.
—Condition’s exchange, continuing through night’s cold expression.
—An invisible man, a concealed woman, a cloaked animal, a shrouded diagram.
—And if marble’s, in part, flesh, the ballad’s the fabricated simulacrum lingering in the hall.
—Amen to the knife.
“I had been plagued by homesickness.”
(following shouting on a stage—the speaker reenacts the passion—in a hollowed playhouse—save two unconvinced troubadours watching—and gray bowls filled with spiders—dog enters—woman leaves—premeditated to situate below—the theatre—the stage—its outside—in the gale)
—Are you weeping or is it raining?
—I can scarcely hear your voice over all this thunder.
—Or the stomping of feet.
—Has the crowd moved in?
—The crowd’s been.
—Is there one that’s familiar with another?
—No one person’s familiar with herself.
—Are they beasts?
—They are and they’re not.
—Will they cling to the boundary?
—If it’s to be found.
—Who’ll clear them out?
—The same who brought them in.
—Why has my watch stopped?
—A beast has no clock.
—What’ll happen to me?
—Your mouth will be closed and you’ll be the one to close it.
—Is this the rapture?
—This is the rupture of tendrils.
“The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.”
(the sight of a bloodied animal on the road—no longer threatening the approach—but, rather, reminiscent—of the “coming community”—just what a renaissance would give after its inertial conceits…
—Beyond the word.
—Which no one uses.
—It’ll not be restored.
—Me to it.
—As seen in an unwanted photograph.
—Where heads are taken for the electricity within.
—Where eyes are left in the woods.
—Where hair’s sewn into blankets.
—The rest is marginally given.
—To a horde?
—That we are not.
—It is building itself outside the city.
—Where I’ll not go.
—Neither have I been.
—Their respective flashes.
—Their frozen totalities.
—The non-human person…