a bed between summer and fall, a history of smoking, boethius, this glacial blame, the flame was starting to enjoy the wax & tonsil, teller, tongue, fung
by Noel Rooney
[ poetry - march 04 ]
a bed between summer and fall
out of the ordinary, there's just us, and spring
bellies into fashion in a playful waistcoat.
its manners are intense. its loveliness
is a prediction, a mythic reciprocal kiss
to name the lovers by, to still and glitter in
your beauty, making things by reading them
gentle breeze, beauty like the night. no one
feels nostalgia like we do - it shines,
our cursory diamond in our central heat
like ice, and we know better than our souls
the soft tattoo of a capable heart, the slim
possibility. it will be sweet. it won't be here
a history of smoking
first, a libation to the late grandee,
the crucimorph. a scented blessing also
to his malleable dam, and lavender
to fuse them, coolly. our ivy thanks. leaves
are dancing just for you, vascular
souvenirs inscribed with turning
names, like his transpires, like hers,
the maker's, attends like supine angels
kissing up the soul. umbilical etheric
we owe you, own you, writhing and dancing
where nerves endlessly scheme. his urn
is circumscribed, deferent to his last
cigar, finished on her marble thigh
to prove her victim, turning flesh
to something else; perhaps a star
boethius
is the last roman philosopher. this is
the greatest period of his invention.
he is beautiful tonight and envies
only the shells for being superficial
for when you're grateful but whom to thank
he has invented
this:
the monster in his dreams has cogs for teeth
he doesn't say so but it's the drama
of a single soul pink sick of votive lights:
he knows because the wheel has told him the worst
moment in paradise is the last. pass again pass
this glacial blame
storm air humiliates the shining clusters,
mother locality parallels each outcome,
streams likewise, this the wishful dust,
their slipping petals, impulse dredged
no, that blossoming performance is about
deodorised, unable droves spark
blasphemously thick, caustically delicate,
substitute steel for tracks,
substitute spirit for food, skews
under forgetfulness, wings flicker free
the flame was starting to enjoy the wax
he is awake and it's blue. he can see
everywhere in the house. his father
is crossed like a pharaoh, tenuous
sleeping fist. in his sister's room
his mother (his sister is a rag
waiting for a lace resolution) keens
an invitation, but he is only
where it's blue. a refutation pillows
his omniscience ('I have no son,
my son is dead'). she mantras art
and this will make him real
tonsil, teller, tongue, fung
1
adam, ecstatic, mimics birds
and looks in his food for signs of health
but that's arcadian refuse, and adam is made
already, his image waits and pulls
too clever for his life, he dreams
a life to suit, a suite of edges
jagging curves in the river of breath
- madame rectangle, articulating: me
the river is solid of sorts, language
cramps in its yielding maw, pretending
absolution as if nature had a say
then something happens meaning adam
who's dreaming exactly of love because
he's not calibrating, he's celebrating
2
parsifal resembles hypothetical everything
and the light is a singing flame, a thin
corridor of grace, a decorated
instant, like tinsel on a kiss
meaning ego lapses, looms
with mother stuff and equals hero
but no hen bleats mama to the egg
and he looks forward to his fairyland scar
the mediaeval talk is right, the gaze
is made of something, you look at it
and it's the epistemological tree. only light
is constant, constantly excaping
the cortical, companionable smoke
and its visceral guarantee
