Friday, October 29, 2010

158. Ashberymaniacal

I can’t see how, in sycamore light and refracting
arc, that any bleating Henry could extend
a little finger from his pants thin enough
to be that corporeal cock he so valiantly
if imprecisely used against whatever women
might find him bare. Mr Bones: It must has been
the fingers of his hands, for his cock’s become but
a flaccid ling’ring thought of them others’ night.

Opulent I was against the riffraff
and the collected hoi polloi (these collected,
these people) wrenched against the stiff frame
of their desires. We had become entranced by the way the light
the terror of their visages and the tight grip against the tight
paper sticks of the lollipops that they popped into
and out of their mouths in a manner reminiscent of
. . . well, life is curious, even if they aren’t. It seems
her manner may have been a Veronese encumbrance
from a meeting with two gentlemen.

Sylvan except for the beer bottles and their glint,
mostly green and brown to merge with the scene, and a scent
off them for the twitching noses. Quotidian, he thought,
in an everyday way. —What we’s been is what’s we be,
twinkle not for a second’s thought of it. Live, we might be,
in the sense of sunlight, or purgatory, with baubles
to catch the eventual beam too slight to afford a perch for even
the least weight of a foot, and movement, like walking,
forward, into it.

Seems there’s no good reason to accept the putative
reason for autumn, Whose raiment’s too florid for the world
of dying. —Rot in the nostril’s fine fettle for what
them’s people gonna do. Can’t get ’nuff breath
t’ keep an empty body moving. They saw this as the last action
of a race, misconstrued, it appears, as a 26K rather than
a matter of genetics and survival.

Henry had, in case of fact, a small valise for all
supplies equipt for plumbing (gloves and rubbers,
dildos and strap-ons) that he carried
on his person and with himself, muttering, through
the long while something:
“Like I had and, having had, hid, and looked
ahead, and lost my head, then given it back
again and again, until I lost it,
swooning, like a drunk, like a man
like me, swimming in towards
these broken words.”

Or less than mutter, declaiming:
“Sweet hedera! Comely apostrophe!
What your viney little black heart makes of me,
and what of me I make myself of out of vinyl’s
stark stench and roiling bunch of stuff
that infests me and these open sores upon
my body so decrepit by its too many openings
so that what flows from and out goes
to you in a braided turgid river
of spoken blood and pus.”

They gathered about, as we did,
in the woods, standing beneath the faux-maple-leaves
of the sycamores—tho they are not plain trees—
and spoke in the tongues of brooks and kills
snaking through the words, feet muddy and wet
in the cold, wet, muddy earth. —Even mumbling’s a
word when them’s canst gets them’s own fat
tongue inside anything else. “Shh,”
said Henry, as if to
himself and alone,

“These ears are ripe for awordment,
bejeweled and glist’ning hears of ire, and pleasure’s
purpose is a little tripping sound
you cannot catch
or hope
to sing back to us in this dismal woods
or words or worlds, ’neath this swirling snow
of leaves in yellow coming down.”

And só I saw and would’ve said,
or something, but
my time was done, the mess was made and
made again. The unmaking of the bed
seemed cold to everyone
at first
until they learned how he had done it.

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